by JA Huss
And even though no one who wasn’t there could really imagine what Scotty looked like in that hospital room, Carlos must have an idea. Because he says, “I’m sorry.” And then, “I did not know the… particulars.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well. Now you do. And when I found out that Pete, ya know… died in a fire… well, it hit me pretty hard.”
“I didn’t order that,” Carlos says, defensive. “Logan was not supposed to kill Pete. I respected Pete. For standing up to me once. We agreed a long time ago that backing away from each other was in both our best interests. And so that’s what we did.”
“Until you didn’t,” I say. “If you gave Logan permission to burn down Pete’s then you did this, Carlos. You killed Pete even if he wasn’t supposed to be inside. It doesn’t matter if Logan went off script or not,” I say, shaking my head. “Because that fire happened. And Pete was burned alive, and it was your man—your nephew—who did it. I’m here. Yeah, I’m here. But when I said I kinda fuckin’ hate you, Carlos, I meant it.” I say that part softly. Without malice. Almost like I regret it. “And one afternoon playing in the pool won’t change that. So if you try and kiss me again, you might as well rape me too. Because I do not give you permission to kiss me. And I can’t fight you. I can’t stop you. So I’ll let it happen. But if you do this… I will never love you, Carlos. Ever.”
I expect shouting. Maybe a slap across the cheek or a strong hand pushing my face under the water until I drown.
But I get silence.
And when I stare up at Carlos I see… sorrow. Maybe.
He sighs, wades through the waist-high water around me, and says, “Get dressed for dinner, please,” over his shoulder as he makes his way out of the pool. “We eat in an hour.”
When I turn to get out I see Ricky, standing next to a servant handing Carlos a towel as he enters the house.
I want to catch his eye. I want him to send me some signal that things are going great. That he’s got my back. That I won’t be raped tonight when I go to bed. That Carlos Castillo won’t kill me. That this is all going well…
But he doesn’t.
He just turns his back to me and follows his boss inside.
Back in my closet, I stand there, looking at all the clothes and accessories. It’s a custom-made closet, the kind with lots of shelving, and special cabinets just for shoes, and different levels of rods for hanging specific kinds of clothes. One corner is a jewelry cabinet. I mean, I thought it was for socks and underwear because the drawers are long and thin. But when I opened it I found what probably amounts to half a million dollars in jewels inside.
Those jewels represent the entire collection of dead Carlos Castillo girlfriends, Angel says.
Stuff it into your luggage, Devil says. And take it with you when you leave.
Which reminds me, the luggage I brought with me has appeared in my closet while I was at the pool. I checked to see if anyone had been rifling through it, but no. Not that I can tell. All my stuff is still neatly folded, just the way I placed it last night. Which is a relief, since the sat phone is hidden in a compartment beneath the snap-up handle in one side of the suitcase.
I’m not sure if I’m here as a prisoner or not. I can’t quite figure it out. Like… if I wanted to take a car and go into Mexicali to shop, would Carlos let me? Am I allowed to walk out the gates that surround the breezeways and wander the property? Am I allowed to make phone calls? Like, could I call up Raven and just start shooting the shit with her?
I’m so confused, because on the one hand, I came here of my own free will. But on the other hand, Carlos made it pretty clear I had no choice. So… what am I?
Even if Carlos did find the sat phone, would that be so suspicious?
Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Devil says.
What? I think that’s a real question.
People don’t have sat phones. That one you’re carrying cost almost three grand.
Jesus. He’s right. Maybe I would’ve been better off with just my regular phone?
No service down here, Devil says. You’re in Mexico. You better step up your game, Scarlett. Maybe you forgot that playtime in the pool was a ruse to stop Carlos from raping you.
I wave him away with a hand. I didn’t forget, asshole.
I have an urge to call Tyler, but I can’t shake the feeling that Carlos has cameras in here. I don’t see any, but isn’t that the point of hidden cameras? And Ricky was paranoid of microphones in the car. So I’m pretty sure he’s watching me. Listening, at the very least.
I can’t call Tyler. Not until I figure out how safe I am.
