She felt betrayed, used, exposed, and all of those emotions translated into abject fury. She gripped the back of the recliner until she thought her fingertips might puncture the microfiber and trembled all over.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” she growled through her teeth.
But Carlos stood rooted to the spot.
“Did you not hear me, asshole?!” When she swung her head, she saw not Carlos – the always sweet, sometimes bumbling guy who’d managed to worm his way under her skin – but one hundred and eighty pounds of aggression. There had been times when Sam had taken her breath in a way that was akin to fright, but she’d never been afraid of Carlos. At least not until now.
In a mad panic, the smell of dried blood in her nostrils, images of Carlos killing his own cousin flashing behind her eyes, she thought of the .22 hidden in the drawer of the buffet table over against the wall. She made a lunge for it, but he was faster.
Carlos’s arm caught her around the waist, pressed into her belly.
“No!” she choked out as the breath was knocked from her. “The baby!”
She was pulled backward, struggles useless, and pushed down into the recliner on her back, her legs hooked over one of the arms in a pose similar to the one she adopted when she was curled up with a book.
He pinned her down by the shoulders and his head appeared above hers, upside down. His eyes were wet. He pulled in a ragged breath that caught in his throat. “Do you honestly think,” his voice was broken, “that I would ever hurt you or the baby?”
Carlos released her and moved away. Alma listened to his sock feet go into the kitchen, heard him stomp into his boots, collect his keys. The back door opened, closed, and a moment later his Firebird growled to life in the drive.
When he was gone, the sound of the engine having faded down the street, she rolled over and curled up on her side. Only then did she realize she was lying on top of his blood-stained jeans and shirt. When the tears came, she wasn’t sure which man she was crying for.
21
Alma woke at four a.m., still in the recliner, her spine feeling as stiff and brittle as dry pasta. She didn’t have to be at work until ten, but she knew there would be no chance of going back to sleep. So she took a shower and did her hair and makeup with robotic slowness.
She was numb. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, applying moisturizer to her face, she was completely devoid of all emotions. When she lost Sam, she had been launched into an instant depression so dark and so deep that she hadn’t been sure she could come back out. But the aftermath of the night before had propelled her in the other direction. She felt nothing. It was like the sense of betrayal and all that came with it had reached a peak that couldn’t be tolerated by her mind and body, and she’d simply switched off. Was running on backup generators until power could be restored. There was a dim, far-away voice in the very back of her head, telling her that eventually, the magnitude of what had passed between her and Carlos would slam into her, might even cripple her. But for now, she was unaffected.
It was only six by the time she was dressed and pressed and all ready for work. The house was clean. The laundry caught-up. She blew the dust off the lid of her laptop and fired it up, pausing because for a moment, she couldn’t remember her login password.
Alma pulled up a blank word document and just started. No beginning or end, no plan of attack, she just started writing about a girl who had no idea where she was going.
**
At eight, Diane slipped into the grey and pink velour jacket that matched her grey and pink velour track pants and stepped out her front door, iPod in hand, keys in her pocket. Tom had just left for the office downtown and she was ready for her daily routine of power walking and Michael Bublé.
She turned away from the door and then gasped, startled, when she saw her daughter standing at the end of her sidewalk down by the garage. “Alma?”
She was dressed for work in her black pants, low heels and crisp white shirt, the tail out over the small bump of her belly. Her hair was in a sleek ponytail and her makeup was perfect. But she stood as stiff and awkward as a mannequin, her eyes flat brown and dead.
“Alma?” she repeated, walking toward her. “Is everything okay?”
Her slim little face, always so full of expression – usually frowns and scowls because she refused to see the sense Diane needed to impart – was eerily still. Like the surface of a pond in winter, on a windless, unchanging day. “Fine, Mom,” her voice was hollow and gave the impression of having been prerecorded.
She reached her daughter and touched her arms, felt the goose bumps pebbling her skin under the thin barrier of the shirt. “Where’s your coat?” Diane felt worry bubbling up inside her. Even when she was being ridiculous, Alma never acted this way.
“I came by to tell you that I broke up with Carlos,” Alma said, again speaking in the expressionless voice she’d used before. “I thought you’d be happy.”
She frowned, but didn’t, despite her suspicions, see any traces of the angry defiance that should have accompanied that statement. Her daughter hadn’t come to throw that information in her face or try to lay blame. She might as well have said “it’s cold out here” for all the excitement her voice held.
“Sweetie,” Diane squeezed her upper arms. “Are you sure you’re alright?” God help her, she hated to ask this, because the goddamn Morales boy being gone was good news, but she said, “You and Carlos were…happy.”
Alma blinked. “I obviously don’t know what happy is.”
She’d watched her daughter fall apart before, when Sam had died, had looked on so many tears and so much torture. But she hadn’t been afraid for Alma. Now, maybe it was just the morning chill, but a shudder went down her spine. “Alma, sweetheart –,”
“I gotta get to work.”
