Glass Cage

by Francesca Baez

  Miel rolls her eyes and grabs my arm, yanking me off the stool and pulling me down the hall with her. She pushes open the door to the empty guest suite, the one where Max and I used to hide out in as children.

  “Did he find out?” she asks, eyes wide. “I told you he’d be pissed if he found out I was training you.”

  “Javier? What? No,” I say, eyeing the other woman nervously. She seems freaked out, which is a color I’ve rarely seen on her before. It must be contagious, because my heart starts pounding a little faster at the sight.

  “Is he hurting you?” she goes on. “How long has this been going on?”

  “What? It’s not. He isn’t hurting me,” I say, mostly truthfully. He’s not not hurting me, but I’m also not not enjoying it.

  “Someone hurt you,” Miel says simply, pushing me back so I land on the bed harshly, ass first. It’s a soft surface, but thanks to her I hit it pretty hard, and the impact makes me gasp a little. “Excuse me for assuming it was the man you share a marital bed with.”

  “Oh my god, do we really have to do this?” I snap, now pretty pissed at her myself. “Yeah, I’ve been sleeping with Javier, and not just literally. But what happens between us is none of your business. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  Her eyes go wide, and before they become unreadable as ever, I think I see a little bit of hurt flash through them, and I see a small tremor in her fingertips. Fuck. I suddenly remember the scars on her breast, the words in her police file. Someone, maybe more than one someone, hurt her in a very real way, and she probably didn’t enjoy it one bit. I’m an idiot.

  “No, Miel,” I say, sighing and pushing myself back up off the bed. I try my best not to sound pitying, not to let my voice convey the genuine sympathy I’m feeling inside. I’m guessing she wouldn’t respond particularly well to that. “You know Javier, he’s not like that. God, this is so awkward. Um, I know it’s insane that we’re hooking up. Trust me, I know. And that’s all it is, really. Aside from the whole marriage thing, I guess, but that’s obviously bullshit. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like… I’ve been through this horrible nightmare since y’all got here, and he’s been right there the whole time, one way or another, and shit like that, it just pushes people together. Even if those people also kind of hate each other. And yeah, maybe it got a little rough last night, but it’s kind of a hate-fuck thing, I guess, so that’s just kind of how that goes.”

  This feels worse than when I told Miel about how I was responsible for my brother’s death, or at least how I thought that at the time. And I’m leaving out a lot, especially the things I can’t even admit to myself yet. Yeah, I still hate Javier, and what happens between us is nowhere near romantic, but… there’s something else there, too, something words can’t fully describe. There’s a dark pull that draws me to him, in and out of bed. I felt it the very first moment he broke into my house, when our eyes met for the first time. The harder I work to bury the feeling, the stronger it becomes. I don’t particularly believe in soul mates, and even if I did, he definitely wouldn’t be mine. But sometimes, in the dark, when I’m about to fall asleep and my guard is down, I feel his presence fill the shattered cracks of me. As if being without him, even for a short time, would be like losing a physical part of myself. I’ve never felt that way with any man before. Then again, I’ve never been essentially kidnapped by a lover before. It’s probably just a symptom of my fucked up brain, and I doubt he feels it in return. I’m just a convenient fuck to him. He was forced to marry me for his big bad plan, so why not make the most of it? I’ll never be more than a wealthy prisoner to him. But Miel doesn’t need to know all that.

  “I see,” Miel says slowly, keeping her face totally straight, eyes guarded. “My mistake.”

  “Okay,” I say after a generous moment, realizing that no, of course she’s not going to apologize. “I’m going to go get my coffee now.”

  “Selina,” the woman says to me as I turn away, sternly enough to keep my feet planted, but with an unexpectedly soft edge to her tone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was concern. “Be careful. You don’t know Javier as well as you think you do, believe me. Even I don’t know him, not all of him. I trust him with my life, and he might be the only person I’ll ever love, but…”

  She hesitates, reconsiders whatever it is she was about to tell me. “You’re right, it’s none of my business. But the thing is, Selina, when push comes to shove, all men are ‘like that’. Even the ones we love.”

