by Jadyn Chase
I gave her my best smile. Girls always loved it when I smiled at them. Maybe that was what made me so happy all the time.
She blinked. I saw the prospect sinking into her mind. Poor thing. She was half out of her mind with pain and fear, and she looked like death warmed over.
Rage boiled in my guts for the asshole that did this to her. He better not be stupid enough to come around me or I would thump him a thousand times worse than he did her. I might have been a big softy at heart, but inside lay a beast that no one wanted to mess with.
She glanced toward the door. Come on, girl. You know you want to.
“I’ve got some empanadas in there,” I offered. “I’ll make you some chili and maybe a few sausages. What do you say to that?”
She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a few months. She wasn’t carrying enough padding to handle one punch, let alone a beating like this.
I walked around her again in a wide circle. I positioned myself between her and the house and extended my hand. “Come on, sweetie. Come on. You’ll be safe in there. I promise. My name’s Francisco, but everyone calls me Cisco. What’s your name?”
Of course, she didn’t answer. I wasn’t expecting her to, but I saw her resolve start to waver. I held up my hand. “Come on. Come on.”
At that moment, a streak of motion hurtled out of the dark. It smashed into me with the force of a freight train. It barreled me onto my back and the biggest vato I ever saw tackled me onto my own lawn.
The girl shrieked. Her hands flew to her temples and she screamed with more lung power than I ever thought she could muster.
I didn’t see anything else as the hulk wound back with his fist raised high. He wanted to pound me into oblivion.
A switch flipped in my mind and I went into battle mode. I swung at the same moment, but I didn’t form a fist. I tightened my fingers into an impenetrable blade and jabbed him full force in the neck.
The soft tissue under his Adam’s apple gave way from the force of impact. The air stopped in his throat and his arm hovered in space. I rounded on him with my fists and cracked his jaw with one punch.
He flipped over and crashed to Earth. The instant he fell, my brain shifted into gear again. I smelled the overpowering stench of booze seeping from his very pores.
I drove myself to my feet. The girl still stood off a ways with her fingers laced into her hair. Her mouth hung open in a wordless scream of stunned shock. She gaped down at the thing.
The fool passed out with both arms splayed to either side. From here, I could clearly make out the tattoo on his arm. La Muerta. So that was the shithead who attacked her. He tracked her down here and thought he could take me out. What a punk.
The girl blinked down at him for a second. I blew out my breath and held out my hand. “Come on, chica. You’re safe. He won’t bother you anymore. Come inside.”
She looked up at me. Her expression didn’t change at all. She regarded me with the same sickening fear as that pig on the ground. She didn’t see any difference between us. Fuck, he must have really done a number on her.
Then, with no warning, she darted around me and raced for the house. She plunged through the open door and slammed it behind her, locking me outside.
3
Isabel
I jammed myself as far back behind the couch as I could get. I wedged my body between the furniture and the wall where nothing could come at me. I hugged my knees to my chest and trained my gaze at the few inches of space right in front of me. If anything came after me, it would come from there.
What the Christ was I doing here? What was I thinking, going into some strange Diablo’s house? Everyone in La Muerta knew about them. They were our enemies.
I knew the instant I saw that guy’s tat that I was in serious trouble. I didn’t think when I left Diego’s apartment. I was so freaked out I could only think about running to get away from him.
I made a big mistake. I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. I crossed into Los Diablos’ territory. Now what the fuck was I going to do?
That guy saw my insignia, too. He didn’t lose his shit and blow my brains out, though. He didn’t try to get me out of his neighborhood, either. He didn’t say I had to leave. He invited me into his house.
I wasn’t thinking. That much was clear, but something about him made me trust him. He looked like any other gang banger and I had seen enough to know. He wore his patched vest with a red bandana folded wide around his forehead. He kept his long black hair braided in a rope down his back the way all Los Diablos did.
His thick, meaty hands bore the scars of a thousand fights. White, crisscross knife marks cut through the tats on his arms and disappeared under the black t-shirt stretched tight around his biceps and ripped shoulders.
He looked for all the world like Diego—all except the eyes. His eyes danced with fun and kindness, even when he frowned. His lips tried hard not to curl into a smile, but he never quite succeeded.
When he smiled, he stopped looking like a devil. He looked more like someone’s kid brother. He looked like he might at any moment burst into impish laughter, and that expression made any normal person want to laugh, too.
I wasn’t a normal person anymore. I passed beyond being a person. Diego made sure of that. I could never laugh again. That part of me died. Diego didn’t have to kill my body. He’d already killed my spirit and that could never come back to life.
I didn’t care anyway. I needed a safe place to spend the night. I needed a hole to hide in until I figured out how to get the fuck out of Los Diablos’ territory. If this guy didn’t kill me before morning, maybe he could make sure that happened. He sure as hell wouldn’t want me to stick around.
I retreated into the most primal animalistic part of my mind. I huddled behind the couch and locked my gaze on that narrow space. I couldn’t relax an inch. I had to be ready at any moment to run or fight again.
