Manipulate

by Pam Godwin

  “What are you saying?” Ricky asked, playing along.

  “Seeing how we’re in pound-me-in-the-ass prison and sleeping out in the open…” He nodded at the corner of the common area, where they’d crashed the past two nights. “You need to cease and desist the nightly hand parties.”

  “A little self-gratification never hurt anyone.” Ricky’s mouth twitched.

  “Shooting venereal excitement all over the place?” He couldn’t stop his cheeks from rising. “Definitely bad for the environment.”

  Ricky chuckled. “I don’t need your permission to beat off.”

  “No, but you want it.”

  Ricky’s smile slipped.

  Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. It’d been all joking fun until he inadvertently hit on the truth.

  Silence crept in, and unspoken words caught and held between them. Neither of them looked away.

  Throughout their seven-year friendship, he’d accepted his best friend’s sexual interest in him. It was never shoved in his face, and he didn’t let it make things weird.

  They were too close to ever feel awkward around each other. Even now, as Ricky stared at him in a way he couldn’t reciprocate—eyes hooded, pupils dilated, lips parted—he didn’t resent his friend for it.

  But he wouldn’t send mixed signals, either.

  “Ricky.” He hardened his voice. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know.” With a forced smile, Ricky steered them back to the safety of their banter. “So no solitary sex? For three months?”

  “I advise against all sex.” He glanced around at the scarred, tattooed faces of Mexico’s hardest criminals. “Considering your pool of potential dates.”

  “What about the smokin’ hot chili pepper at your ten o’clock?”

  His gaze shifted, instantly locking on her deep brown eyes.

  She was watching his interaction with Ricky, a frown pinned on her gorgeous face and the turned page of her book forgotten in her hand.

  He could’ve looked around the room and determined how long each man had been here by the dimness in his eyes. The light in hers hadn’t completely faded, but fractures distorted the glow. Broken memories of a different life.

  She bore tattoos, carried weapons, smoked cigarettes, and scowled at everyone. But beneath the tough exterior lurked an innocent sort of curiosity that didn’t fit in Jaulaso.

  Maybe he was wrong, but she hadn’t been here very long. Not as long as most of these men.

  Her attention pinged between her book and her surroundings, lingering on Ricky and him more than anyone else in the room.

  “She’s watching you, isn’t she?” Ricky asked.

  “Watching us.” He shared a smile with his friend and returned to her.

  Her brows gathered, her expression incredulous.

  “She looks confused.” He smiled bigger. “Like she’s never seen a happy person.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t. Certainly not in this shithole.” Ricky scanned the perimeter. “Nothing but gray walls and breathing corpses.”

  “I wonder how long she’s in for.”

  A lot of the prisoners came here to rot, and they carried that hopelessness in their bones.

  This was the hardest assignment he and Ricky ever attempted, but it was temporary, just a job, not the end of the road for them.

  “We need to talk to her.” Ricky put away the playing cards. “Find out who she is.”

  “We don’t need to do anything.”

  “Because she’ll come to us.” Ricky sat back and carved a hand through his thick black hair.

  “Yeah.” Holding her gaze, he gave her a wink.

  Her shoulders tightened, and she shut the book. Then she pushed away from the table and strode out of the room.

  Garra straightened from his post against the wall. Instead of following her, he made a beeline to their table.

  “Incoming,” Martin said beneath his breath.

  Ricky slowly twisted in his chair, his expression hardening into granite.

  He was one of the most laid-back guys Martin had ever met, but when the situation demanded it, he could switch on his primitive drive and turn into one scary motherfucker.

  Garra towered over their table, dressed head-to-toe in black, resembling a forty-year-old Antonio Banderas, without the congeniality or charm.

  “We’re not interested,” Ricky said in Spanish, exaggerating the trill of his Rs.

  “Not interested?”

  “Gold necklaces.” Ricky motioned at the heavy chains draped around Garra’s neck. “Are you not a jewelry salesman?”

  “Stupid fucking gabacho.”

  “It’s a joke, not a dick. Don’t take it so hard. And for the record, calling me a gabacho isn’t entirely accurate. I’m at least one-eighth Latino.”

  As if. Ricky might’ve been born in the U.S., but his mother was an illegal immigrant from Mexico.

  With a growl, Garra turned toward Martin and leaned in, his eyes like black marbles. “I don’t like the way you look at her.”

  “What way is that?” Martin rose to his feet, forcing the man to step back.

  “You want to fuck her.”

  “Every man in Jaulaso wants to fuck her. Look around.”

  Garra didn’t move his eyes. He didn’t even blink.

  “What I want is a meeting with her.” Martin knew the answer before it punched through the air.

  “No.”

  “Just tell me one thing.” Ricky drew out a long pause, probably just to fuck with the scowling man. “I’m trying to get a jump start on my Christmas shopping and noticed she likes books. What was she reading?”

  “200 Ways To Gut A White Boy.”

  Ol’ Garra didn’t miss a beat, but neither did Ricky. “If the rumors are true, she doesn’t need a book to do that. I hear she’s terrifying with a knife.”

