Nate’s texts are more about the act and not the person. Sad. I know.
Now I’ve seen Isaac as he is today, it’s hard when I close my eyes to remember the boy he once was.
I pad over to the set of drawers in the corner of the living room and sift through the photo albums Mom made when Hope was a baby. Gliding my fingers across the lace and suede covers she crafted herself. My mom is fantastic and I wish I could be half the mom she is, but then she has always had the support of my dad.
And that’s it, I suppose. It’s always been me. And, I’ve never been able to take the easy route. I could have stayed with them through the pregnancy and the first few months, when all Hope seemed to do was feed and cry and never sleep. But somehow, I finished college, landed an intern at Silvers & Partners, and kicked off my career as a legal exec. All on my own.
Any sane single-mother’s next step would be to find a suitable life partner—someone to take Hope on as his own—and forget about the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. But not me. No. I took myself off the market, shagged a guy who is so career focused he hasn’t got a personal life plan, and waited.
And look where it got me.
On cue another text comes through from Nate.
Nate: Sure. Make it after ten though. Got shit to do.
I hesitate. I want to tell him to get lost, but isn’t this what we’re about? Night out with friends and then sex with no strings?
Me: Yeah, but if I don’t turn up, don’t go texting my friends.
Nate: ?
I snicker. Hopefully that will tell him to back off. A sweet retort for the glance off he’s given me.
He repeats his last text. I repeat my ignorance.
Then, I pull out the photo album I’ve been looking for in the drawer. Our senior high year book. The pages fall open to our class and the goofy comments each of us made up. I laugh at the pathetic tag on mine. Cate ‘the girl with the clean slate’. Then I flick the pages to Isaac’s class. I remember hating how he was on a different page to me and next to Sonia Billows 'with the enormous pillows’. I chuckle. God weren’t we were childish.
Isaac’s unruly chestnut curls frame his then angelic face. He had perfect skin, which colored in the sun, and dark, dark eyelashes that lazily lifted to show his gorgeous caramel eyes, decorated with those golden sparks.
I touch the image where his full lips are slightly open at the start of what will have been seconds later a wicked grin.
Oh, Isaac.
I have other photos which I look at regularly of us together, but this one is special because he’s looking at me. I was the photographer’s assistant that day, pulled out of class to help with the shoot.
The sparkle in those eyes were ignited by me. The wicked grin was for me.
“What happened to you, Isaac?” The beautiful, sensitive boy who went from one foster carer to another, with no complaint. Chasing a dream. One I felt destined to be part of.
Then, I search through the album again, for the others who went on that fateful spring break. Carlos, Henry, Jay and Rory.
Henry’s not in our book, he must have been in the year above. He died in prison and I bite my lip at the memory of his funeral. The stomach-gnawing haze of it all. Me pregnant, Isaac in jail and Henry dead.
Jay and Rory joined the navy as soon as they finished college. You’d never have thought it was their destiny remembering them as they were then, but it seemed they couldn’t escape quick enough. They’re posted overseas according to the gossip.
And then there’s Carlos Hernandez. I remember little of him at school, because he mostly didn’t turn up. It’s a surprise to me, Isaac has sought Carlos now. I may have to do some digging on him.
With a bang, I clap the book together.
Why? Why am I even bothered who Carlos Hernandez is now? I’m not interested in Isaac anymore, let alone any of his friends.
Tonight, I’ll get drunk and fuck the thought of him out of my mind with my nice, clean, un-inked Nate.
11
Isaac
A penthouse duplex apartment overlooking the city. It should be every man’s dream. Fully furnished and decorated throughout when I moved in. There are no personal possessions and if I had to leave tomorrow, there’s nothing I will take.
After an overly long shower and a plate full of prime steak, I should be able to forget the last twenty-four hours and the morning I’ve spent with Cate. But it seems Carlos has other plans for me.
When I step out onto the rooftop deck, I spot him on the street, exiting his car. He takes the edge off his rudeness for turning up unannounced by calling me on his way across the street. I pay the concierge handsomely to let me know if he turns up, especially when I’m not here. As far as I know, and I’m damn sure about this, he doesn’t have access to the garages and the lift from there. I could hide here. But then again. What good will that do?
I step down into the apartment and open the door, letting him saunter straight through.
“Decided you need some R&R, Raul. Loosen up after last night's fight. You didn’t seem to get into the vibe at the club afterwards.”
Ignoring a groan rattling around in my head, I sit in a Barcelona-style chair with my legs open wide and my hands rested behind my head. I toy with telling him I’m beat but I know he will ignore the excuse, so go with his suggestion in the hope I can slip away early.
“Sure.” I push off the chair and leave him to snoop around my apartment because it’s why he’s here.
“We’re gonna hit the casino,” he calls after me. “There’s people I want you to meet.”
“Fucking great,” I mumble as I walk into the bedroom and through to the closet where I change into a black silk and cashmere suit and a simple white dress-shirt from which my tattoos creep out of the cuffs and neck.
The last few years in prison, I could have pretty much anything I wanted. But it would never be the tailored suits I enjoy wearing now. There’s a huge amount I’ve quickly grown accustomed to and some I’m happy to leave behind.