The house fell silent. No one came near me. My breathing quieted and the pain set in worse than ever. It drove me out of my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. I got so locked up in holding myself tense and ready that I couldn’t move.
At last, I couldn’t tolerate the pain a second longer. I had to do something. I had to take something or go somewhere to get this pain to stop. I started to think about my options. Could I get to a hospital somehow, or maybe a shelter?
At that moment, the guy materialized before my eyes. He towered above me and scowled down into the space behind the couch. He stood there a long time without saying anything. Then he walked away.
My heart cried for him to come back, to help me somehow. I spiraled into a panic, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
Just then, he reappeared. He squatted down in front of me and set a small ceramic bowl on the floor by my feet. He kept far enough back that he couldn’t reach me. I peered down into the dish and spotted two tiny white pills.
“Take these,” he told me. “It’s Vicodin. It will make your head hurt less.”
I looked up at him once, just for a second. How did he know? I couldn’t fathom and it didn’t matter anyway. I lunged forward, seized the pills, and crammed them into my mouth. I swallowed them in a flash and shrank back into my place with my arms strapped around my knees.
He stood up and walked away again. I fell into a dizzying turmoil trying to get my brain to function. I had to think of something. I had to do something. I couldn’t turn into a basket case like this.
The drugs kicked in. Blessed, blessed relief washed through me. My head stopped pounding. My shoulders and knees stopped ripping me apart with lightning bolts of agony.
The guy returned. This time, he set a plate on the carpet in front of me. Four beautiful empanadas sat in a square just begging to be eaten, but I couldn’t lower my defenses to take them. He put a bowl of savory black bean chili next to the plate. Last of all, he positioned a tiny shot glass in my reach.
The powerful aroma of tequila grabbed me by the senses. I n
eeded that right now. God, I needed it! I snatched the glass and, without a moment’s hesitation, downed the drink in one swallow.
The guy chuckled. “That’s good. You need it.”
I dropped the glass and snarled in fury when the alcohol hit my brain. It mingled with the Vicodin and sent me into a daze.
The guy rested his thick forearms on his thighs. “Do you remember me telling you my name? I’m Francisco, but everybody calls me Cisco. Can you remember that?”
He waited. I didn’t say anything. Part of me wanted him to go away, but I thanked the Lord he didn’t. He might be the last truly kind person on the face of the Earth. I couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving me alone right now.
“Did you hear what I said? Did you hear what I said my name was?”
I coughed once and tasted blood. My throat croaked when I tried to speak. “Cisco.”
“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to, but I think we better take a look at your head. It looks serious.” He started to stand up.
“Isabel.”
He spun around and his eyes widened. Don’t ask me why I told him. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. I wanted him to see me as human, not some rat gnawing its leg off to get away from him. He already saw me as human, but somehow I wanted him to have something more, some clue to me.
“And that piece of shit outside?” he asked. “Does he have a name, too?”
I looked away.
“Well, Isabel, it’s nice to meet you. Don’t worry about him. I sent him where he won’t bother you anymore.”
My head shot up. Did he mean what I thought he meant?
He cracked that magical smile, but something softened it to make it look less childish. Now it just looked warm and safe. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead—not yet—although if he keeps trespassing in our territory like this, I can’t promise anything. I took his stinking carcass back to La Muerta where he belongs. I dumped him in an alley near the Rialto Cinema. Maybe he’ll sober up in a few weeks.”
He disappeared chuckling. The sound faded into the darkened house. The longer I sat here talking to this casual stranger, the more the drugs and alcohol relaxed me. I began to understand Diego wasn’t around and wasn’t coming back.
Francisco came back. This time, he sat down cross-legged in front of me and held out a damp washcloth. “Do you want to do the honors?”
I blinked at it. I couldn’t understand what he wanted me to do with it.
“Here. I’ll show you.” He scooted a few inches closer and put out his hand to take mine. A flash of alarm shot through me and I yanked it away just in time. He waited a second. Then he pursed his lips. “Like this.”
Without waited for permission, he touched the cloth to my shin. He gave light, short strokes and sponged the blood off my leg. I stared down at the red stain coming off on the fabric.
“You’re not such a pretty sight like this, you know,” he muttered to himself. “You’re probably too sore to take a shower, but if you’re going to spend the night here, you might want to get some of this off.”
He moved the cloth higher to my knee where a ragged hole gaped raw and bloody. He wiped the mess away without touching the wound itself.
A sizzle of fire rushed up my leg into my insides. Was he trying to…? No, he was just cleaning the cut where I fell and scraped my knee. He washed one calf and switched to the other leg. When the washcloth got to bloody, he rinsed it out. I heard the water running in the sink.
At last, he took hold of my hand again. I stiffened, but I didn’t pull away this time. I hate to admit it, but it felt good having someone pay attention to me, to care about whether I was hurting or not.
How long had it been since anyone treated me like I mattered? I could remember my mother doing it when I was really little, but not much since. My dad raised me and his parenting philosophy was to toughen me up. If I hurt myself, he would jostle my shoulder and tell me to shake it off.
