He pulls up to my driveway. “Nik,” he says as I hop off and head for the door. “Nik!”
I stop, but don’t turn around.
“You come from this rich family and live in this rich neighborhood. I don’t. Guys like Marco and Chuy … they’re my people.”
“I’m your people, too,” I murmur softly.
“Not in the same way.” I feel his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not a Latino Blood, Nikki.” He turns me around and holds out his arms. “See, I’m not marked. I’m not gonna say I’m not hangin’ with the Blood, but I’m not one of them.”
“I don’t want you hanging with them.”
“That’s like me tellin’ you not to hang with Kendall.”
He’s right, even if I don’t want him to be. The Latino Blood has a presence on the south side of Fairfield where he lives.
“I don’t know, Luis,” I say, stepping away from him so I can think clearly. “I have a feeling you’re not telling me the whole truth. I need you, and I’m afraid you’re already a Blood.”
“I’m just hangin’ with them, that’s all.”
“I’ve been told that before. By Marco. We all know how that turned out.”
“Nikki, I’m not Marco. I’m not in the Blood. And I’m not gonna leave you.”
I look into his eyes and all I see is sincerity. No deceit. “You better not be selling drugs, or we’re through.”
“I won’t sell drugs,” he says. “I promise.”
37
Luis
Boxcar Alley is in the crappiest neighborhood in the western suburbs of Chicago. The houses are set behind the backdrop of a boxcar graveyard, ripe for dirty drug deals and homeless crackheads.
Without time to spare, I take the gun from my closet and drive back to Enrique’s. He’ll give me advice without blabbing to the rest of my family. He’s kept to the Latino Blood’s Code of Silence even when other guys blew it off.
I told Nikki I wouldn’t do drug deals. I hate lying to her. If doing drug deals are a way to gain Chuy’s trust and protect my family, what choice do I have? I don’t want to do Chuy’s dirty work any more than she wants me to, but I have to. I was being honest when I said I wasn’t a Latino Blood. While Chuy might consider me one, I’m not. I’m just playing his game so I can find out what the LB has planned. I’ve got to be strategic or this isn’t gonna work.
Enrique looks at me from across his desk. “Damn, cuz. Boxcar Alley’s a rough place to be. That’s enemy territory.”
“Marco’s goin’ with me,” I tell him. “For backup.”
“Want me to go with you? Problem is they know me, and if a couple of Fremont 5 OGs catch sight of me, it’s gonna get rough.”
“I don’t need them retaliatin’ against this place, or you.”
“All right. You just watch your back at all times, Luis. Take my Mustang. At least you’ll have a chance to get away if the Fremont 5 pendejos start trouble. Most of their young bucks got shitty aim.” He pats the back of my shirt. “You strapped?”
I nod. “You and I both know I ain’t gonna use it.”
“Don’t accidentally shoot yourself.” He looks me straight in the eye and says, “If it’s you or them, let it be them.”
I meet Marco at the warehouse. We speed all the way to Boxcar Alley, through towns that are worse off than mine. I slipped on a black hoodie and sunglasses, so hopefully nobody will notice that I don’t belong in this ’hood.
Marco’s obviously been here before, because after we park he says to follow him. We pass a liquor store with a drunk out front talking to himself. Guys walking down the street heading toward us are definitely out looking for some action or a fight. We duck into a drugstore and stay out of their line of vision until they pass. I’m confident we could make a good showing in a fight against three or four guys, but when it comes to ten against two, I wouldn’t bet on us.
We weave through the streets behind the boxcars. I only lift my head when I have to. Marco struts right up to the house as if he collects in F5 territory every day.
“Don’t you want to check the place out first?” I ask him. “Or have a plan?”
Marco waves his hand, dismissing my concern. “Nah, it’s cool.”
A guy answers the door. “What do you want?” he asks roughly.
