Buried (Hiding From Love #3)
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Books by Selena Laurence
The Lush Series (Rock Star Contemporary Romance)
A Lush Betrayal (Lush No. 1)
For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)
Lowdown and Lush (Lush No. 3) Coming Fall 2014
A Lush Reunion (Lush No. 4) Coming Winter 2014/2015
The Hiding From Love Series (New Adult Contemporary Romance)
Camouflaged (Hiding From Love #0.5)
Hidden (Hiding From Love #1)
Concealed (Hiding From Love #2)
Buried (Hiding From Love #3)
The Bittersweet Chronicles (YA/NA/Adult Contemporary Romance Novella series)
Book One: Carly (YA) 2014
Book Two: Pax (NA) 2015
For the latest information on all of Selena’s new releases sign up for her newsletter
For B—
The boy you once were. The man you never got a chance to be.
I wish you could have been saved.
I grew up in a very Latino culture in the American Southwest. The colloquial form of speaking that we called “Spanglish” was very common with both Anglos and Latinos, and it was especially prevalent with gang members. I’ve been true to that way of speaking in this book. All of the Latino characters sprinkle their dialogue with Spanish words, and especially the hero, Juan, who is a gang member. While I think the connotations of those Spanish words are pretty clear from context, I’ve also included definitions. Simply click on the footnote next to the Spanish word to see the definition, then click again to return to the page you’re reading.
Thanks for reading!
MY homies used to say that you weren’t a real man unless you’d been in 1la prisión. Then you could show how loyal you were to the RH—the 2Reyes Hispanos. ‘Cause if some Aryan Nation 3hijos de puta were breathing down your neck while you were alone in the showers and you stayed true to the Reyes, then everyone knew you’d always be true. That was it, bro—if you were willing to take it up the ass for the Reyes, you were the real deal.
Fuck that. I made it through prison—with my virginity intact, if you know what I mean. I never betrayed the Reyes, but I’m not their 4soldado. I did what I did to stay in the US. I do what I do to stay alive. Sometimes that means playing ball with the RH. Sometimes that means hurting people I care about.
And now, after four long years in that fucking hell hole, after fights where I thought I’d never make it out alive, two stays in the prison hospital ward for stab wounds, more near misses on my damn backside than I care to remember, and endless fucking jobs for the RH, I’m free. Well, a hell of a lot closer to free anyway.
In every movie I've ever seen, when the dude gets out of prison, he walks out alone, no matter how out in the middle of nowhere the place is. Those scenes of the guy, paper bag of belongings in hand, walking out a big chain link gate, past the guards, and into the dust of some dirt road are bullshit. That's sure as hell not how I left prison, and thank God too. If I'd walked out of those gates alone, the RH would have had a car and driver waiting for me—probably Pretty Boy or even his girl, Destiny—and they'd have driven me straight back to the barrio, where I'd have had to go to work without so much as a welcome home party.
No, I didn't exit prison on my own two feet. I left in a van, with an electronic cuff on my ankle, and went straight to the Austin Sanctuary Halfway House for Reformed Offenders. Shit—as if anyone's going to use that entire name. We just call it La Casita—the little house—because it's like the Big House, only a whole hell of a lot smaller. Here, I'm still a prisoner, bound by this cuff for another six weeks, while I endure classes and lectures and meetings about shit like writing a résumé, how to dress for a job interview, the importance of education, and all the logistics of renting an apartment.
The thing is, if anyone had ever paid attention to my history, to who I was five years ago, they'd know that those lectures are bullshit. Hell, I could give most of those lectures. I was a straight-A student in high school, a varsity soccer player, and a really good kid all the way around. And I would have stayed that way—would rather have stayed that way—if only 5la inmigración, the INS, hadn't ripped my whole world apart. After that, there was no more Juan the student, Juan the soccer player, Juan the son. Only Juan the RH, Juan the drug runner, Juan the accessory to a drive-by shooting.
And now, there's Juan the ex-con who will fight like hell to be Juan the ex-RH.
My new prison does have a few advantages over the old one though. The halfway house is in a regular neighborhood in Austin, and it has a yard. Not a fenced-in patch of dirt, but a real yard—with grass and plants. My cuff will only let me go twenty feet from the house—not far enough to hop in a car pulled up out front—but it's far enough to get my feet in the grass, my hands in the soil, and my mind off my future.
I'm outside now, checking out the rosebushes along the side of the small, brick, ranch house. The place must have been for a family at some point. There are three bedrooms, a living-dining room combo, the kitchen, and two more bedrooms in the basement. Outside is mostly grass, but there are planters along both sides and part of the back, and they've got a few roses and some honeysuckle in them.
It's a beautiful spring day, not too hot or humid yet, and I found a pair of hedge clippers in the outdoor storage trunk, so I'm pruning the roses. Yeah, that's right—I like plants. Big, bad gangster boy likes plants. I spent hundreds of hours reading about plants in prison. I'm so damn happy to get my hands on some that I'd stay out here all day if I could.
What I don't have, though, are any gloves, so I'm getting my fingers chewed up by the thorns. I've just stabbed my thumb and snapped out something along the lines of "fucking bitch," but in Spanish, when I hear someone laughing.