Francisco wiped my torn palms. His touch seeped warmth and relaxation into my skin. His hands told me in a different language what he’d been telling me in words. I was safe—for now, at least.
He cast occasional glances up at me while he worked. “How did you wind up in La Muerta?”
I kept my eyes down. “I don’t know.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s a new one. I never heard of that before. Just about everybody I know who winds up a marked member of a motorcycle club knows how they got into it. Most have to go through some form of initiation. Some have to go through a ritual thrashing to qualify. Did you lose your memory or something?”
I muttered down at the floor. “I didn’t lose my memory.”
“That fuckwit who attacked me,” he went on. “Did he have something to do with getting you into it?”
I cracked a grin in spite of myself. I tried to keep serious, but the expression struck me as so funny I couldn’t stop it. When I smirked, I winced in pain. “Ow!”
“Don’t laugh too hard,” he told me. “You might loosen one of those broken ribs of yours.”
I cringed. “I don’t have any broken ribs.”
“Are you sure?” He rotated to one side so he could move closer. “Either way, your face is a mess. Come here.”
He took hold of my chin and lifted my head so I had no choice but to look at him. He dabbed his rag over my cheeks. I initially went to pull away, but he never pressed so hard as to hurt the angry purple bruises around my eyes and cheekbones.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the shiny surface of his eyes. Fuck, I looked bad! I looked a lot worse than I thought. I couldn’t recognize my face through the swollen bags of flesh where my face used to be.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Nice and easy. He really did a number on you, didn’t he? Does he do this a lot?”
I wanted to look away, but the hand holding me wouldn’t let me. For some reason, I couldn’t fight him. His easy, gentle manner insinuated him into my being. He moved my head back and forth to reach every spot and I couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe Diego’s beating turned me into a doormat.
Francisco studied the crown of my head. “Ah, here it is. Let’s take a look. We might need to stitch this up.”
He explored in my hair. The faintest trace of his fingers against my scalp sent a comforting, peaceful glow through me. This must be what chimpanzees felt like when someone grooms them. I went into a trance where he could do whatever he wanted.
He moved the hair away from the spot where Diego tore a chunk out of my scalp. “Huh. Well, it’s stopped bleeding at least and there’s nothing left of the skin. You’ll just have to let it scab over. You’ll always have a scar there, but your hair will cover it up most of the time. No one ever has to know.”
He left and came back with a small tube of what looked like glue. He held it out for me to see. “This is NuSkin. I’m going to squeeze it over the wound. It will form a layer of protection until your body makes a scar. It kinda stings, but it’s better than leaving it open to the air. I don’t think you want me to bandage it. You would look like The Mummy or something.”
Curious laughter came out of my mouth again. What he said wasn’t really that funny. Just something about Francisco made me want to laugh.
He raised his eyebrows again. “You ready?”
I nodded.
He knelt in front of me and dripped the stuff onto my scalp. It did sting, but I got distracted staring at his midsection. He didn’t carry one scrap of extra weight around his waist. He was solid muscle, and a distinct aroma of a man drifted into my nose.
I just left Diego’s apartment, and here Francisco was touching me and petting me for over an hour. I hadn’t even properly broken up with Diego. He probably followed me here thinking he would get me back.
Yet I found myself attracted to Francisco. He must have been horrified by the extent of the beating, but he didn’t show it. He just talked to me and treated me like any ordinary person. He invite
d me into his house and spent all this time and effort to make me feel better.
He moved back and capped the tube. “There. It dries right away and it’s as good as skin—hence the name.”
He laughed at his own joke. When he did, his whole countenance lit up and his shoulder shook with mirth. I didn’t think I ever met anyone who gave themselves over to laughter as fully as he did. His laughter filled the whole cosmos with sunshine. How could anyone be miserable with that kind of laughter in the world?
4
Francisco
I lay awake all night staring at the ceiling. That girl slept on the couch wrapped in a blanket. I stood across the room and watched her sleep for almost an hour before I retired to my own room, but I couldn’t sleep.
Isabel. She still didn’t tell me her last name—not that it mattered. In the morning, I would tell The Boss about her. We would send her back to La Muerta and I would never see her again.
That asshole wrecked most of her face with his fists, but I could still make out some of it. Her porcelain skin formed a milky halo over delicate cheekbones.
The sweeping curve of her body rolled in effortless waves from her thighs, around her voluptuous hips, inward over her narrow waist, and back up to a nice, round chest. Any man would be delighted to trace that curve with his hands or any other part of himself. One half of her lips showed the painted curve of a face just waiting for a reason to smile.
No one gave her any reason to smile, though. It took all my charm to get one grin out of her. Right up until she closed those bottomless green eyes, they kept skipping around the room on the lookout for any danger. She didn’t even dare tell me her attacker’s name.
I didn’t need this. I had enough girls who loved nothing better than to laugh and have fun with me all day. I didn’t need to rescue some stray, not even one as beautiful as she was.
The rest of her appeared more or less intact. I didn’t get a look at her ribs, but she would never have been able to run across Los Angeles if any of them were broken.
