by Dee Garcia
Except here.
So what’s my plan, you ask?
I'm going to let him leave...but I'll be following him in just a few days’ time. I don't know where he's going, but I’m sure my reasoning will provide me a destination. At least, if he meant all he’s said, then it will.
Set aside the fact a girl could use a teensy vacation, it's the perfect way to test these unknown waters he supposedly wants me to charter beside him. Just him and me, a chance for me to see who he is, what he does, and if there’s really a place for me in his life.
As scary as that sounds, I have to do it. I’ll drive myself crazy with the whys and what-ifs if I don’t.
But what happens if it works out, if it’s good and it feels right? What if he actually lets me in? What am I supposed to do then? I can’t just up and leave Miami. My mom would have a fit.
It’s too early to be thinking about all that, I know, but I can’t seem to put those thoughts to rest, no matter how hard I try. I’m blaming it on him and that fucking devil dick of his. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d drill the concept into me. Oh, he drilled it all right, sunk those dark, delicious claws deep into my starving soul and pounded me to hell and back until I screamed it into existence. Mrs. Moreno from downstairs had to have heard it all, probably prayed at least five rosaries as the exorcism above threatened to cave in her ceiling.
“Stop fucking playing with me and tell me, Benni. Tell me you want me as badly as I”…thrust…“Want”…thrust…“You.” He thrusts a third time—as deep inside me as my feelings for him extend—and holds me down, his cock throbbing and pulsing against my walls. “Fucking tell me! Dimelo!”
I have to shake myself out of it, goose bumps pebbling every inch of my skin. He drilled it in, put the final nail in the coffin this morning. And yet, as I sit here in the sand, looking out into the Atlantic, I still can’t wrap my head around it all, to begin with.
It just seems so far-fetched, like I’m setting myself up for pure and utter failure.
You already have.
The lightest breeze rolls through, cutting through the humidity for the briefest moment. I breathe it in deeply, relishing the warm, comforting scent of the salt water not so far away. The sky is only slightly overcast, but it reminds me of his eyes no less.
Of him and the hurricane-force winds he’s brought right to my door.
Flipping my phone over, I take note of the time. With just ten minutes to five, I unlock the screen and tap into my recent calls, scrolling a short way down to find his contact. Before the first ring blares, I’m already setting it on speaker, holding the bottom of the phone up to my ear.
It rings and rings and rings some more until I hear, “Please leave your message for—”
I end the call, sighing out a heavy breath. I’m starting to get antsy as fuck, and my ass is going numb. Feels like I’ve been sitting here for hours. I’m tempted to kick off my Chucks and roll up the bottoms of my black jeans to dip my feet where the tide washes in, but then I’d have to deal with the lingering wet sand, and I just got my car washed on the way here.
I’m good on that.
Sounds of laughter draw my attention over to the pier on my left. A group of young kids, all of them probably about eighteen or so, sprint down its length in a carefree laughter to the parking lot. Only one straggles behind. He’s the biggest of the bunch, smashing down a taco in two beastly bites. That’s something my brother would do, bubbling a quiet laugh in my throat as I hop onto my feet.
I haven’t got much of an appetite right now, but I could go for a drink. Hell, with the conversation I’m about to have when Ángel gets here, I need one. Running back to my car, I pull my wallet free from my purse, then make my way up the pier’s ramp and into the restaurant, Quarterdeck.
In the eighteen years I’ve lived in Miami, I think I’ve been here maybe twice. It’s light and airy on the inside, the entire perimeter surrounded by windows and a variety of oceanic decor. There’s a decent crowd around the semi-circular bar, but it’s not overwhelmingly busy. I amble right over to it and lean on my elbows over the bar top. The bartender acknowledges me with a friendly wink, a silent signal he’ll be with me as soon as he’s filled the order before me.
Takes the man a while, but about twenty-ish minutes later, I’m slipping out of the restaurant and back down the pier with a cold beer in hand. That first welcome sip hits the damn spot, promising to fuel me with the courage I can never seem to find around Ángel unless it involves his dick. It’s then I realize he’s not responded to my text yet.
With a quick hand, I yank my phone from my back pocket and go about the motions of another outgoing call. It rings through to his voice mail just like the last time, prompting me to navigate through a couple screens to our text thread as police sirens blare in the near distance. I keep the message short, typing it out with only one thumb.
Me: Are we still meeting up?
I stand there in the middle of the ramp, my eyes boring into the screen, willing those three little dots to appear. All the while, people walk around me, some bump into me. I couldn’t care less. I’m more focused on the fact that nothing is happening, absolutely nothing. Where is he? Is he still wherever the fuck he is? Did he end up leaving earlier than planned?
Mind racing with a string of scenarios, I blow out another anxious breath and stuff the phone back into my pocket, heading down the ramp to the parking lot. The beer bottle sweats in my hand, dripping a cool trail beside me. I’m not sure what to do—if I should bother waiting anymore at this point—but I’m going to have to finish this beer before I can leave. I didn’t just waste twelve dollars on this thing.