I turn around, the meaty part of my thumb in my mouth, and there she is. It takes me a moment to process. She's seven years older—just like I am. Her hair isn't quite as long, but it's still thick and shiny and a dark mahogany color that makes me think of leaves in the fall—someplace like Vermont. A place I'd like to go someday—if I ever get out of the bottomless pit I've buried myself in.
She's looking right at me, and too late I realize she knows exactly who I am. I drop the smile that automatically came to my lips when I saw her and replace it with my RH face. It's a look you learn to don real quick once you've been in a couple of street wars. You learn not to give anything away through your face—not fear, not anger, not disgust. And nine civilians out of ten who see that look will turn around and leave—fast. The thing is, though, she doesn't. She doesn't turn and run or look scared, or panicked, or even offended. She gives me a glowing smile and walks right over from the women's halfway house next door, her firm, lush tits bouncing in her too-thin tank top, and those smooth, brown legs sliding against the fabric of her shorts.
She's fucking beautiful, and she's coming right up to me—within touching distance. What is she, nuts? Doesn't she have any regard for her own safety? I'm a fucking felon, she's alone, and I have scissors in my hand.
"Juan?"she asks, looking at me eagerly.
"Uh, yeah," I answer with a tip of my chin, full-on RH armor in place.
"Do you remember me? Beth. David's sister. From Floresville."
I study her for a minute as if I didn't know exactly who she was the moment I laid eyes on her. As if she weren’t the ideal for the kind of girl I wanted to marry someday back when I was Juan the straight-A student and not Juan the felon.
"Oh yeah. Beth. 6¿Que pasa?" I turn back to the roses before she can answer, hoping she won't be able to see the panic on my face. I'm crazy scared she's going to keep talking to me, keep trying to act like I'm not what I am. She needs to g
o away.
But no. Instead, she moves around beside me, closer—so close that I can smell the spicy scent of her skin or her shampoo or something. Like cinnamon. I'm clipping at the rosebush frantically now, my eyes glued to it so that I won't see her, my adrenaline so high that I don't even notice the thorns that are gouging me right and left.
"How are you? This is so cool. I work right next door," she chatters, seemingly oblivious to my mounting discomfort. "At the women's house. Are you staying here then?"
"Yeah," I mumble.
"I can't believe I've run into you like this. Have you talked to anybody since you've been here? I mean, anyone from home? I know David would be so happy to hear from you."
This finally stops me. I freeze in mid-clip, the shears partway through a branch of the bush. I turn my head and look at her, so stunned that I forget to put the mask in place.
"7¿Estás loca?" I ask her. "Because in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a fucking convict, Beth. I just spent four years in Huntsville. Your 8hermano is an accountant, and unless he's cooking books for the RH, he don't want to hear from me."
She looks at me with her head tipped to the side for a moment, her pretty little lips pursed in thought. I'm so thrown off-balance by her that I just stare right back, hedge clippers dangling from my hand, the sounds of cars moving along the street out front echoing in my ears.
Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets loose. "So, you think my brother is such an elitist prick that he'd turn away a friend just because you've made some wrong choices? Glad to know you respect my family so much. The family that treated you like one of their own for most of your childhood. The same people who took you in when your mom was deported. Or maybe it's really you who's the snob. Maybe you think because you're all badass gangster with your tattoos"—she gestures at my arms—"and your time served that poor David the accountant isn't good enough for you anymore? Is that right? The Garcias aren't street enough for the big Reyes Hispanos man?"
A part of me wants to grab this girl and kiss the hell out of her right now. She's so beautiful. Her face is pink from being pissed, her eyes sparking like fire, hands on her hips, chest jutted out so that I can nearly touch the soft roundness there. Another part of me wants to warn her off though, tell her not to fuck with the big boys—because I am one, whether she realizes it or not. The things I've seen—and done—would shock her, I have absolutely no doubt about that. They shock me and I’m the one who did them.
But the part that wins out isn't either of those. It’s the part that is so astounded by her 9huevos, her guts and sass, that something inside me just bursts. It travels up through my chest, around my frozen heart, until it comes out my mouth—and I laugh. I laugh harder than I have in years. I laugh until there are tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
Then, I reach out, take her hand in mine, and say, "10Odelay, 11linda. You haven't changed a bit."
* * *
1 La prision = prison
2 Reyes Hispanos = Spanish Kings
3 Hijos de Puta = Mother Fuckers
4 Soldado = soldier
5 La inmigracion = The immigration department
6 Que Pasa = What’s happening/going on
7 Estas loca = Are you crazy
8 Hermano(s) = brother(s)
9 Huevos = eggs/balls/testicles
10 Odelay = exclamation meaning “cool” or “right on”
11 Linda = beautiful
I didn't know it was possible for one body to contain as many emotions as mine has in the last five minutes. From surprise to fascination to red-hot attraction that reels into confusion, disgust, and white-hot anger. Juan Martinez, my older brother David's best friend from childhood. Juan Martinez, the sweet, charming guy who both my sister and I yearned for as young teens. Juan Martinez, the gangster convicted of being an accessory to a drive-by shooting at the age of twenty and sentenced to hard time in the state penitentiary.
