Salt

by Mara White

  The boys crouched and ran, slipped through the gates right before they closed. As they approached the house, it became apparent they’d crashed some kind of party. The half-moon driveway was crowded with parked cars, not a Ford or a Toyota in sight. The sickest cars Tiago and Chico had ever seen. They stared openly at the lighted-up mansion, the driveway turned car showroom. Drake was sounding from a top of the line stereo reverberating through the walls and bursting forth into the still night and the silence of the suburbs. They were slow to process that this was real life. Sure they’d seen it in music videos and placed themselves in the role of protagonist in plenty of daydreams, why not? Honeys with string bikinis, pouring out label Champagne into the hot tub, the ice and gold, the cars, the clothes, the sunglasses that cost as much as their family’s annual food budget. But that was fantasy and this was someone’s real life.

  “Salt is a fucking pimp, bro. She’s straight up balling, that bitch,” Chico said, jaw on the floor.

  “Good. They won’t even miss the car,” Tiago said. His voice was full of rancor. He felt jealousy swim in his bloodstream—toxic—like the sewage that overflowed into the Hudson during a rainstorm. He strutted across the brightly lit, meticulously manicured lawns like a boss, pimp limp fired, repping the dignity of who he was in the face of this great wealth.

  “Yo, Tiago, wait up!” Chico yelled. Chico’s ambling limp was real on account of his one arm still braced in a sling and useless. They were a ramshackle crew. No guns, knives or experience, just hood attitude bolstered by the accomplishment of seeing the task this far through—they’d made it to Connecticut, it was worth something.

  Tiago’s hair stood on end and nerves seesawed in his stomach. He wasn’t afraid, but rather on high alert, excited, reckless and ruthless, ready to take someone down just for looking at him the wrong way. A car door slammed and Chico and Tiago both froze. A tall blond guy in a sweater vest looked at them inquisitively.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked. The guy threw his joint to the ground. Tiago could smell the sweet burn of weed, but to his seasoned nose he could also tell it wasn’t good. Not like the premium he could get these rich kids. Sell it for more, take them all for a ride and then roll around in cash like a dog in mud from the profits.

  How the hell would they pull off taking a car now? Tiago didn’t even know what they were there for anymore. What if they missed the last train back to the city? Would they sleep in the station like bums? And what if they got arrested? His grandmother wasn’t capable of making a trip all the way to Connecticut to bail him out for trespassing.

  “Salana around?” Tiago asked the guy staring them down. The way the words took a bite out of his heart made him realize stealing cars was pretense all along. He’d only wanted to see her, to stroke her blonde hair, to rub his nose against her little one and have his insides turned out. But if he had to break the law to see her, he would.

  “It’s her fucking party. She know you’re coming?”

  The guy was wearing loafers. He had to answer to a guy wearing loafers and a sweater vest. A fucking asshole Mr. Rogers was what he was.

  “Dude, what are you doing?” Chico screeched at him. Tiago’s pants felt heavy, his kicks impossibly clunky; he couldn’t remember if he’d put on cologne, or deodorant, for that matter. His shirt was clean, but it was old and suddenly felt so cheap to have Billionaire Boys Club emblazoned across the front of his chest, when he was in the presence of the real Billionaire’s Club. It didn’t help that the guy stared at them like unsavory rats that had wandered across his clean pasture.

  “Can you get Salana for us? Tell her we’re in the garage when she gets a chance?”

  “Why don’t you wait here,” the guy said, quickly texting on his phone. Tiago walked toward the garage anyway; he couldn’t stand to be scrutinized by the judgmental motherfucker anymore.

  “Ti, bro. I swear to fucking God you lost your mind!” Chico said as Santiago disabled the alarm on the garage. There were cameras, two he could see plainly right over the door. “Let’s bounce. This is crazy,” Chico said. He didn’t want to go to jail; he liked his mother’s cooking too much. He loved sitting in the sun and playing basketball in the park for twenty-three hours a day as opposed to one. “I’m out!” Chico said, turned on a dime and ran.