With a splash of Chanel Bleu over my freshly shaven jaw and head, I slip into a pair of Louboutin loafers and pop my passport and wallet into my inside pocket—because you never know.
I’m hiding nothing in this $20,000 a week apartment and Carlos knows it, but he likes to remind me he’s able to snoop. So, I’m not surprised when I re-enter the living room, he’s on his cell, wandering around; inspecting stock photographs and other crap on my display shelves.
He hears me come in from the bedroom and waves over to the coffee table where he’s set out two lines of cocaine. I smile and raise my hand to decline. I’m not about to take that shit now. Many years in the past when it might have been a temptation but not now, not anymore. What’s the point? It’s not part of the plan.
I take a second look at the cocaine and for a second time dismiss it from my mind. There’s a silk thread between being part of his crew and keeping my identity. And strangely enough it’s how Carlos likes me to be too. If I rolled over and let him tickle my belly like everyone else does, the respect and wariness would vanish, and I’d be his to squash under his crocodile-skin shoes. And where’s the fun in that?
Living on the edge is his lifeblood.
Keeping a clear mind and every shrapnel of revenge will be mine.
With a flurry of Spanish, he finishes the call and slides the phone into his inside pocket. I bet he’s not secreting a passport in there ready to bail out at any opportunity.
“That was Chico. Do you remember him? He runs a casino up town now for some jefe or other.” His tone dismissing the label he’s given Chico’s boss. He won’t be so brave about it, soon.
Of course I fucking remember Chico; he got me into fighting in jail and introduced to me to the man who turned everything in my pitiful life on its head. He’s who saved me but also sealed my fate.
“He’s got the gambling on your next fight sewn up.” He holds both hands up and smirks. “But you know nothing about that, right?�
� He cackles like a half-crazed Bond villain.
His laughter continues beyond the initial joke which irritates the fuck out of me, then cuts off. Yeah. Carlos isn’t stable. I’ve come up against every type of madness in prison and Carlos is up there with the craziest of them.
Loosening the fabric of his pants around his knees, he sits on the sofa and snorts the two remaining lines through a rolled hundred-dollar bill. Throwing his head back, he sniffs loudly and slaps his thigh when the sting takes hold.
Fuck, this will be a long night.
“We going?” I ask, wanting to break the intensity of this one-on-one atmosphere. If I stay in his sole company any longer, I’m gonna snap his sinewy neck and throw him through the window. I’m sure the concierge would back-up my claim that he fell. But I can’t do it because Carlos’s destiny is not mine to dole out. And I would have a different enemy to contend with.
“Sure.” He beams his cocky grin and calls his driver.
We stop off at a cocktail bar on the way to the casino where we’re joined by Carlos’s crew. Unusually for Carlos, this bar is not one in his growing money-laundering portfolio and I wonder if he is muscling in to take over the joint. He would never stop somewhere for no reason.
The cocaine has made him more aggressive than usual and he forcibly pushes out of the way patrons hovering in the entrance. Acting up because of those extra two lines he’d laid out for me.
We commandeer a large booth which seats a dozen near the window. The marble-topped table is cool on my wrists and I press them hard against it, in the hope it will calm my nerves and stop the irritation I feel from brimming over. Irritation as ever, caused by Carlos and his macho ways. He has an eye for a fight tonight. I hope he realizes to involve me would be the end of my short-lived MMA career. And his current dream. Unless he mistakenly sees it as a publicity stunt.
He calls over a waitress and demands the finest Tequila.
Not having served us before, she comes back full of smiles and with a tray full of shots. Carlos lashes out at the tray and it smashes onto the floor; the clear liquid and shards of glass splashing onto her feet. She turns and runs off crying, and as much as I feel sorry for her, there’s no real harm done. So, apart from shuffling in my seat, I don’t react.
Carlos stands and waves animatedly at the bar manager, who doesn’t know whether to run after his sobbing waitress or tend to our needs. Fortunately, for him, he chooses the latter—rushing over with two bottles of Tequila and replacement glasses. He goes over the top with his apologies as he backs off to the ladies’ restroom to salvage what’s left of his dwindling serving staff.
Looking around, I notice we’ve accumulated a group of women, the usual hangers on, but they move away from Carlos when Ulyana appears. She’s an ice-maiden and the complete antithesis to Carlos and his hot-headed ways. He lazily rests his arm over her shoulders and she noticeably flinches. Her mouth pulling into a bitchy pout. I drag away my stare, not wanting to get involved or to even have an opinion on what’s going on there. It’s none of my business. Just another issue I have to pretend doesn’t exist in this sordid world.
I try to think of something other than being in this moment and, without my permission, my mind drifts to Cate. I couldn’t imagine her in amongst these subservient women, and I almost laugh out loud to think of her draping herself over any of these men. She’d be in Ulyana’s camp.
Instead of the thought leading me to appreciate the women here, willing to do anything, it makes me despise them.
“We’re waiting for the casino to get into full swing,” Carlos says across to me, as if he’s read the question in my mind about why we’re even in this bar.