  * * *

  “Teach me how to make tacos,” I say, pushing away the cookbook Brock set in front of me, currently open to a chicken bruschetta recipe. He looks up from the tomatoes he’s lining up on the kitchen counter, beside the bamboo cutting board. Kate’s taken over the housekeeping since her return, but Brock and I have still been doing most of the cooking. I told her it’s because she already does too much, but honestly, Brock is just a thousand times better of a cook.

  “Tacos?” Brock repeats, blowing a strand of dirty blond hair out of his face. That man bun of his probably appeals to a certain audience, but it’s gotten a little too wild for my own taste. Not that I have ever been attracted to Brock, I remind myself hurriedly, as if my husband can read my thoughts. But I can still have an opinion of a man’s fashion choices, regardless of my level of attraction toward him. “Yeah, we can do that. I think we’re a little low on cheddar and sour cream, but we can manage.”

  “No, not that tex mex bullshit,” I say, sighing heavily. “I mean, like a real taco. Like, a street-style taco.”

  Brock arches an eyebrow at me. “You know Vega is Venezuelan, right? Not really known for their tacos. Arepas, maybe.”

  I didn’t know that, actually.

  “I don’t know what you’re implying,” I say, making a face at him and grabbing up all his tomatoes, making a show of returning them to their spot in the pantry. I guess he remembers that conversation with Javier as well as I do, unfortunately for my pride. “I just want some tacos, sue me.”

  “But not the tex mex kind, sure,” Brock says, now with both brows raised, but doesn’t fight me on this. “Okay, white girl.”

  “You’re literally white, you don’t get to call me that,” I tell him archly. “And don’t come at me with that ‘coconut’ shit, either.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” he says, and though I know he’s being sarcastic, the nomenclature sends a small thrill up my spine. Maybe someday, they really will see me as the boss, or at least the boss’s wife. Is that really what I want? To be a mob wife? I remember the way my hands felt wrapped around a gun, and the idea doesn’t seem that off-putting. “Check the fridge for some chorizo.”

  I do, rifling past a couple steaks and some ground turkey wrapped in brown paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Brock searching deep in the pantry for something. How did this hipster-boy-slash-chef wind up running with these criminals? I’ve never seen him in action, other than the first night, but he must be just as deadly and capable as the others to be part of the team. It bothers me, for some reason, that he doesn’t look the part. If he was just another stranger walking by me on the street, I wouldn’t feel the chill of fear that I would with the others. Then again, anyone looking at me, in my baby pink Chanel sweater and cozy Prada shearling boots, probably wouldn’t expect me to be a killer in the making, either.

  “How did you get involved with Javier?” I ask as I slap the chain of sausage links onto the counter, trying to sound casual. “I mean, I know he and Miel go way back, but I don’t know how you and H met them. And I haven’t seen the… you know, the mark, on y’all’s arms.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you don’t know because you’re not supposed to?” Brock says with a raised brow, equally casual. “Pull all that meat out of the casings.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, yeah.” I grab a knife and a bowl and cut the first casing open, making a face as I start shoving the raw ground meat out. “But I get to know stuff now
. I’m part of things.”

  Brock snorts, peeling the outer layers of a red onion off into the sink beside me. “You’re not a part of things.”

  “I am!” I insist, slamming my knife on the counter and turning to face him, indignant.

  “The prisoner never gets to be the queen, no matter who she marries,” Brock notes tauntingly, plucking some cilantro from the row of potted herbs on the windowsill.

  “Go to hell,” I say, turning back to my work. I’ve talked about my so-called marriage enough for the day.

  “Well, since you asked so nicely,” Brock teases, coming up on my other side to finish chopping the toppings. “I doubt Vega really gives a shit about my story, so it wouldn’t hurt to tell you.”

  I say nothing, not wanting to spook the man.

  “You’re right, I’ve never been one of El Sombrerón’s men,” Brock begins, hitting the wrong accent on the word as he flashes his tattoo-free arms. “I just came down to Atlanta for the first time last year, actually. My sister was going to school down here, though. Georgia Tech. Get out a pan and get the meat cooking, with this.”