  “Ditch me, why don’t you, when the going gets tough?” Tiago wanted to scream, Unleash the hounds! But he wasn’t so mean he’d want his friend to pee his pants.

  Tiago decided to go through the motions. He chose the Rover for the resale ease and value. It was unlocked and the door opened smooth like honey. All the keys were in the lockbox by the door, just as they had been when Salana did it all in front of him. Like a temptress, like an invitation to take one.

  Here’s the big red juicy apple. I know you’re starving. Bite it!

  There was something about the feel and smell of brand new that was extraordinarily pleasing, that gave an air of authority and power without doing a thing. Wealth and pipe dreams of attaining it could be as addictive as a drug and probably just as dangerous. He was about to slide into the driver’s seat when someone grabbed him from behind. He cursed, angry at himself for having let his guard down. One held him back against the car, while the other, the blond, knocked his fist into Tiago’s face, hitting him just below the nose. Not a trained fighter, just beginner’s luck that he made contact. It was a weak punch but it landed and stung like a bitch. Tiago heaved his shoulders forward to throw off the one he couldn’t see. The taste of blood in his mouth made him vicious and he landed a punch right in Vest and Loafer’s gut that promptly knocked the wind out of him. Tiago was used to fighting dirty and street. He’d been in scuffles on the corner since first grade. The boys in Connecticut had never taken a real beating.

  “Call the police!” the guy shouted at his friend.

  “Don’t fucking call the police!” Tiago responded almost casually. “Why call the cops? Because we hit each other? Come on! Don’t be a pussy.”

  “Then get the fuck out of here right now! Leave!” Loafer’s feathers were ruffled, his face was red and his hair disheveled.

  “Did you tell Salana like I told you to, bitch?”

  “I’m right here,” she said. Salana walked into the garage and put her hand on Loafer’s arm.

  “I just wanted to talk to you,” Tiago said. “Alone.”

  He wiped his hand across his mouth, which felt warm and burned. There was blood on the back of his hand and he spat blood on the floor, gaining a look of fury from the handsome boys.

  “Brandt, just go. It’s fine, I know him.”

  “If you fucking touch her, you’re a dead man.” Brandt pointed his finger at Santiago like his threat carried weight. Tiago spat again. “Piece of shit thug,” Brandt muttered as he turned to go.

  Once alone, the silence between them rose up and expanded like leavened bread in an oven, filling even the dark corners and the ceiling above them. They stood ten feet away from one another and took each other in. Tiago clenched his fists and Salana watched blood drip from his split lip. She cut across the space first and grabbed his chin so as to better inspect his face.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. “Come inside, we can put something on it.”

  “Give me a minute to cool down so I don’t kill your friend, Salt.”

  “Why did you come here, Tiago? You should have at least called.”

  “To steal a car. You let me see that code. It was an invitation I couldn’t resist.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest and looked relatively unaffected by what he said.

  “Take one if you want, but I’m sure there will be repercussions.”

  “Naw, when I got here, I realized what I really wanted was to steal you instead.”

  He saw her pupils dilate. He heard how her breath caught in her chest. He felt tingly all over, like he might pass the fuck out at her feet after one bitchass punch.

  “Come on, let’s get your face cleaned up.” She took hi
s hand and led him around the side of the huge estate.

  “We’ll just go downstairs, that way we can avoid Brandt and the others.” Salana punched in another code and allowed Tiago to see it. He felt like he had to memorize those numbers because they were symbolic of her letting him in. Seeing those numbers meant something. Code for: trust. Cipher for: I accept you just as you are.

  He followed her down a sweeping staircase and into what looked like a basement entertainment room. A pool table, leather couches, a full bar and a fireplace. Basically a space he and his friends would sacrifice their left nuts for. Salana flicked on stained-glass low hanging lights in the basement room, which was bigger than his entire apartment.