I reach out to a glass of Tequila and throw it down my neck. The casino is so much worse than the club. The casino requires conversation and mind games. I may need plenty of Tequila to get through this evening. And that’s even if I slope off early.
“You should use the bonus I gave you, roll it up into some serious dinero tonight.”
A huff leaves my mouth before I can get a hold of it. I’ve already had Juan enquire about a new car. Part of the plan. But Carlos doesn’t need to know about that.
“You don’t agree?” he asks, with a bitter edge to his question.
“Sure. Just with my luck…”
“Yeah, I need mine to rub off on you.” His ball-shrinking laugh shrills out again.
The evening doesn’t get any better and I’ve given up trying to be self-disciplined. Resigned to blanking out this shit-show with Tequila. And plenty of it.
Chico hosts us in a private room at the casino. A poker and roulette table take center stage in the lavishly decorated room. Fake bronze busts of Napoleon, Julius Caesar and Abraham Lincoln sit on plaster column plinths in front of rococo-style wall panels. Croupiers stand unflinching at the tables and wait for our raucous behavior to settle.
I don’t have the patience for poker, nor the luck for roulette but I’d choose either if it meant dipping out of Carlos’s conversational clutch. I wait to see which one he chooses and steal myself to follow. As much as I wish to be away from him, I need to keep him close. Especially when he’s discussing business with Chico.
“So, how’s life, Raul?” Chico sits on the high stool in between Carlos and me.
“Beats life in the pinta,” I jest.
“Mostly.” He laughs, patting his palm onto my shoulder. “I don’t think our friend here would have survived as well as you.” He jerks his head toward Carlos, whose face darkens. A reactive mixture of only now realizing Chico and I know each other and the insult he’s been thrown.
“I have the brains to stay the right side of the bars.” Carlos taps his head, his mouth pulling involuntarily into a wince from the Tequila he’s sunk.
Un-fucking real.
With every pull on my self-restraint, I resist cracking him with a punch which would land him on his backside. Instead, I revel in knowing he hasn’t got a fucking clue how badly I will fuck him over.
I listen in to their conversation about my fight. Nodding in the appropriate places when they agree on how the bout will go down. Take it to round five. Knock him out before he fades. Give the audience a fight to remember. Make us rich.
Rich. A word with multiple meanings. And my definition will never be the same as Carlos’s.
◆◆◆
As ever, after a fitful drunken sleep, I awake covered in sweat. The vividness of the dreams punching through to my wakening thoughts.
Last night didn’t quite turn out as I planned but it was necessary. I need to make sure Carlos and I are on an even keel. And if it means me tagging along to his exuberant nights out, then so be it.
But… I went over the top last night and with only two weeks to get back on it, I can’t do it again in a hurry. I may not be too concerned with following Joe’s training plan to the letter, but this fight is everything.
I wonder if there wasn’t an ulterior motive, whether I would choose to live this life forever. Or try to reclaim Isaac and the way I used to think.
They say your childhood shapes you, but I guess it doesn’t count when you’re plummeted into a whole new world at eighteen.
With a gut-wrenching pounding in my head and the vile taste of Tequila on my lips, I stagger to the bathroom, step into the shower and wash away every thought of my former self.
I’m Raul now and two things I did last night are outside of that character’s composition and not part of the plan. I can’t let either of them happen again.
The first is laid in my bed. And I even know her name. It’s Charlene, one of the best lap dancers in San Diego and unfortunately, she’s danced on my lap too many times now. I don’t know if it’s this town getting too small or whether my discipline is faltering, either way she’s bound to get the wrong idea and I can’t have that.
The first mistake is easy to deal with. I’ll tell her straight.
The second will bite me in the ass, I know it.
12
; Cate
Sweat drips from my brow, and it’s not because of the humidity tonight but because of the amount of effort it’s taken to orgasm. More than usual and that’s saying something. I’m sure if Nate took up with another partner he’d still be a ‘one bam, thank you ma’am’ type of guy. He’s learnt nothing from the way I try to work myself up. The foreplay, the games, the toys.
Were as I like it long and slow with a rough edge, he prefers for it to be over with.
My taste of Isaac last night hinted at the kind of sex I hanker for. To be taken, without mercy or remorse.
Coming back to bed from Nate’s bathroom, I watch him from the entranceway rummaging in his nightstand; the duvet tucked under his armpits.
“I’m curious Nate…” Last minute, I temper my question away from asking why he’s not more adventurous between the sheets—it’s not cool to diss a guy’s technique when he’s only recently pulled out—and ask him instead, “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
He takes a Marlboro Gold from a soft pack he’s pulled out of the drawer—a cue usually for me to get us both a drink—today I’m more interested in his response.
“What’s got into you?” he asks, writhing onto his elbows and lighting his cigarette.
“No reason.”
Tonight was like any other hook up with Nate—I snuck off, leaving my friends at a bar and grabbed a taxi to his place. We shared a bottle of vino, our sips interspersed with banal discussions and quick fucks.
Our conversational topics are as boring as hell. The latest legal case hogging the headlines, a new partner who joined the firm, or an intern making the same mistakes we did.
Bad Ink Page 8