Bringing the bottle to my lips, I tip my head back and start chugging, eyes watering through the burn. Idly, I grasp the warbled sound of those sirens growing closer, but I don’t stop, swallowing gulp after gulp of the hoppy goodness.
Until a series of tires squeal, snapping my head up to meet a cavalry of red and blue lights.
What the hell?
I scan the lot—everything and everyone around me. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Everyone—including me—stands stock-still, waiting to see what the fuck is about to go down.
Two cruisers and three SUVs screech to a stop, not twenty feet away from me. Seconds later, there are at least ten pigs blowing out of the doors, each one drawing their pistol as their feet touch down on the sand-dusted asphalt, their aim in my general direction.
“Benita Adriana Villanueva?” one of them barks, shooting my heart up to my throat.
What the hell is fucking happening right now?
I’m by no means drunk, not even tipsy, but I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’m suddenly light-headed, my mind in a hazy fog from the beer I just chugged. “Yeahhh?” I drawl.
I barely blink, and a handful of them run up on me, including the one who just identified me. “Give me the bottle and put your hands behind your back,” he orders.
My grip tightens around the neck as I shuffle back a few steps. “What? Why?”
The pig offers a humorless laugh and pulls out his cuffs. “Because you’re under arrest; that’s why.”
“Under arrest? For what?” The stupidest question I could have possibly asked, considering there’s a long list of reasons why.
“You know why,” he answers, spinning me around just as the bottle’s ripped from my grip, completely disarming me.
No—this can’t be happening!
It just can’t! From my throat to the deepest pit of my stomach, my heart free falls, shattering into a million pieces. I’ve been under the radar for almost three years, keeping everything clean and organized. I followed Ángel’s suggested plan, too, adding my own personal touches here and there when necessary. There’s no way they could know what I’ve been up to.
None.
At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself as they’re trying to cuff me.
Trying being the operative words because I’m blatantly refusing to let him pu
t those cuffs around my wrists. Every wiggle and thrash of my body compresses his hold on me by the second. I know the whole lot is watching this go down, but I don’t care. I’m not going down for this. I can’t!
“You can’t do this!” I yell! “You can’t just roll up on me and arrest me without probable cause!”
“We do have probable cause, plenty of evidence from following you around!” the one who apprehended me yells back.
“Bullshit!”
“Stop resisting, Villanueva! You’re making it worse for yourself!”
No, no, no! This can’t be happening! This can’t be fucking happening!
“Stop resisting!” another barks, but I don’t relent, tears now blurring my vision as the beer rushes up my throat.
I swallow it back, barely, and keep at it. I keep thrashing, keep wiggling, keep fucking crying until I find myself face-front on the ground, knocking the wind out of me with an audible whoosh.
I’m immobilized. Three sets of powerful, intent hands hold me down until I feel the cool metal touch my skin, my eyes bulging as they dig painfully into the bones of my wrists. I’ve never been cuffed this tightly; I wince as they pull me up onto my feet.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you…”
That's when I see it, from the corner of my wet eye, droning out the rest of my rights: his car. He’s here. He came. "Ángel!" I screech at the top of my lungs, sobbing his name like he’s the hallelujah to my silent prayers. “Ángel, help me!”
But he wouldn’t be able to help me. Not then or when they shoved me into the back of the car.
It was too late.
I was going down for this, and I’d go down hard as hell.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I can’t do anything other than sit behind the wheel and watch them stuff her in the back of one of their cars, her screams for me still rattling the glass of my windshield. My jaw tenses, teeth grinding as the trembling sound echoes through my eardrums.
It may ebb away once they drive off, but I already know it’s a sound I’ll never be able to erase from my mind.
What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here, man, my instincts scream.
A shake of my head and I keep driving, rounding the next block like I were any other person and not the one she was just manically yelling for.
Or the one who should really be in those cuffs.
♫ Locked Up (Remix) Akon & Styles P
One month later…
They gave me seven years. Seven. Fucking. Years.
Originally, it was supposed to be ten to fifteen. Twenty was thrown around at one point, too, because of the amounts and varieties they found at the warehouse. They knew this operation exceeded anything I could do alone. They knew about the Upper Echelon and that it was somehow tied to me, and they wanted names. I gave them none. I refused every single time. I’m not a rat—never have been, never will be—regardless of the time and possible deportation hanging over my head. Because yes, they threatened to deport my ass back to Cuba, too.
Thankfully, Alex was able to talk them into dropping it down to seven years since I wasn’t running the show alone. I’ll be thirty-five when they finally set me free unless I manage to accumulate good behavior and get out before then. Good behavior will depend on how these bitches at Max act, though. My mama didn’t raise no pendeja, and if they think I’m going to be an easy target as fresh meat, they’re in for one hell of a rude awakening. I’ll run that fucking block like I ran those goddamn streets.
La Jefa bows to no one.
That obnoxious buzzer sound bounces off the walls, signaling the cell block’s main gate. Through it comes one of the two female guards, her expression as emotionless as the day they booked me in.
“Ladies! Visiting hours are about to get started. When you hear your name, you know what to do.” She starts sounding off names after that, prompting me to return my attention to my game of dominoes.