  Ricky didn’t believe the gossip any more than Martin did. He was fishing for the truth.

  “If you want your balls to remain attached to your body,” Garra said, “you’ll heed those warnings and stay away from her.”

  “The depths of your concern make me feel all tingly,” Ricky deadpanned.

  Garra shot him a parting glare and ambled out of the room.

  Martin returned to his chair and switched back to English. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say—”

  “Garra has no friends?”

  “He’s not going to tell her we want a meeting.”

  “He won’t have to.” Ricky leaned back and laced his hands behind his head.

  She’ll come to us.

  “So we wait.” Martin rubbed the tension in his neck. “And try not to get killed.”

  A swarm of emotions chased Tula through the halls and caught up with her in her cell. The sharp burn hit her sideways, stabbing through her throat and gathering behind her eyes.

  Most days squeaked by without worry or dread or the threat of tears. She’d become one of them, a member of Hector’s inner circle, and with that came safety. Any harm directed at her had to go through Garra.

  Two years in Area Three and she hadn’t sustained so much as a scratch.

  She had nothing to fear.

  No, that wasn’t true. She feared it would all be taken away. If something happened to Hector, she would lose his protection. She would also lose a friend.

  She’d developed a close bond with him. Enjoyed his company, even. He never leered at her, touched her inappropriately, or gave her any reason to think he would hurt her.

  She trusted him.

  But every once in a while, a bad day sneaked in. A familiar scent or melody would spark a memory, and she would wake from the numbness, sweating and gasping for air. In those moments, the veil lifted, and old hurts came rushing back—how she’d arrived here, the decisions she’d made, and everything she’d lost.

  Today was one of those days.

  It was the new prisoners. They reminded her of home. Not just because she hadn’t seen another American in two years. But becaus
e they were different. Smart different. Full-of-life-and-hope different.

  With their drawling accents and tattoo-free skin, they looked more like the guys she used to date and less like hardened convicts.

  They radiated confidence, not arrogance. Their muscled physiques promised pain if provoked, but they didn’t seem like the type of men who bulked up because they had something to prove.

  Christ, they were gorgeous, the blond hair and blue eyes of one contrasting with the black hair and brown eyes of the other. Together, they were an overload on the senses. Too much testosterone in one place. Too much lethal beauty.

  Area Three didn’t see a lot of attractive men. There was plenty of brawn pumping iron in the yard, but those honed bodies were attached to twisted expressions, vile tongues, and depraved minds.

  The new guys belonged on the cover of a magazine, but that wasn’t what captivated her.

  It was the endearing bond between them, the way their gazes connected and held so easily. She envied that closeness. Envied how they weren’t alone in this place.

  Were they brothers? Best friends? They didn’t touch each other with the familiarity of sexual intimacy, so probably not lovers.

  Whatever their relationship, they’d arrived here together. That meant they were probably together at the time of their arrest. What crime had they committed?

  The blond carried himself with a stern sort of reserve and control. The Hispanic guy was more expressive, smiling brighter and scowling darker than his friend.

  They kept to themselves and navigated their new surroundings as a single unit—their own unit—with no clear loyalties to a race or group.

  That was a problem. The white guy was too white, and his friend was too pocho. The fact that they weren’t born and bred in Mexico was a strike against them. They made it worse by not sucking up to the shot callers.

  It was only a matter of time before they got heart checked. The biggest predators would start circling them, sizing them up, seeing if they would fight or cower. Respect was established by being fearless.

  Maybe they were fearless, but unless they gained four-hundred pounds of muscle, punched like Mike Tyson, and grew eyes in the backs of their heads, they might not survive the week.

  Then there was Hector. The boss kept tabs on everyone, and if he suspected them of doing anything against his cartel, he would deal with them painfully and permanently.

  That bothered her. For the first time in a long time, she felt something other than indifference. Part of her wanted them to make it through this, and not because they were good-looking.

  Well, maybe partly because they were good-looking.

  She’d spent the past couple of hours in the common area, basking in the glow on their handsome faces and pretending they weren’t dangerous criminals. She wanted to sit at their table and make believe they were just a couple of cute, harmless guys in a restaurant. A real restaurant with real utensils.

  They would talk about how hot the Arizona summers were, laugh about the silly things they did as kids, and end the night with a kiss that promised another date.

  She missed that. Not a date with two men. That was just a fantasy.

  She missed dating. And teaching high school, paying rent, grocery shopping, answering calls from her sister…

  Vera.

  God, she ached to hear Vera’s voice.

  Two years with no news, no leads, no nothing. The loss of her sister left a hurt inside her so profound and excruciating it was more than she could bear.

  Anguish surged through her chest, and her eyes caught fire.

  Stop it.

  Gulping deep breaths, she pushed it down, shoved it away, locked it up.

  No tears. It’s a waste of good suffering.

  It was her favorite quote from her favorite book. She glanced down at it in her hand, smoothing a palm over the hardback cover.

  The Hellbound Heart.

  The rare 20th Anniversary Edition had been signed by Clive Barker himself. God only knew how much it was worth.

  Hector had given it to her four months after her arrest. A condolence gift, he’d called it, for the news she’d received from her attorney.