I turn back to the closet and try and choose something to wear for dinner. I am pretty hungry. My stomach is growling because I didn’t eat anything this morning before I left. Too nervous about, you know, giving myself to a drug lord instead of paying him money I never owed him.
The dresses are all summery. Which makes sense, since this is Mexico and it’s hot as fuckin’ hell out right now. Vegas is nice in December. Mild and sunny. And I know we’re several hundred miles south of Vegas, but we might be breaking summer-high temperatures right now.
So… I end up in an ugly ruffle-y thing with a large-print flower pattern on it because it goes all the way to the floor and hides my shoulders. The swim suit was a risk. And I almost didn’t make it out of that situation in the pool. So from now on, it’s all about covering up.
I don’t bother with make-up or jewelry. Just put my hair up in a ponytail and call it good. Outside my bedroom—which does seem to belong to me and isn’t something Carlos and I will share, thank God—I can smell dinner and my stomach starts making demands.
Eat first, Maddie. That way if things go wrong, you’ll at least be nourished.
I make my way down a hallway. There’s men standing guard, maybe posted like sentries? I’m not sure. All I know is that they ignore me as I pass by and try to find the dining room. The home is traditional. Meaning all the rooms are separated by doors and hallways. And I suppose that’s good if anyone ever came in here looking for Carlos. Lots of places to hide.
I stop, leaning forward a little to listen to soft voices up ahead.
Logan. That asshole. And Carlos. They’re talking—no, arguing. But not loudly.
“She’s playing you, Uncle,” Logan says in Spanish.
“I think she’s acclimating nicely,” Carlos replies.
“Exactly,” Logan says. “And you don’t find that suspicious? Last month when you invited her to stay instead of paying off her debt, she would rather die. She’s in love with that Tyler guy. I told you that. Why is she here when she loves him? It’s Pete all over again.”
What the fuck does that mean? And this fuckin’ Logan asshole is going to ruin everything. He needs to just shut up.
“Pete didn’t take Carolina from me,” Carlos says. “I let her go. You know as well as anyone that no one lives if I decide it’s time for them to die.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Logan says. “So why are you lettin’ this Tyler asshole live? Even if Madison is here for the money and the power, like she told you, why not just kill that guy and erase any temptation for another repeat of Carolina and Pete?”
Several seconds of silence hang in the air. I wonder if Carlos is glaring at Logan. Or maybe he’s got a hand wrapped around his throat. I can only hope.
“There will be no repeat,” Carlos finally says.
Just then a thug comes around the corner and sees me. “Qué estás hacienda?” he asks, pulling out a gun and pointing it at my head.
“What?” I say, feigning ignorance.
“Madison?” Carlos calls out from the other room. “Is that you?”
“It’s me!” I say brightly. “Coming for dining as requested. Call off your dog. He looks trigger-happy!”
Carlos appears in the hallway, barking our orders to the thug, who holsters his weapon and walks away. “You look lovely,” he says, taking my hand, bowing his head to kiss it.
I
t takes every ounce of self-control not to shudder with revulsion at that move. I have to dip into my special reserves to manage a smile when he rights himself and stares into my eyes.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m starving. And I smell dinner. Is it time to eat?”
Carlos just beams at me. Like a love-sick teenager. Which is kinda sad, but mostly creepy. “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you.”
“We?” I ask as he leads me around the corner. “Oh,” I say, pretending that I didn’t realize Logan was with him. “Your nephew is here. How nice.” And then I smile, because the Devil in me has something to say. “I guess you might be my nephew one day too, huh, Logan? How funny would that be? Will you call me Auntie Madison?”
He looks like he wants to rip my face off. But he can’t. Because his uncle laughs, clearly pleased with my devil side, and says, “Are you asking to be my wife, Madison?”
It was a joke, you dumbass. Meant to piss your lowlife nephew off. But of course I don’t say that. I just smile and sit down in the chair Carlos is holding out for me.
See, Angel says. That’s what you get for listening to the devil.
“We were just talking about you,” Logan says.
