Playing the Player

by Lea Santos

  Madeira heard the call to action beneath the man’s words. She shot one worried glance at the unknown fluid dripping from the mangled engine, realizing she was completely out of her depth. “Keep a watch for…flames, I guess. I’ll go in.”

  The old man clapped a gnarled palm on Madeira’s back. “Take care, now, hon. Don’t need no more victims than we already got.”

  Madeira gave him a grim nod. Unconcerned about the glass and fluids ruining her clothing, Madeira dropped to her stomach and shimmied through the narrow opening between the crushed roof and the doorjamb. It was so dark and jumbled beneath what was left of the SUV, she struggled for her bearings at first. Sounds faded to a muffled drone, distancing her from the inconceivable horror of the pile-up. She bumped her head on something and sought the shadows for clues until she recognized it as the backseat. Above her.

  Reality socked her in the gut.

  The cramped space smelled of exhaust, gasoline, night air, and something both metallic and oddly…warm.

  Blood.

  It took a moment for Madeira’s eyes to adjust, but when she spotted the female driver, her throat squeezed. Congealing blood striped the driver’s face in a macabre crisscross pattern. She hung precariously from the seat belt, her long, glass-speckled dark hair pooled on the crumpled car roof below her.

  Definitely unconscious.

  Please don’t let her be dead.

  Madeira felt for a pulse, her hands shaking. After a moment, she blew out a tense breath and replaced it with a rush of cool relief. A strong and steady beat thrummed in the woman’s neck. Good sign. Better than the alternative, at least.

  As Madeira lifted her fingers from the driver’s neck, she stirred, and one swollen eye blinked open. She studied Madeira, disoriented, then let out a groan that sounded suspiciously disappointed. The eye closed. “You’re not Ms. Right.”

  Struck by a wholly inappropriate urge to chuckle, one corner of Madeira’s mouth quirked up. The woman would be surprised to realize how uncanny her assessment had been. “You’re good,” Madeira said, her tone equal parts wryness and nerves. “It usually takes women at least one date before they realize that.”

  The eyes wavered open again. “What?” The woman swallowed, and Madeira followed the movement of the muscles in her throat.

  “Never mind.” Her position couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but Madeira didn’t dare move her. Still, it agonized Madeira to leave the poor woman hanging—literally. Her amusement faded. “You doing okay?” Dumb question, she realized. Epic dumb.

  If the woman heard her, she gave no indication. “Am I dead?” she asked, her words raspy. “Are you…an angel?”

  Madeira shook her head. “You’re not dead. And, ah, I’m no angel.” Trust me on that one, sugar.

  “You look like one.”

  Madeira’s brows raised. “Yeah?”

  “Well, not really. No wings…” the woman murmured, so quietly Madeira barely heard her. “Maybe a devil instead. I probably died and went to hell for Stevie Santiago and the tattoo fiasco.” She grimaced with a pain Madeira couldn’t even imagine but empathized with nonetheless.

  “Tattoo fiasco?”

  “Don’ wanna talk about it.”

  “O-okay.” Madeira’s heart thudded. The driver had seemed mentally together initially, but all this crazy talk had Madeira rethinking that assessment. Was she hallucinating? Madeira leaned closer, speaking in clear, gentle tones. “Listen, I don’t know about anyone named Stevie Santiago or…or any of that. But you aren’t in hell.” She recalled the scene outside the car in grisly detail and felt like a liar. “Well, not exactly. You crashed your car. Remember that?”

  A long moment passed. “Yeah.” The woman cleared her throat with effort. Her brow furrowed. “Did I hurt anyone?”

  Something unfamiliar constricted Madeira’s chest. “Not a soul. Not even a chicken.”

  “Thank God.” The woman’s body seemed to relax in degrees. “I don’t think I could live with that.”

  A ripple of surprise moved through Madeira. The woman had a pretty selfless attitude, considering her current physical state. If anyone was an angel in this mashed car, it was she. It showed in her immediate concern for other people’s welfare over her own. That kind of beauty came from within, and even blood, broken glass, and bruises couldn’t hide it. With a flutter of guilt, Madeira wondered if she’d be so magnanimous in the other woman’s place. Not damn likely.