  “The bathroom is right there, I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

  The lights rose by themselves as he stepped into the bathroom, a room so spotless and sparkling it nearly strained his eyes. Salana’s life looked like a Hollywood set, whereas his looked like a public service announcement for the dangers of drug use. He ran his hand under water to wash off the blood.

  “Sit up here,” Salana said, patting the counter sink. She ran a white washcloth under warm water and brought it to his lip. “I’m sorry he punched you,” she whispered as she dabbed at the gash.

  “Probably deserved it,” he said through the towel. “What’s the occasion for the party?”

  Salana squirted some ointment on her finger and brought it to his upper lip.

  “Oh, my friend Justine’s birthday. She’s upstairs. My parents are in Europe so everyone decided to come here.” She tried to touch the bleeding gash and Tiago grabbed her wrist. She stopped and made eye contact.

  “You’re so fucking fine, Salt. I can’t stop thinking about you. I wouldn’t steal from you. I just wanted to see you.” His grip on her wrist was tight, because his confession felt important. He usually let a girl know he was into her with body language, lingering hands and soft words in her ear, but with Salana he told her as if he were in the confessional. “I like you and I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”

  Who knew honesty could feel like getting run over by a steamroller? Cracking your head open and letting the rabid butterflies escape to fly upwards in a swarm. It was almost too much for him. Butterflies? They were bats and he was a goner.

  Her lips were parted and she stared intently at his face. Her blue eyes flared with emotion and his searched her face for even a hint of reciprocation. “I know it ain’t even possible. I just wanted to let you know how I felt, and shit.”

  “I—” was all she could get out

  “You can go back to your party, back to Branch. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

  Salana blinked and her eyes were filling with tears. She closed them and leaned into Tiago. He caught her face in his hands and his lips found hers. The kiss was so soft and ghostly, like a whisper—almost nothing—until it wasn’t and then, it was real, it was perfect, it was fucking everything.

  She gasped when he took her whole mouth, prying open the seam of her lips with his tongue. Tiago kissed like a carnivore. Wolf-mouth. No rich-pansy orthodontist’s dream. He came from real life. His cut was the ghetto. He kissed projects and food stamps and lives that were cut short. He kissed give.it.all.to.me.now because punk-ass bitches steal what doesn’t belong to them. His hands went to her hair, soft like silk and cool like the flip side of a pillow. He wanted to eat her, make a meal out of her flesh and touch the raw center of her heart after he’d consumed her.

  “Fuck,” he whispered into her mouth. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  His dick was already hard, pressing against his jeans with an urgency that was painful. He’d blow his load from her tongue alone like a fucking kid looking at a Hustler under the covers with a flashlight.

  “God, I want you so bad,” he lamented. Was he kissing for the first time? No, but it fucking felt like it.

  His fingers speared through her hair, cupping her ears and the back of her skull as he devoured her mouth and pulled her to him, registering nothing, only desperate for more. Tiago hopped down from the counter, scooped Salana up and placed her where he’d been. Jerking her forward by the hips he brought her flush with his erection. Salana opened her eyes wide suddenly, the blue piercing right through him. Her eye contact sent a surge of power to his groin. He leaned into her again and thumbed her nipples through her white cotton shirt. Salana tipped her head back and mewled. The heat coming from her center made him lose control. He couldn’t stand how erotic she looked, head thrown back, nipples tipped to the ceiling and her long hair almost touching the sink behind her. His blood smeared on her full lips made his stomach muscles clench with something forbidden and primal.

  “Stop,” she said, still kissing him. “Stop!” She pushed at his chest this time and he backed all the way up to the wall.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry. Shit, Salana. I’m sorry, I lost control.” His longing was so fierce that kissing her felt like survival. He was the hunter, she was the doe. He didn’t want to kill her, but he wanted to make the damn shot even if it killed him in the process.

  She shook her head and wiped at her mouth with her fingers.

  His chest heaved like he’d been running, but he was standing there in her bathroom, palms upturned like a fucking idiot. That kiss meant the world to him.