“Money. And if you don’t give it to us, today will be your biggest fuckin’ nightmare,” Marco barks through gritted teeth. His eyes are open wide, like he’s one crazy motherfucker. I think it’s just an act until Marco pulls out a gun and points it right at the guy’s head. “Give up five Gs or get your head blown off. Which is it?”
“Yo, Marco,” I say. “Cool it, would ya?”
“It’s cool. Stay out here and keep watch. Don’t let anyone in the house.”
The guy holds his hands up and backs into the house as Marco walks inside. I don’t know what the hell to do. Marco is obviously on a power trip. Shit. If he starts shootin’ people … I start thinking of my life behind bars.
This wasn’t supposed to be how it went down. I was supposed to come back to Fairfield, graduate, go to college, then apply to NASA’s space program—the chain of events on the timeline of my life. I had every aspect of my life perfectly planned out.
As it looks now, the only place I deserve to go is jail. I look up at the darkened sky. I’m about to lose everything … including Nikki.
A few minutes later, when I’m about to knock on the door and tell Marco I’m done with Chuy’s bullshit orders, he steps out.
“Did you get the cash?” I ask him.
“Yeah.”
“So it’s all cool?”
“Umm … I think we should bounce, like fast.”
We hurry through the maze that’s Boxcar Alley. I look back and realize a bunch of guys are on our tail. They’re waving guns, and we’re trying to lose them in the overcrowded graveyard of old railroad cars.
It’s not working.
We duck behind one of the boxcars. Marco peeks his head out, and a bullet flies past his head.
“We need to get out of here. We’re screwed if we stay in one place,” he says.
I’ve never been in a shootout, but I’ve witnessed them. I pull out my gun, but keep it at my side, partially hidden. Marco does the same.
“Our car is right there. See it?” I say, my adrenaline pumping at full speed.
He nods.
“We’re gonna run toward it, and drive away without lookin’ back,” I tell him.
“Got it.”
“If they shoot, start unloadin’ at the rail cars to scare ’em. Hopefully they’ll take cover at least until we can get to the car.”
There’s no time to strategize a plan B, because the guys are about to surround us. If we don’t move now, we’re fucked.
“Now!” I yell, and we both book it toward Enrique’s Mustang.
My pulse races as a shot rings out. Then another. And another. I jump into the car and look over at Marco. He sticks his gun out of the front window and unloads the chamber as I start the car.
I screech away, knowing that we barely made it out alive.
“Put the guns in the glove compartment,” I tell him, handing mine over to him. I check the rearview mirror for cops, but don’t see any.
The sound of our heavy breathing fills the car.
“That was close,” Marco says, leaning his head back on the seat. A second later he says, “Holy shit. Luis?”
“What?”
“Dude, you got shot.”
I look over at my bicep. Blood is rushing down my arm and staining the seat of the car, so I strip my hoodie off and tell Marco to tie the sleeve around my arm. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s a scratch.”
“Scratches don’t gush blood, Luis. You sure you’re okay?”
I can just imagine mi'amá’s face when she sees I’m bleeding. “I’ll go to Enrique’s and spend the night. He’ll know what to do.”
“You’re lucky you made it out alive,” Enrique says when I show
up to his place a half hour later. “Your arm …”
“I kinda ran into a Fremont 5 bullet,” I tell him.
He nods. “Your ma is gonna shit twice, then she’s gonna kill you. Chuy’s one sonofabitch, sendin’ you kids into F5 territory.”
“Tell me about it.”
I take a shower in Enrique’s apartment above the garage. The bullet exited but left a two-inch gash, and now that I’m sitting down looking at the fleshy wound, it hurts like a bitch. It won’t be hard to hide, even with a bandage. I’ll just wear a hoodie and long-sleeve shirts until it heals.
“Where did Marco run off to?” Enrique asks me after he closes up the garage and meets me in the apartment.
“The warehouse.” I put on a shirt Enrique lends me after he calls mi'amá and tells her I’ll be bunking at his place tonight. “What do you know about me bein’ blessed in?” I ask my cousin as he takes a beer out of his fridge.