“Really?” I ask, unfolding my napkin and placing it in my lap. “I couldn’t tell.”
“How long were you hiding in the hallway?” Logan snaps. “Did you get any useful information about my uncle’s business? That is why you’re here, right?”
“What?” I ask. My heart is beating fast. They didn’t even get to the useful information part. They were talking about me. But I can see from the look on Carlos’ face that the idea of me eavesdropping on his private conversations is… upsetting.
Play it cool, Angel says. Don’t set him off.
Fuck that, Devil chimes in. Hit that Logan motherfucker back, pronto, and take him out. Carlos likes you. He wants to trust you. And hitting back is standard protocol. It’s part of your charm.
He’s right. I can’t afford to be weak. Fuckin’ devil.
I smile at Carlos. He… doesn’t quite smile back. Yeah, I’m losing him. And I almost had him before stupid Logan showed up. “Pete’s funeral was last week,” I say, just as the servers enter the dining room and start delivering plates of food.
“So fuckin’ what?” Logan says.
But I’m not looking at him. I’m looking at Carlos. Who is looking at me.
So I continue. “And everyone was telling a story about him at his wake. You know? Like… a fond memory or something. And I didn’t really know Pete so well. I’d only been there a little while, so I didn’t tell one. But I should’ve told this one. Do you want to hear it?”
“No,” Logan growls, stabbing at his food with his fork.
Carlos doesn’t say anything. Just puts his silverware down and leans back. I take that as my cue to keep talking.
It’s too bad Carlos is a psychotic drug lord. Because he’s actually quite good at boyfriending. All the manners, the patience, the closet filled with clothes and jewelry… and now he’s a listener too. Yeah, what a complete waste of relationship skills.
“Well, like I said. I didn’t know Pete that well. But I figured a few things out about him.”
“Yeah, that he’s a piece of shit—”
“Shut up,” Carlos barks at Logan. “And let her speak.”
I offer Carlos a smile of gratitude and avoid looking at Logan. “I learned that he cares about us. You know, us girls. His strippers. Not in a creepy way, either. But like… a fatherly way, I guess. Someone who just looks out for others who can’t look out for themselves.”
Logan grunts as he shovels some food into his mouth, but that’s it. Apparently, one warning from his uncle is enough to shut him up. Which gives me the courage to continue.
“So one day a guy comes into the bar. And he’s threatening me, right?”
“What?” Carlos asks. “What kind of threat?”
“Apparently, I owe a drug lord money. And I was given a certain amount of time to pay it back.” Carlos’ face begins to turn red with anger. Logan stops eating, fork midway to his mouth. “But this drug lord’s thug came in before my time was up and told me I owed him half. Like that day,” I say, summoning up the proper amount of incredulousness. “And I was kinda having a bad day, if you know what I mean.”
“Shut up, Scarlett,” Logan growls, his eyes blazing with anger.
But Carlos backhands him right in the mouth with his ringed hand and says, “Continue, Madison,” as Logan’s split lip begins to bleed.
“And I was doing this little routine, right? Like I was wearing this devil costume.” That seems to kind of turn him on, but I ignore that and keep going. “So I had a stage prop. A pitchfork, in fact. A real one. Made of steel and everything. So”—I put my hands up like I’m surrendering and stare at Carlos—“I just want to you know, I have a hot temper, OK? And sometimes when people push me too far, I lose it. And I know that’s not an excuse for kicking your nephew’s sorry punk ass, but—”
“You fucking bitch!” Logan says, standing up and flipping his plate over.
Carlos doesn’t move this time. Doesn’t have to. Because armed guards appear from nowhere and Logan takes a step back.
Yes, Devil whispers in my ear. Keep going.
“But he pushed me, Carlos. He wanted half the money. And that was not part of our deal. So I… I kicked his ass with my pitchfork. And basically just went a little crazy.”
“I thought this was about Pete,” Carlos says. Calm. Cool.
“It is,” I say. “Because Pete pulled me off Logan. Saved his life, I think. Because I was done at that point. Done with him and his threats. Done with him showing up at my work to watch me strip and offer me money to show him my pussy.”