  “I’ll show myself out. I shouldn’t have come.”

  Chapter 3

  Salana

  Later that night, when everyone was good and drunk, Salana felt gutted that she hadn’t asked him to stay. She felt conflicted by all the warning bells going off in her head. He wasn’t dangerous, at least not in the way that her friends thought him to be. He posed a threat to Salana only by being so desirable. She’d never met a guy who made all of her baby hairs stand on end. A boy who was so hard, but so vulnerable that he made her loins ache. Somehow she wanted to both fuck him and mother him. Tiago said all the right things that made her want to lose control too. But she was still a virgin and she guessed by the way he kissed her, how he touched her body with so much confidence, that he wasn’t at all, not even close.

  That boy was the kind who would make your mother sob and your father open up the door with a shotgun. She didn’t want to disappoint Tiago with her naiveté. She didn’t want him to know how much his kiss meant. How it would be marked down in her diary as, by far, the most erotic moment of her sixteen-year-old life. But dating a guy like Tiago was something her parents would never accept. Santiago was the epitome of bad in all the ways that a boy can be bad. He will grow from bad into wild into uncontrollable and then he will be a bad, bad man. Her parents wanted perfection from her and he certainly wasn’t it. At least not in the way they saw it. He couldn’t make it in her world and he wouldn’t ever be welcome to try. It was easier to reject him before it began, than to let it go somewhere and eventually experience the hurt that their differences would bring.

  But, holy shit, she missed him as soon as he left. Her friends at the party talked to her but she didn’t even hear what they said, her body buzzing so hard from a kiss that turned her inside out. She shivered while recalling it and rubbed her arms up and down.

  “Salana, you’re so out of it tonight,” Justine accused her when they went to the bathroom together.

  “I just need a shot. I’m tired, that’s all.” She hugged her friend and told her happy birthday.

  But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t chase him from her mind enough to rejoin the festivities. She loved how he looked at her as if she were exotic, special, and not just Salana Livingston, equestrian, high school student, darling daughter in a pink dress and flats that they forced her to wear, pearls even though she hated them, and a freaking bow in her hair. Making out with boys at parties was a rite of passage, but making out with Santiago was something entirely different. Sacrilege and consecration. Tiago felt real, he felt raw and gritty, and yet he was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stifling environment. In his company she felt a certain freedom that wasn’t easy to come by
, like she could be herself and not get judged or scrutinized or held up to some ridiculous standard that had nothing to do with her. Tiago let her breathe. He liked her being herself.

  After they’d all cleared out, she picked up a few beer cans and empty bottles and walked them to the kitchen. Her house was too big for her to clean alone and no one would expect her to anyway. She tried to imagine all the scenarios that could lead to her and Tiago being together, all of them preposterous, impossible fantasies. She wondered if he was on the train now on his way back to the city, whether he was asleep in his seat or looking out the dark window. If he thought about her too and also wished things were different. He came all the way to her house to steal from her and her parents. Deep down she knew that she shouldn’t give him the time of day, but what he’d already stolen was her ability to think about anything else. His face was in her head, his taste on the tip of her tongue, building a fire in her belly. This is exactly how ancient wars started. She’d gladly give him her body, her mind, and her heart. All the days on the calendar and even the stupid fucking cars.

  TIAGO

  She came back to the Heights once, a month or so later, called him out of the blue to hang out. Brought her friend who was just like her, green about the city, poverty, and mean streets—pretty much real life in general. Tiago recruited Chico to help chauffeur them around. He had a giant old sedan that looked like a low-rider, which in better days had been his father’s livery car for one of the Dominican-dispatched car services in the Heights. When they were kids, the two of them would sometimes ride out to the airport with his dad just for something to do. They’d play cards in the front seat while the passenger sat in the back. They were punks even at that age and were always out looking for a way to get in trouble. Chico with his fucking lightning bolts shaved into his fade, gold chains and wife beaters, sporting a tiny pot belly since the age of seven.