“I don’t know anythin’ about that,” he says as he gives me an intense stare. “And if I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell ya. ¿Comprende?”
He knows something. I nod. It’s no use trying to get any info out of him. If he was sworn to secrecy, he’ll go to the grave with it.
The Latino Blood Code of Silence.
It’s one code I haven’t broken yet, but intend to crack sooner rather than later.
38
Nikki
Two weeks after Luis promises me that he’s not in the LB, it’s his eighteenth birthday. I know my parents are at some dinner party in the city, and my brother is at some gaming tournament in Wisconsin, so I invite Luis over for a private birthday dinner.
I’m not a chef, but I do know how to follow a recipe. I got a Mexican cookbook from the bookstore. We don’t have authentic Mexican food often, and most of the recipes are foreign to me. Other than breakfast, my parents usually order takeout or eat at Brickstone. If Mom does cook, it’s pretty much a simple pasta dish or something from the meat market specially prepackaged and marinated so all we have to do is throw the stuff in the oven.
Luis arrives at six, right on time, with a bunch of yellow daffodils in his hand. The stems are wrapped together with a big yellow ribbon. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
He scans my skinny black dress that hugs every one of my curves. “Damn, Nik. You look amazin’.” He looks down at his jeans and cringes. “Sorry I didn’t get more dressed up.”
“I don’t need you dressed up. You look like a stud just the way you are.” I take the flowers. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers. It’s your birthday, not mine.”
“I wanted to bring you somethin’,” he says. When I put the flowers to my nose to smell them, Luis looks nervous. “I didn’t know if you’d like ’em. Carlos told me to bring you red roses, but I thought you’d like yellow. They remind me of you. They brighten a room … just like you.”
I reach out and touch the stubble on his face, wondering how I ever thought he was the least bit similar to Marco. His tender gaze pierces my heart. “I love them. Come on in. I made you dinner,” I say proudly.
“What’s that?” he asks as his eyes settle on the wrapped box I set on the table.
“Your birthday present.”
“You didn’t have to get me anythin’.”
“I know. I wanted to. Go on, open it.” When he does, I hold my breath.
He pulls out what looks like a twisted black iron rock, but I know it’s not just a rock. He rolls it around in his hand, studying it. Does he know what it is? Hopefully he doesn’t think it’s a cheap paperweight.
“It’s a meteorite,” I explain quickly. “From Argentina. Inside the box are the authentication papers, explaining where and how it was found.”
He looks at me over the meteorite with a stunned expression on his face. “I know what it is. I’ve seen them in museums. And in books. But I’ve never held one. Or owned one.” He examines all sides in awe, feeling each curve and crevice with his fingertips. “I can’t believe this was in space. It’s so cool … surreal.”
“It’s yours,” I say.
“I don’t know what to say. It must’ve cost you a fortune. I just … wow. I’d beg you to return it and get your money back, but I don’t want to part with it.”
I kiss him on his cheek. “It’s okay. I didn’t need that college fund, anyway.” He cocks an eyebrow, and I smile mischievously. “I’m just kidding. I had money saved up from babysitting and birthdays.” With my forefinger, I run a path down the front of his shirt. “Besides, you’re worth it.”
“That’s debatable, mi chava.” He stills my hand. “It’s the coolest gift anyone’s ever given me.”
“Good. Mission accomplished.”
“Not yet.” He puts the meteorite gently back in the box and kisses me passionately until I’m wanting more and my insides are melting. I’m breathless and never want to stop. Knowing that we’re alone, and I have another gift planned for him, makes me want to skip dinner altogether. “Thanks for the gift,” he says against my lips.
“My pleasure.” Flustered now, I step away from him and gesture to the dining room, where everything is set up. “I made an authentic Mexican meal.”
“Recipes passed down from your abuelita?”
“Not really. Try a cookbook I bought yesterday at the mall.”
He laughs. “Next time you want to make an authentic Mexican meal, call me first. Mi'amá taught me and my brothers to cook when we were kids.”