I recognize him immediately, some part of me having always thought I'd run into him somewhere, somehow, like fate. But as I move closer and get a moment to look into his face, I realize how very much he's changed. His eyes are hard, his lips set, and he’s a man now, rough, dark stubble dotting his firm jaw. He also has a scar above his left eyebrow that was never there before. It isn’t long, but it’s jagged, and I cringe on the inside thinking of how he might have gotten it.
I can't help but be aware of how much his body had changed too. Gone is the young boy I knew, with his smooth limbs and loose gait. In his place is six feet of solid, lean muscle, biceps that bulge, pecs that are abundantly on display under the white wife-beater he wears. A posture that’s coiled as if he’s permanently ready to spring, attack, or maybe even run like hell.
Then there are the tats. His hair is cropped short but not shaved, so I can't see if he has any on his scalp, but he has them up the back of his neck, on each shoulder, and down onto his forearms. They’re scary and sad all at the same time.
On his shoulders, he has stars. I know those represent that he was more than a regular foot soldier in the gang. Nothing like having your rank etched into your skin forever. On the back of his neck is a three-pointed crown. That’s the symbol for the Reyes Hispanos, the Spanish Kings, one of the most dangerous gangs in the country. A couple of years back, a very high member was captured and convicted on a slew of charges including narcotics trafficking, racketeering, extortion, murder, assault, tampering with federal witnesses. You name it, the guy did it. My mind can't quite wrap itself around Juan working for people like that.
But before I can examine the tattoos any more, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and tells me, "You haven't changed a bit." He’s laughing. It has such a rich, warm sound, and it reminds me so much of who he used to be, the Juan I knew as a girl, that I forget all about the gangster and smile back at him, suddenly embarrassed for my outburst.
I look down at our still-linked hands. "I'm sorry," I say. "My sister always tells me I need to learn how to control my temper. I didn't mean to be rude."
He follows my eyes and suddenly stiffens, pulling his hand away from mine like I burned him. He turns to the rosebush then back to me as if he doesn’t know where to go or how to escape.
"No, you don't even know how to be rude," he answers quietly. "I, uh, just forget how to talk to normal people anymore." He gives me a wry smile then steps back, creating more distance between us.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not normal." I smile. "So, how long have you been out?"
He looks even more uncomfortable as he rubs his hand along the back of his head. "Uh, about ten days now."
"And how long are you here for?" I pursue, refusing to let him just fade away like I can sense he wants to.
"Ninety days." He pauses then glances at his feet.
I follow his gaze and see that he’s wearing an electronic cuff. I know exactly what they are and how they work. I’m in graduate school at the University of Texas for women's studies, and I have an internship at the women's halfway house next door. I work with post-release women, helping them with things like résumé writing and other life skills. Most of them have the electronic cuffs the first few weeks they’re there. I don't even notice it anymore.
But I can see the humiliation on Juan's face when he realizes that I’ve seen his. It breaks my heart. Juan was always a modest guy. He never bragged or strutted, but he was one of the smartest, most athletic, best-looking guys in school. He was always kind and generous though too. I realize immediately that I never want to see this look on his face again—the one that says he’s ashamed of who he is. It just doesn't go with Juan. Not my Juan.
"Those things suck, yeah?" I say, trying to lighten the moment. "My girls over here at the other house always bitch about how they can't get under the cuff to shave their legs, so when it finally gets removed, they've got one ankle that looks like a gorilla's."
Juan cracks a smile, and my heart hums with relief. "It's a good thing I gave up shaving my legs altogether then," he tells me.
"Really?" I ask, winking. "They were always so smooth and pretty in high school."
"Watch it, 1chica." He laughs. "Those legs got me a state soccer championship."
We start talking about high school then and who we remember. Juan doesn't know much about anyone or what they’re doing—except my brother, and my guess is he got that information off the Internet. It seems that, when you join a hardcore gang and spend four years in prison, you don't keep in touch with many high school classmates.
We’re still standing next to the side of the house. I know his cuff won't let him reach the back patio next door, where I was sitting earlier, but I also know that there’s a similar patio behind his house. He doesn't invite me to come sit down though, and after a few minutes, he grows quiet, the liveliness I saw in his eyes briefly fading as they turn hard again.
"You haven't told me what you do next door, linda," he says quietly. I can feel my cheeks heat when he calls me beautiful.
"I work there. Well, I volunteer. I'm in school at UT in women's studies. My focus is how poverty and abuse affect women in unique ways. So things like women who end up in prison because they're poor and forced to be with men who are committing criminal offenses. I mean, some of these women are pushed onto the streets as young as fourteen, and the only way they can survive is to hook up with a powerful man. A lot of times, that means getting involved in his illegal business too. The next thing they know, they've ended up in prison. I counsel them when they get here. Try to help them understand that there are other ways out of poverty. Ways that don’t require being dependent on men."
I see Juan studying me—his face softer and more open than it was moments before.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That probably all sounded really stupid to you. Just forget I said anything. I spend too much time with other graduate students and not enough time in the real world."