  He gestures to the small can he pulled from the back of the pantry. Chipotles in adobo. I pull the chipotles out carefully, as instructed, and mix the adobo sauce into a pan with the chorizo meat.

  “Wash your hands now, and be careful about touching your eyes or anything,” Brock says, and I refrain from making a face at him. I’m still a relative newbie in the kitchen, but if he warns me about working with hot peppers one more time, I’m going to lose it. “Anyway, my sister, she was going to Georgia Tech, until she got involved in some bad shit. Drugs. Then she got in too deep and had to start working for him to pay off her debt.”

  From the tightness in his voice, I get the feeling most women in El Sombrerón’s empire get the same job assignment. “Did you know?”

  “No, I wasn’t exactly in contact with my family at the time,” Brock says after a brief pause. I think he’s starting to regret agreeing to tell me this, but he doesn’t stop. “I was doing time.”

  Time?

  “Oh!” I say, when the meaning dawns on me. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I know I don’t exactly look the part,” he gestures to himself with his hand, which has bits of chopped cilantro stuck to it now. He doesn’t offer up more information, but I guess that one way or another, that probably explains how he had the skills necessary to make the team. “Anyway, by the time I got out, it was too late. She was already dead.”

  “Oh my god,” I breathe. Now I’m the one starting to regret initiating this conversation. Is everyone in this house damaged as hell? “I’m so sorry, Brock. I know how much it hurts to lose a sibling.” Hell, I even know how much it hurts to lose a sibling to this particular enemy. Brock accepts my condolences with a tight nod. I shouldn’t ask the question bubbling up in my throat, but I have to know. I have to know everything this monster is capable of. “What… What happened?”

  “Do you know what happens when a packet of cocaine bursts inside you?” he asks. I shake my head. Please don’t tell me. “Well, now I do.”

  “Fuck,” I say, because I can’t say I’m sorry again, and no other words really suit the occasion.

  “Yeah, well,” Brock says with a shrug, not an uncaring one, but just one that acknowledges that what happened happened, and that there’s no use dwelling on the conversation point any further. I’ve given many a shrug like that. “Anyway, as soon as I got out of Jessup I took a bus straight down here. All I could see was red. I had no plan, I just wanted to find and kill everyone I could associated with this man. I only got to a couple low level dealers before Vega was sent to take care of me.”

  I stir the aromatic meat methodically even as my heart drops out of my body, forcing myself not to react to the fact that the closest thing I have to a friend in this house just casually admitted to killing a couple people, and then mentioned that the man I share a bed with was sent to return the favor.

  “He was looking for allies against El Sombrerón, so he heard me out, and then enlisted me. And now, here we are. I imagine H has a similar story, I’ve never asked. The only person Vega truly trusts is Miel, but barring that kind of trust, an enemy of an enemy, you know.”

  I do know.

  “That’s insane,” I say, clearing my throat awkwardly before speaking again. “Well, thanks for sharing that. You didn’t have to.”

  “Well, I know your whole story, it’s only fair you get to know mine,” Brock says, keeping his face carefully turned away from me even as his voice remains light and teasing. “Especially if you’re going to be a part of things.”

  I smile a little at the thought, scraping the taco meat into a bowl. I don’t know why it’s so important to me to feel like I belong in this group of criminals, each more lethal than the next. But if I don’t get a choice in spending the rest of my life with these people, it would be nice to at least stop feeling like such a useless outsider.

  Still, as I pop some tortillas into the oven to crisp up, I can’t shake Brock’s words about Javier and Miel, or what she said the other day. They’re both right. I know there’s nothing romantic between those two, and I shouldn’t care even if there was, but it still tugs at a sore spot within me, to acknowledge that I’ll never be as close to him as she is. Prisoner, wife, or whatever my next title is, he’ll never truly trust me, and I’ll never truly know him.