**
Carlos had to be at Dolman Plantation, shovel in hand in less than an hour. But he rolled his thumb across the control pad of his iPod and cranked the volume, the thrashing melodies of Metallica swelling in his ears. His apartment complex had seven buildings and covered a sizable chunk of land. He’d run down to the communal pool five times and back and had fallen into a steady rhythm, legs striking out through the cold morning air, lungs pumping like a bellows, breath misting as it was forced through his lips. He didn’t feel the cold, or the lactic acid building up in his muscles, didn’t feel the sweat rolling down his back. He didn’t feel much of anything, really. He was numb inside: like the pain had reached a point that could no longer be sustained, so his nerves – his literal and figurative ones – had short-circuited.
Without any of his feelings for Alma clouding his mind, he was thinking clearly, more so than he had in the three months since Sam had coughed his last, bloody breath.
Look after my girl, he’d said, and that had led to one bad decision after another. It had tangled him up with a woman who didn’t love him, and who now resented him for lying to her, and for causing Sam’s death. And it was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d run out of the stairwell that night, scared shitless, too afraid for his own ass to stay behind and try to save his cousin.
It wasn’t about Alma anymore, or the baby. His regrettable decision to start peddling blow for Sam’s friend. It was just about making things right. For the first time, the thought of revenge didn’t make him nauseous.
He had to be at work in thirty minutes, but he kept running.
**
Her feet were throbbing by the time she let herself in her back door that night. Her thirty minute lunch break had been her only chance to sit and Alma’s legs ached, her back yelped its protests as she leaned over to unlace the ankle boots she wore to work. There was a shoe cupboard beneath the coat rack on the wall, but she left the boots in front of the door. Her sweater was left hanging on the back of the chair. She stripped down to her bra and panties in front of the washer, pulled semi clean sweats from the hamper and tugged them on.
She walked back toward the kitchen b
ecause it was dinnertime and she should eat, what with being pregnant and all, but her step faltered. Her eyes, the traitors, slid over and landed on a framed photo sitting on the bookshelf beside the TV.
It had been taken two years ago, she remembered the afternoon – the barbecue on the back deck, right here in this house – the way the sun had melted them all into their plastic lawn chairs and turned the margaritas to slushies. Captured in a smiling, happy moment, Sam and Carlos had their arms around one another. After the picture had been snapped, Sam had pulled his cousin into a headlock – Alma knew because she’d been the one to take the picture. They were close as brothers, best friends.
And they were both liars who’d brought her nothing but heartache.
The numbness that had pervaded her system all day wavered, and then dissolved. Hidden behind it was raw, breathtaking fury and pain. The sense of having been deceived was only multiplied by the love she’d harbored that didn’t seem to want to be extracted. She had pretended she didn’t care, but she did, and hate wasn’t the worst way to feel about a person, she suddenly realized. The most horrifying emotion of all was the knowledge you’d loved someone who wasn’t worth loving.
She snapped.
Alma snatched up the picture and flung it violently across the room. It landed against the far wall, a corner leaving a divot in the sheetrock. She stood still a moment, registering the sense of relief the act had brought, then she grabbed the next framed photo and hurled it too.
All their pictures, their memories, put a hole in the wall, sent glass shards flying. The pretty, decorative frames cracked and splintered. The ceramic jar that had been a gift from her aunt crashed to the floor in her fury. Her hands darted for each picture, palms clammy. She swore when her hand slipped and she chipped a nail on the shelf.
When she was done, she stared at the carnage, chest heaving, eyes darting around wildly in search of some other memento to destroy. Instead, she saw Carlos’s bloody clothes where they still lay in the recliner, mocking her, taunting her.
He and Sam had been like brothers. And Carlos had watched him die, covered in his blood.
“Oh, God,” a sob tore open her throat and her knees gave out on her. She sat down hard on the carpet. “Oh, God, oh, God…” she wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth, shivering.
22
Sean hadn’t seen this side of Carlos before. The man who came into his office without knocking, tossed a wad of cash on his desk and dropped down into a chair like he owned the place could have been Sam’s evil twin, but certainly wasn’t the kid he knew.
“It went well then,” he said drily, sorting through the crumpled hundreds that had landed on his blotter.
“Yup.” Carlos propped an ankle on his knee and sank back in the chair, arms folded, stocking cap pulled so low his eyes were barely visible. “They want more too. I told ‘em maybe next week.”
He’d turned into a pushing machine. Every night after work, he had his hand out, ready to hit the pavement again. He’d quit his job at the bar he’d worked since right after high school and was putting so much effort into this that, if it hadn’t been for the cold, clear glint of his eyes, Sean might have thought he was using.
“I’ve got a meet set with Sal. I’ll ask him about the next shipment. He’s supposed to be here in fifteen.”
Carlos nodded, but made no move to get up.
“You a’ight, man?”
“Yup.”
But he wasn’t. He’d only said two words about his girl – we’re done – but this new version of him filled in the blanks. It had ended badly, and Sean suspected it was because she’d found out the truth about Carlos. Maybe even Sam. Regardless, the split was fucking with Carlos’s head. He might have been paranoid and cautious when they were together, but apart, he was reckless. And nothing short of dead inside.
“Why don’t you head home then? Get some sleep.”