  She’d been sentenced to five years for smuggling marijuana. The court made the decision without her being there because that was how the penal system in Mexico worked.

  Her devastation had been inconsolable.

  The attorney tried to get an amparo, an appeal designed to protect the rights of the accused.

  It was denied.

  In the weeks that followed, she’d fallen into abject despondency. She didn’t leave her cell, couldn’t eat, barely breathed.

  She was innocent, serving a sentence for a crime she didn’t commit. She was stuck in a cold, dark place of uncertainty and violence with five years on her shoulders.

  Then Hector showed up with the book.

  Before Jaulaso, she’d never read the literary draft of her favorite Hellraiser movie. But there it was, a signed copy in his outstretched hand.

  More books followed. He filled her cell with novels of all her treasured horror movies. In return, she made a full commitment to the structure of the cartel.

  Teaching him English had been her first job, but it wasn’t the last.

  Three years from now, she would be released from prison. But she would never be released from Hector La Rocha.

  She could blame him for trapping her, for manipulating her into a life of crime. She could hate him with every fiber of her being. But it wasn’t his fault.

  The military put her in Jaulaso. They turned an innocent schoolteacher into a criminal cartel member.

  There would be no going back to Arizona or her high school teaching job or the American citizenship she’d worked so hard to obtain. She was in too deep.

  A tear slipped from her eye, and she swatted it away.

  Crying about it didn’t change a damn thing.

  And no more fantasizing about the new guys. If there was any goodness inside them, this place would beat it out. Only the meanest, ugliest souls survived Jaulaso.

  There was a reason she kept her distance. No investments. No attachments. No losses.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she recognized the tenacious gait. Expected it.

  She took her time returning her book to the crate with the others Hector had given her. Locating her cigarettes, she struck a match, took a long drag, and another.

  Then she gave Garra her attention. “Are you spreading more rumors about me?”

  “I do what is necessary to protect you.”

  “Someday, all those lies will backfire. You need to stop.”

  “I am one man against two hundred.” He stabbed a finger at the doorway. “Two hundred men who want to fuck you, kill you, and fuck you again when you’re dead.”

  She flinched.

  “The rumors add a layer of defense.” His gaze lowered to her arms. “Just like your tattoos.”

  “It’s just artwork.” She ran a hand along the intricate black swirls that held no special meaning or significance.

  “They camouflage your softness. Isn’t that why you got them? To make you look tougher? Harder? To fit in?”

  He was right, of course. One of the things she learned early on was that inmates with smaller builds and passive dispositions became victims of daily beatings and sexual slavery.

  She heard the screams, saw the bruises, and knew exactly how deep that pain went.

  If a man didn’t come into the prison fighting with fists and teeth, he became someone’s fuck toy. As such, he was loaned out to other inmates for sex in exchange for commissary goods, such as soup, cigarettes, and other things that replaced currency.

  She had no power to stop it, but as long as she had Hector’s protection, it wouldn’t happen to her.

  If she lost Hector…

  She shivered at the memory of her first night in Jaulaso. Her tattoos wouldn’t replace the shelter Hector provided, but they helped hide her fragility. They ga
ve her confidence.

  “The boss called a meeting.” Garra glanced back into the hall. “They’re starting to gather.”

  She took a drag on the cigarette and crushed it out. Her presence was required at every cartel meeting. She didn’t always participate in the discussions, but sometimes her opinions were demanded.

  Sometimes she was assigned a job, small tasks, such as eavesdropping on a conversation, delivering a verbal message, or overseeing a drug trade.

  Hector never made her enter another area in the prison, touch an illegal substance, or take a life. But she was part of his criminal operation, contributing to its corruption.

  Violence was necessary to maintain order in the cartel. She’d grown numb to it, started to justify it, because it was for the common good of Area Three.

  Pulling in a breath, she followed Garra into the corridor. She didn’t have to ask why this meeting had been called.

  The González Cartel was recruiting people, convincing them that La Rocha Cartel was losing power. Every person who stepped foot in Area Three was under the microscope, even if it was just a short visit.

  Most of the men who came in wanted to join this side and vocally declared their allegiance. Others weren’t as transparent about their intentions.

  The two American prisoners had shared nothing about themselves. No one knew their cartel affiliations or their reasons for coming to this side of Jaulaso.

  Were they recruiters for the González Cartel? Spies from one of the gangs? Or random nobodies like her, just looking for a safer place to sleep?

  They were the reason Hector had called this meeting.

  Their fate was about to be decided.

  The meeting began with updates on business outside of the prison. Tula stood with her back to the room and thumbed through Hector’s vinyl record collection, half-listening to the cadence of deep voices.

  Behind her, Hector sat at the table with his closest advisers—Garra, Luis, and a loudmouth, heavy-set vato named Simone. Hector’s eclectic taste in music fascinated her far more than Simone’s complaints about a missing shipment of heroin.

  As they argued back and forth, she dug to the bottom of the record stack. His collection included everything from Renaissance composers to Latin American pop, but the majority of the albums covered the breadth of 1960’s British bands.