  I told him once that I could never love a man I don’t know. So what is this feeling that’s taken root deep in my gut, growing harder to ignore by the minute?

  * * *

  I smile at my captive princess as she sets the plate of tacos down in front of me. Street style, the kind I taunted her with way back when. Did she choose this dinner menu because she thought it would please me, or as a fuck-you? She’s certainly proven in more ways than one that I was wrong about her, at least in some of my first judgments. In other ways, I was only too right.

  No, from the proud beam she keeps trying to hide, I think she did this for me, because she thought I’d like it. And I do, of course I do. The gesture warms something new in me. This goes beyond just owning her body and her mind. Just as quickly, the warm feeling turns to a twisting ache. I don’t want to own her heart.

  Not like this.

  Not stolen and unearned.

  Selina sits down to my left, eagerly digging into her own dinner, juicy red sauce dripping down her wrist. Kate compliments the meal, and Selina thanks her with a smile, crediting Brock for most of the work. She seems happy right now, and that concerns me. My princess’s mood has been erratic since we got back from Paris. She was dead silent the whole plane ride back, and still is mostly reticent to talk to me. Our old conversations before bed are over, and to be honest, I already miss her prodding questions. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s tearing off my clothes every chance she gets, we wouldn’t be interacting at all. Am I crazy for complaining that my pretty wife’s libido is suddenly through the roof? I mean, it was only a few weeks ago I was growing impatient with her for denying the fiery attraction between us. But now… Now it seems like she’s using sex to hide something, not from me, but from herself.

  What’s more is that I haven’t seen her doing her usual yoga practice in weeks. Instead, I watch her through the grainy surveillance camera feed as she lifts weights for hours in the basement gym. She also seems to have abandoned her early morning and late evening meditations, trading those in for increasingly longer hours on the treadmill. I had H give her back limited TV privileges, but even when she’s lounging on the couch she’s not fully relaxed, always jostling a nervous leg or drumming her fingers on something.

  She’s not going to run again. That’s not what concerns me. I feel that conviction in my bones. No, I’m worried that she’s so quickly given up a core part of herself, practices and beliefs that have held her stitched together for years. I wanted her broken, yes, twisted into a woman who would better fit in my world, but I didn’t mean to lose the woman she was c
ompletely. Have I pushed her too far, too fast?

  That’s why, after dinner, as Kate and Brock start gathering empty plates, I grab Selina and pull her into the hallway, wrapping my arms around her waist in an uncharacteristic embrace. I like keeping our business in the privacy of our bedroom, whatever that business may be. I’m not one for public displays of semi-affection, especially not in front of my people. Affection is weakness. I trust my team as much as I can trust anyone, but I don’t need them to know that Selina is not just any prisoner to me, that our relationship isn’t solely an act anymore. I don’t need them to know that if anything were to happen to her, I’m not sure I would survive it, at least not without fully succumbing to the monster within. I’ve already gone too far to prevent that.

  Selina startles, placing her hands on my chest both to balance herself and to push away from me as much as she can while still caged in my tight embrace. She glances back toward the door to the dining room nervously. She doesn’t want them to know, either. She has her own weaknesses to hide, her own images to maintain.

  “Let’s go out,” I say, as if we’re just a normal suburban couple planning their next date night to the Olive Garden. “Dinner, tomorrow.”

  “Like on a date?” Selina says with a nervous chuckle, fidgeting in my grasp.

  “People will get suspicious if we never show our faces together after the wedding,” I say, not quite answering her question. “Besides, it’s been too long since you’ve been off the estate. You deserve some fresh air.”

  She doesn’t respond in either the affirmative or negative. She doesn’t trust a gift from me, especially seemingly unprovoked. That’s fair.

  “Can I pick the place?” she says at last.

  “Sure,” I say, after considering it for a moment. “Just let me know in advance so I can figure out security.”

  Her lips twitch down at that. We can’t go out without additional security measures, not when we’re still waiting for our enemy to strike at any moment. But she thinks the security is for her, to ensure her cooperation. She thinks that after everything, I still worry she’s going to run.