“Nah. I wanna stay and - ”
The intercom on his desk crackled and Aisha’s disembodied voice floated up out of it. “Your next appointment’s here, boss.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. Send him in.”
She snorted and the unit switched off again. A moment later, the office door swung open and Sean hated that he had a volatile Carlos still sitting there as Sal entered.
The guy was in grey pinstripe pants tonight, a crisp white shirt and silver tie. His hair was a black, slick helmet, as per usual. “Evening,” he greeted, leaning across the desk to shake Sean’s hand. He offered the gesture to Carlos, who just stared at him, and then he went about the tedious business of settling into the other visitor’s chair and smoothing the creases in his trousers, arranging his tie.
“The product’s moving well,” Sean said. “Carlos brought in five hundred tonight alone.”
“Excellent,” Sal bobbed his head. “I brought the next shipment and took the liberty of having my associate place it in your car.”
Sean had no idea who this “associate” was, or how the hell they’d managed to get inside his locked Escalade, but he knew not to raise issue with the asshole. He was owned now, at least Sean Taylor the entrepreneur was, and until he had enough information to put the top of the food chain in cuffs, he had to be content with this new arrangement.
“Good, I need more,” Carlos said before Sean could beat him to the punch, and Sal’s head swiveled in his direction. The look on his face was veiled annoyance; he thought the pusher had spoken out of turn. And he probably had, but internally, it made Sean smile. It was good to see Carlos show he had some balls, even if the reasons behind the display weren’t positive.
“We’ll handle that,” Sal said and turned away from him with an air of dismissal. “I wanted to talk to you about delivery,” he said, focus now solely on Sean. “In private, if you don’t mind.”
“Carlos - ”
But he was already on his feet. “Later,” he said as he tugged the halves of his jacket together and headed for the door. “Call me when you need me.”
When he was gone, Sal cocked his head and waited. There was a muffled voice in the outer chamber, likely Carlos saying goodnight to Aisha, and only after a full ten seconds of silence had passed did he speak.
“You need to get rid of him.”
Sean hadn’t been expecting it, but it wasn’t totally unexpected either. He tilted his head in the smallest of inquiries. “Carlos is my best guy.” Over the past week or so, that had been true, not to mention, he was still the connection Sean needed.
“You can’t trust him.”
“He doesn’t steal from me, he shows up when he says he will. Carlos is about the only one I can trust.”
Sal smirked. “People only steal if they think they can get away with it. Put a little fear in the rest of your men, and that shit’ll stop.” His mouth tightened. “Trust has nothing to do with showing up on time and all that bullshit. Your boy Carlos,” the street side came slipping out again, “he’d cut and run the second the five-o pulled up. Little punta needs to go running home to mommy.”
Sean knew he walked a fine line here. A dealer such as the one he was playing wouldn’t put up with Carlos for any extended period of time. His CO had said as much at their last meeting, suggesting that Carlos be cut loose because the mark had come to them, and Morales was no longer the inroad they needed.
It was a personal reason that kept Carlos in the fold. One that could get his badge stripped, regardless of the outcome of this case. And because Sean wasn’t so confident that this Sal character would ever slip up and incriminate his boss.
He tilted his chin down in a way that he knew was intimidating and narrowed his eyes, laced his fingers together. “What are you suggesting then?”
Sal pulled out a pen and a pocket-size stack of Post-it notes, scribbled something on the top sheet and passed it over. “Meet me here tomorrow – you and Morales – and we’re gonna see just how loyal your boy is.”
Sean palmed the address with a snort. “Don’t you t
hink that’s my problem, and not yours?”
He smiled, white teeth gleaming. “If he double crosses me, it’s not his ass you oughta be worried about.” He stood, rearranged the knot in his tie, and pivoted toward the door. When he glanced back over his shoulder, his professional façade had returned. In a light, innocent tone, he said, “It’d be a real shame if anything happened to Alma Morales.”
23
Alma was roused from sleep by the feel of a hand settling on her hip. A bristly chin grazed the side of her neck, lips tickled at her skin. She stirred and pressed back against the solid, warm body behind her. “Carlos,” she murmured, and that was when the dream dissolved and she woke, truly this time.
She rolled over onto her back and reached across the bed. It was empty, save for her, the sheets around her cool. The neighboring pillow smooth – no indentation to indicate that her lover had been sleeping beside her.
Where once she had dreamt of Sam sliding into bed behind her, the dark figure who came to her in her sleep was Carlos now. She rationalized by saying that her body missed him and that, in sleep, she forgot his monstrous offense. But most of her dreams weren’t even sexual. They were in front of the TV, or eating dinner, or just riding around in his car. She missed him, and that frightened her.
First light was just brushing the undersides of the clouds – she could tell, even from her bed, that it was going to be a gloomy, winter day – and even though she didn’t have to go into work, Diane was coming over to help with the nursery again.
Her mother hadn’t said a word about Carlos: no I told you so, no disapproving glances. And Alma hadn’t elaborated. The shameful truth was not something she’d ever be willing to discuss. She had only one avenue now: earn a living for herself and prepare for the arrival of her son. There were no options: get tough or die trying.
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