  “Is Mama here?” the woman asked, her voice thin, like a scared little girl.

  Madeira glanced around, rocked by an unexpected surge of protectiveness. “I don’t know, rayito de luz. Was she with you?”

  “She always is.” A pause ensued. “Did you just call me ‘sunshine’?”

  “I…I guess I did.” Something in Madeira’s gut uncoiled. She reached out and brushed some strands of thick, wavy hair out of the blood drying sticky on the woman’s face. Who was she? What circumstances led her to this unfortunate place and time? Who would worry for her? Who would cry? “Just relax and stay still. Rescue’s on the way.”

  “C-can you get me down?”

  “No, babe. I don’t want to move you.”

  “Okay.” Silent tears carved wet paths through the blood, and the woman reached back clumsily and gripped a fold of Madeira’s pants leg between her glass-slashed fingers. “Just don’t leave me. Please.”

  Madeira didn’t speak immediately. She couldn’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs to emit the words. Finally, with effort, she managed to say, “I’m not getting out from under this car without you, okay? That’s a promise.”

  The vow seemed to soothe the injured woman, but only for a moment. She stirred again. “Where’s Ms. Right?”

  Madeira shook her head. Maybe this little bit of rayito de luz was trashed. Didn’t drunks tend to repeat themselves? Madeira sniffed, but smelled nothing. Unsure what to say, she tried for a light tone. “I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise.”

  Zero acknowledgment of Madeira’s playfulness. Instead, the woman’s eyes filled again, and she blinked rapidly. “But she was…in the car.”

  Tears thickened her words, and it suddenly struck Madeira that perhaps Wright was the woman’s last name. Maybe Ms. Wright was—

  Dread plunged to the bottom of Madeira’s gut. She’d been glib without fully assessing the situation. What the hell was the matter with her? “Wait. Who is Ms. Wright?” Surely this stranger wouldn’t address her mother in such a formal way. Madeira had immediately noted the rainbow freedom rings that must’ve been hanging from the rearview mirror, but now lay pooled in the rubble. She went for the assumption. “Your…partner? Or—”

  A weak laugh bubbled out. “No, of course not.”

  Madeira didn’t trust the laughter. Even with her appalling lack of medical knowledge, she understood shock could affect a person’s emotional reactions. She needed to know if they should be looking for a body outside the ruined vehicle. “Listen to me. Was there another person in the car with you?” It occurred to Madeira that she still hadn’t asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Grace. No. I was alone.” She squirmed, and before Madeira could reply, Grace’s breath hitched. “I can’t feel my leg.” A blade of hysteria edged her voice.

  “Okay, don’t panic. Let me take a look.” As if that would matter. Allowing herself a split second of relief knowing Ms. Wright wasn’t a passenger who’d been thrown from the wreckage, Madeira ventured a glance at Grace’s legs. They looked trapped and a little…twisted. Madeira would bet at least one of them was broken. She could only hope the shock wouldn’t wear off enough for the pain signals to reach Grace’s brain. They’d both be in trouble then.

  Madeira mustered an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. Your legs look fine, Gracie.”

  Liar, liar.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a nice accent.” Grace sounded calmer, but slurred and sleepy. Sweet. Guileless.

  Keep h
er talking. Sí. Madeira couldn’t help Grace in any of the ways that really counted, but she could occupy Grace’s mind with small talk, keep her focused on something other than her injuries. “I come from Mexico. I thought my accent was gone already, no?” Madeira teased, knowing full well her accent would likely remain forever.

  “No. I like it. It’s like…whiskey.”

  “Hmm.” Madeira swept some bits of glass from Grace’s hair, careful not to tug on the rich, auburn strands. “Intoxicating, I guess you mean.”

  “No. Rough.”

  “Rough?” Madeira protested.

  “But warm, too.”

  “Ah, that’s better.” Madeira felt more pleased than she probably should, considering the situation and Grace’s obvious lack of coherence. But injured or not, Grace carried her half of the conversation. Good sign. “Yours is”—she rubbed her chin—“like Kahlúa. Smooth. A little bit sweet, but with a kick.”

  Grace rolled her unfocused eyes. “Oh, please. Sounded like…a cheesy pick-up line.”