Yeah… bingo. Carlos stands up and overturns his plate too.
But then he just stands there. Huffing air. Glaring at his nephew. If he was a cartoon steam would be coming out his ears.
“And I was gonna kill him,” I continue, because why the fuck not? The Devil was right. Gotta be real or he’ll see through me. “So I have to apologize for that. And thank Pete for taking control of me. Otherwise you’d probably have killed me, right? I mean, offing your nephew would be bad, I get it. So I owe Pete my life, I guess.”
Dead. Silence. Everyone. Logan huffing and puffing. Carlos staring at nothing in particular. The armed guards unsure what to do.
“I should’ve told that story at his wake,” I say. “But it feels good to at least tell it now, so thank you.”
I smile a sweet smile right at Logan.
There’s another thick moment in which nobody moves.
And then the entire room erupts in violence.
Chapter Fifteen - Tyler
Evan and Robert are having a fucking tree-trimming party. If there’s ever a time when I wish that I hadn’t burned down my apartment, it’s now. Not that I’m against tree-trimming, or parties, or wassailing, or any of that shit, but it’s making it very hard to focus on what I’m currently focusing on, which is hitting refresh on my computer over and over and over again to see if the GPS tracking on Maddie’s sat phone tells me if it’s moved at all. (I had to pay a preposterous premium for that feature, but who the fuck thought I wouldn’t?)
It hasn’t. Moved, that is. It’s still in the same place in what appears to be a massive goddamn compound somewhere in Mexicali. I don’t have a live satellite shot, which pisses me off, but I can sort of make out the contours of where she is, using my maps app.
Out in the other room, Deck the Halls is being butchered by all the guys who clearly could not make it into the Las Vegas Men’s Chorus. Phone says it’s eleven-forty-three PM. Computer says the same thing. So I guess it is. Fuck. I asked her to call at eleven.
It’s OK. It’s OK. She brought up a good point. It might be suspicious if she called right at eleven every night. I don’t want to put her in an impossible position. We agreed that she would just make sure to reach out sometime before the night is o
ver. All good. No problem.
Refresh, refresh, refresh. Sat phone is still at its same location. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Still at its same location. Deck the halls! Refresh, refresh, refresh. Same location. With boughs of holly! Refresh, refresh, refresh. Same location. Fa la la la la la la la la! Fuck! What was that?
“Dude…?” Oh. It was Evan knocking on the bedroom door. Now he’s poking his head in. Shit, why even bother knocking?
I assault him with the question. “Shit! Why even bother knocking, bro?”
“You OK?” he asks.
“Why? Do I not seem OK?”
He stares at me. And those eyes of his don’t betray shit. If this was a staring contest, I’d lose. Then, finally, he says, “No.”
“Well, shit, man. What the fuck do you expect? Maddie’s somewhere in Mexico with a fucking drug lord doing God knows what.”
“The guy is with her though, right?”
“Who? Which guy? Friggin’ Ricky? Yeah, I don’t trust that dick-box to do shit.”
“Why?” he asks, stepping into the room with an extra glass of eggnog, which he hands me, and which I pound back. He knows I fuckin’ love eggnog.
Wiping my mouth, I tell him, “Because. He’s got his own agenda. And he’s clearly an opportunist. And because I never found out why an Army Ranger knocked him out. But if you’ve been hit hard enough to be knocked out twice in your life, there is clearly something wrong with you.”
“Really? How many times have you been hit that hard?”
“Hard enough to be knocked out? I dunno. Like a dozen. But it’s not a fair question because I don’t get knocked out. You know that. But if I did, that would just prove my point! Would you trust the man you love to be left in a fucking life-and-death situation with this dick-box?” I point both thumbs at myself to emphasize that I’m referring to me. (Who’s got two thumbs and is a total dick-box? This guy.)
“You already know the answer,” Evan says. “Of course I would.” He lets that land like an anvil and it kind of takes the wind out of the sails that are propelling my angst.