After serving him a plate of chicken enchiladas and guacamole, I realized that I should have followed the recipe and mixed the avocado by hand instead of blending it in a mixer. It was like soup, and did not taste good at all. I made a flan for dessert, but it fell into chunky gelatinous pieces as I served it to him.
“You did an awesome job,” he says as he fishes for the slippery flan eluding his spoon.
“You’re lying. It sucked. Face reality, Luis. I should have ordered takeout. If you were Mrs. Peterson, you’d give me a D minus on this meal.”
He laughs. “An A plus for effort. The tortilla chips were awesome.”
“That’s because I bought them ready-made at the Mexican grocery in Wheeling,” I say.
When we’re done, he helps me clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Afterward, I see him leaning against the kitchen counter watching me. “You have a plan for the rest of the night, or are we gonna wing it?”
I take his hand and weave his fingers through mine. “I have another birthday present for you.”
“What is it?”
I lean close to his ear and whisper, “Me.” He swallows, hard. I watch as the muscle in his jaw twitches. “Want to go upstairs … to my bedroom?”
He nods slowly. “I didn’t think you could top that meteorite gift, but you just did.”
I take his hand and lead him to my room. My heart is racing the entire time, because I’ve prepared myself for this. I tell myself it’s okay, because I want this as much as Luis. I’m in control here. I just have to keep myself in check and not let my emotions run wild.
Luis walks around my room, studying the pictures on my wall. Most of them are of me and my friends. Some are dogs from the shelter. He stops when his eyes focus on the one of me and him at Alex and Brittany’s wedding two summers ago. We both had no clue the photographer had caught the moment on camera.
He points to it. “How did you get this?”
“Brittany brought it over when she had dinner at my house one night.”
He points to the expression on my face. “You were so pissed. Look at me, with that stupid-ass cocky grin. I thought I was the shit back then.” He shakes his head, then scans the rest of the pictures.
While his back is turned to me, I reach around and slowly unzip my dress. “You are the shit, Luis,” I say in a teasing voice.
“Nah, I’m—”
He stops midsentence as he looks at me and it registers that I’m unzipping my dress. My mouth is dry as I slide the str
aps down my shoulders slowly until the material falls to the floor in a pool at my feet.
His eyes never leave me. Mine never leave him.
“What were you saying?” I ask.
“I forgot.” His gaze travels down the length of my body. I dressed in pink lace panties and a matching bra, prepared for us to be together tonight. “Mi chava …” He takes a step toward me. “I didn’t think you could look more beautiful than when you opened the door tonight. But you do.”
I hold my breath in anticipation and longing as his fingers skim lightly over my shoulders before gently slipping my bra straps aside.
This is okay, I tell myself. I can enjoy this and stay as emotionally detached as I want. His lips replace his fingers. He kisses one shoulder, then brushes his warm lips across my neck and kisses the other one.
I grab on to him for support because his warm breath brushing over my skin makes me dizzy. I want him here with me, I want him close … but this is sex. It has to be just sex.
I grab him over his pants, then unzip his jeans.
“Easy, girl,” he says, amused.
He puts an arm around me, holding me steady, as he bends down to kiss me. It’s not just any kiss. His lips move slowly over mine, brushing against them before his tongue reaches out. I feel his hot breath mingle with mine as our tongues glide over each other’s in a slow rhythm that makes my skin hot and sweaty. His hands move slowly up and down the curve of my back in the same rhythm as our kiss.
Truth is, being with Luis makes me want to ditch all of my self-awareness and give in to every temptation.
He pulls his shirt over his head, then tosses it aside. He’s got a big scab on his arm. “What happened?” I ask, tracing around it.
“Just got a cut workin’ at the garage,” he says, dismissing it.
“What were you doing?”
He hesitates long enough for me to question whether he’s about to tell me the truth.
“It’s not important.” He kisses me again, trying to make me forget about his mystery wound. It works for the moment.
Simone Elkeles - [Perfect Chemistry 03] Page 19