  Madeira laughed softly, snared in her own net. “Definitely a cheesy line, rayito de luz, but you were supposed to swoon.”

  The playfulness dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Grace’s skin paled, and she seemed to weaken before Madeira’s eyes. “Swooning is a distinct possibility, but not…because of any lame pick-up line, I’m afraid.” Grace moaned, reached ineffectually up toward her legs. “It hurts, Jesus fucking Christ. I’m so tired.” Her eyelids drooped, and then she lay still.

  Utterly.

  Still.

  Madeira’s lungs emptied in a whoosh as panic set in. What now? She went with her first instinct, gingerly shaking Grace’s shoulder and touching her cheeks. “Stay with me. Gracie?”

  Grace’s eyelids fluttered. “Okay. I’m t-trying.”

  Try harder. Don’t die.

  Madeira’s worry spiked. “I know. I know you are.” She spied a plastic water bottle and grabbed it, elbows banging against the twisted metal window frame as she yanked off her formerly favorite shirt. She wore a thin tank top under it; what did it matter? Madeira removed the bottle cap and slopped water onto one sleeve, then used it to wipe Grace’s face. “You’re doing great, babe. Really great.”

  “But I still need…to find…Ms. Right.”

  Again? Holy hell. Madeira paused in her ministrations and furrowed spread fingers through her shag of hair. “Listen, Gracie,” Madeira said, with feigned seriousness. “I gotta say, you aren’t looking so hot. It’s probably not the best time to be thinking about a woman hunt.”

  “No, she’s a teddy bear,” Grace said. “Ms. Right is my bear from…when I was little. I know it’s stupid…”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “She was a present from Mama—”

  Grace’s voice broke, and that unfamiliar protective tidal wave choked Madeira. The ferocity of it knocked the wind out of her. A teddy bear, not a woman. A goddamn teddy bear, of all preposterous things in this surreal situation. “I’ll find her for you.” Madeira danced her fingers along Grace’s hairline. “Don’t worry.”

  “P-promise?” Grace’s pain-dulled eyes locked with Madeira’s. “She went…flying out.”

  “I promise, babe. Sí. I promise,” Madeira whispered.

  “My…grandmother. She’ll worry.”

  Madeira straightened. At last, something concrete she could do for Grace. “I’ll call her. What’s her number?”

  Grace’s teeth began to chatter. Beneath the blood streaks Madeira hadn’t completely cleaned off, Grace’s face looked ashy gray. “I c-can’t remember.”

  “That’s okay,” Madeira soothed, dabbing cool water on Grace’s forehead. “Shh. Don’t worry. How about her name?”

  “Dolores. We call her…DoDo. Like the…bird.”

  “Dolores what? What’s her last name?” Madeira waited, but Grace didn’t reply.

  Just like that, all the fight had drained from her.

  “Grace? Gracie!”

  Nothing. Nada.

  Seized with dread, Madeira felt again for Grace’s pulse. The familiar beat thumped against Madeira’s fingers, and relief loosened her shoulders. Still steady and strong. She sat back on her haunches as best she could in the cramped space, and studied Grace, knowing there wasn’t much else she could do.

  After a few minutes that dragged like hours, warbling sirens cut into the unreality of the upturned car. Madeira sagged with relief. Thank God. Gracie would be with the paramedics soon, and then Madeira’s job, such as it was, would be finished.

  Well, almost. Madeira shook her head.

  What had possessed her to make promises to a woman she didn’t even know?

  I won’t leave without you.

  I’ll find your bear.

  I’ll call your grandmother.

  Clearly she’d left her brain back in the truck, because she didn’t make promises to women.

  Loud banging reverberated along the destroyed body of the vehicle, alerting Madeira to the rescuers’ arrival. Madeira kissed her fingertips and pressed them gently to Gracie’s forehead, then scrambled from beneath the vehicle and gave her welfare over to them. Madeira had expected them to speak with her at length, but once they learned Madeira was just a bystander, she dropped into last priority. No problem. The less time they spent with her, the more they could devote to Gracie and the other victims.