I won’t have visitors. Ma has been a wreck since my sentencing, and both Tommy and Noely are still too hot with me. Next time I see them will be when I’m at Max, and not within my first few days, either.
“And lastly, Villanueva.”
My heart stops at the sound of my name. They’re...here? I cut my eyes to the guard, and sure enough, she’s staring right at me, waiting for me to follow her every single command.
I hate it, but I do as I’m told. I couldn’t stop myself even if I tried. I’m too shocked...happy.
They’re finally here to see me.
Falling in line at the very end, I start straightening out my appearance. It’s just family, I know, but I don’t want to look like how I feel being in here. They don’t need to see that. Pulling my hair tie free, I comb my fingers through the messy strands as we tread into the hallway to the front of the jail. My stomach is in knots the whole way, heart slamming against my chest. I know disappointment and sadness will overshadow the good in seconds, but I needed this. I need to see them, need to know that although I’ve fucked up royally, they still love me.
When we make it to the visitation room, the CO stops the line just outside the doorway, allowing the guard within the room to call out last names and direct us to the appropriate booth. I’m not last, but I swear, it feels like I am. By the time I’m finally called, there are only a few girls left.
Raking an anxious hand through my hair again, I make my way inside.
The guard stops me, his bronze, pudgy arm pointing slightly to the left. “You’re in window five, Villanueva.”
Here we go.
Offering a docile nod, I take off toward the booth, readying myself to smile at just the right moment.
But I end up not smiling at all.
My eyes bug out instead, lungs filling with more air than they can hold as those thunderous eyes stare me down from the other side of the bulletproof glass. The very corner of his lips curl in that familiar, dark smirk, his hand flying up to the old school telephone attached to the booth’s partition.
Seeing him in place of my family is shocking enough. What’s more startling? All of his tattoos are gone—every single last one. I’ve never in our entire relationship seen Ángel so...bare.
In my disturbed and highly confused state, I still manage to move my feet and sink into the dingy white plastic chair. I can’t lift the phone, though. My hands are weighed down in my lap as I just gape at him, tracking every plane of visible skin.
Ángel seizes his end and holds it up to his ear, silently urging me to do the same with a cut of his eyes.
But I can’t. I’m afraid that if I move, that if I so much as blink, he’ll be gone. How is this possible? How is he here right now? What is happening?
“Recógelo,” he mouths. Pick it up.
Heart hammering, I swallow down the knot in my throat and force myself to reach for the phone. The moment it touches my ear, that smooth, husky voice of his vibrates through the line.
“Benita…”
“Ángel,” I whisper. That’s literally all I can manage.
Oh, and the bullshit tears quickly blurring my vision.
I refuse to set them free, but they’re there, waiting for me to let my guard down before they spill of their own will. I’ve been so worried about him, and now he’s here, almost unrecognizable while he’s at it.
And given the way his expression falls, eyebrows cinching painfully in the middle of his fine face, I have a feeling he’s been worried about me, too.
“Fuck,” he hisses, dropping his head between slumped shoulders. “I don’t like this. I don’t like seeing you in here.” He’s still staring downward as his large palm splays against the glass, the silver bands of all his rings clinking against the surface.
“Ángel, don’t,” my voice trembles. “I’m okay.”
I’m not; I’m far from it. Every minute of my l
ife in here is pure misery, but I don’t want him to know that. “What are you doing here? How? What happened to you? I tried calling you and—”
He cuts me off. “It’s cover-up, mami. Makeup. Ever since they got you, they’ve been sniffing around harder. I’ve got the partners on lockdown right now, and I’m taking a big-ass risk being here, but I had to come see you…had to tell you how sorry I am.” When he glances up at me, only regret reflects back at me.
A regret so deep-seated and utterly raw that it overshadows everything else he’s just told me. I heard him, I did, and a part of me is sounding the alarm, but my heart aches, the proverbial strings tugging and fraying like a satin ribbon.
Lifting my hand to the glass, I hope and pray to Papá Dios for strength because if the rest of this conversation is going to be just as gut-wrenching, I’m going to need it now more than ever. “Sorry for what? There’s nothing you could’ve done. They had me in cuffs already, and they were going to book me regardless of what you—”
Ángel shakes his head adamantly, halting the words on the tip of my tongue. “You don’t understand. It’s my fault, all of this is my fault.”
The stress within his tone… It blares those alarms again, louder now, dotting my skin with ice-cold goose bumps as his words echo in my mind.
“Ever since they got you, they’ve been sniffing around harder. I’ve got the partners on lockdown right now, and I’m taking a big-ass risk being here, but I had to come see you…had to tell you how sorry I am.”
“How is this your fault?” I dare ask, clutching the phone in my grip for dear life.
I feel like my world’s about to shatter, and I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle the blow.
“They were onto you, Benni. Cesar caught them tapping one of our calls,” he stresses, eyes widening almost painfully. “He’s got my end secure, so they didn’t find anything except the number, but you… All they had to do was track and wait. They had to have been watching you on the daily, and you didn’t even know.”