  The fall wind gusted, but the chill hardly registered on Madeira’s nearly bare chest. For a few minutes, she stood aside and watched cops, firefighters, and paramedics take calm but urgent and oddly chaotic control of the crash site, feeling simultaneously relieved and clammy with regret. If only Madeira had been able to do more for Gracie. She’d been conscious when Madeira crawled under the car but unconscious when she’d left.

  That couldn’t be good, no?

  The cold eventually touched Madeira’s nerve endings, hardening her nipples beneath the thin tank. She shivered. Rubbing her palms up and down her arms, Madeira reluctantly backed away from the Explorer, somehow missing a woman she’d spoken to for no more than ten minutes. Insanity. How had that happened?

  When her heel bumped something soft, Madeira leapt away, remembering the chickens. But luckily, they’d already been corralled by bystanders. Instead, Madeira peered down upon the ugliest, most battered one-eared teddy bear she’d ever seen.

  She smiled ruefully.

  Sí.

  Madeira hadn’t known Gracie long, didn’t know her at all, really. But this was exactly the kind of bear she could imagine Gracie loving. The poor little thing wasn’t brown or gray or blue or green, but some hybrid non-color Madeira couldn’t even identify. Glass stuck to what remained of her sparse fur, to say nothing of the blood, gasoline, and motor oil staining that worn-out little body. One stuffed arm hung by a thread, and bits of foam had leaked from the hole in the bear’s shoulder, leaving her flat and wobbly.

  Teddy bear roadkill.

  Squatting, Madeira gathered all the dry stuffing she could find and crammed it back into the body, then held Ms. Right up at eye level. “And I thought I had problems. Hijole.”

  Relieved that she could fulfill one of her promises, Madeira started toward the crushed Explorer, but the firefighters had just begun to cut open the vehicle with the Jaws of Life. She stopped short. Much as Gracie had fretted for the little bear, she needed medical attention more than she needed Ms. Right.

  Ms. Right. Madeira scoffed. What kind of woman would give her childhood toy a name like that? Not Madeira’s kind of woman, that’s for goddamn sure. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact. Sweet and captivating as Gracie had been, she was the polar opposite of Madeira’s type. A shiver shook Madeira, followed quickly by a prick of surprising disappointment. Ridiculous.

  If she’d met Gracie under normal conditions, Madeira’s honed female radar would have alerted her immediately that Gracie fell smack-dab into the off-limits category. Those extra-strength commitment vibes women like Gracie emitted would’ve tripped alarms all o
ver her brain. Gracie wouldn’t have had the chance to catch Madeira unawares and implant that intoxicating sweetness in her mind, emblazon herself on her senses.

  Bad circumstances. Nothing more.

  Madeira ignored the uncomfortable ache in her gut as the low, gray night clouds began to launch arrows of cold rain into her eyes and onto her way-too-bare flesh. The firefighters bent to lift Gracie from the wreckage, and Madeira, realizing she couldn’t bear to watch, turned toward the warmth and familiarity of her truck.

  Half dressed, chilled, and emotionally spent, she steered into the slow trickle of traffic easing past the chaos. She would keep her promise and return Gracie’s beat-up, sad-sack Ms. Right.

  Soon.

  First she would fix the bear’s arm and spruce her up a little…maybe even buy a ribbon for the little thing’s neck. Anything that might coax a smile onto Gracie’s lovely face.

  Against all reason, Madeira’s heart lifted at the prospect.

  Chapter Two

  Chisme averiguado jamás es acabado.

  Gossip once begun will never be done.

  Exactly one year later…

  Grace crumpled the newspaper in her lap and shot a look of slack-jawed dismay toward her despicable ass of a little sister.

  She couldn’t speak.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She couldn’t even tamp down her own horror long enough to close her mouth.

  For lack of a better response, Grace snapped the newspaper open again, praying what she’d read had been one big, hideous hallucination. Alas, no. It was repulsively real.

  Next to the vampy mall glamour photo that she’d been pressured to take—and despised—loomed the headline:

  Anniversary of the Accident:

  Survivor Searches for Her Samaritan Soul Mate

  “Lola! Jesus, what have you done?”

  Starry-eyed and oblivious, Lola clasped her palms together, the half-moons of her impeccable French manicure resting against the backs of her paraffin-waxed hands. “I know, I know! Isn’t it the best?”