by Jadyn Chase
The house fell silent. No one came near me. My breathing quieted and the pain set in worse than ever. It drove me out of my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. I got so locked up in holding myself tense and ready that I couldn’t move.
At last, I couldn’t tolerate the pain a second longer. I had to do something. I had to take something or go somewhere to get this pain to stop. I started to think about my options. Could I get to a hospital somehow, or maybe a shelter?
At that moment, the guy materialized before my eyes. He towered above me and scowled down into the space behind the couch. He stood there a long time without saying anything. Then he walked away.
My heart cried for him to come back, to help me somehow. I spiraled into a panic, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
Just then, he reappeared. He squatted down in front of me and set a small ceramic bowl on the floor by my feet. He kept far enough back that he couldn’t reach me. I peered down into the dish and spotted two tiny white pills.
“Take these,” he told me. “It’s Vicodin. It will make your head hurt less.”
I looked up at him once, just for a second. How did he know? I couldn’t fathom and it didn’t matter anyway. I lunged forward, seized the pills, and crammed them into my mouth. I swallowed them in a flash and shrank back into my place with my arms strapped around my knees.
He stood up and walked away again. I fell into a dizzying turmoil trying to get my brain to function. I had to think of something. I had to do something. I couldn’t turn into a basket case like this.
The drugs kicked in. Blessed, blessed relief washed through me. My head stopped pounding. My shoulders and knees stopped ripping me apart with lightning bolts of agony.
The guy returned. This time, he set a plate on the carpet in front of me. Four beautiful empanadas sat in a square just begging to be eaten, but I couldn’t lower my defenses to take them. He put a bowl of savory black bean chili next to the plate. Last of all, he positioned a tiny shot glass in my reach.
The powerful aroma of tequila grabbed me by the senses. I needed that right now. God, I needed it! I snatched the glass and, without a moment’s hesitation, downed the drink in one swallow.
The guy chuckled. “That’s good. You need it.”
I dropped the glass and snarled in fury when the alcohol hit my brain. It mingled with the Vicodin and sent me into a daze.
The guy rested his thick forearms on his thighs. “Do you remember me telling you my name? I’m Francisco, but everybody calls me Cisco. Can you remember that?”
He waited. I didn’t say anything. Part of me wanted him to go away, but I thanked the Lord he didn’t. He might be the last truly kind person on the face of the Earth. I couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving me alone right now.
“Did you hear what I said? Did you hear what I said my name was?”
I coughed once and tasted blood. My throat croaked when I tried to speak. “Cisco.”
“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to, but I think we better take a look at your head. It looks serious.” He started to stand up.
“Isabel.”
He spun around and his eyes widened. Don’t ask me why I told him. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. I wanted him to see me as human, not some rat gnawing its leg off to get away from him. He already saw me as human, but somehow I wanted him to have something more, some clue to me.
“And that piece of shit outside?” he asked. “Does he have a name, too?”
I looked away.
“Well, Isabel, it’s nice to meet you. Don’t worry about him. I sent him where he won’t bother you anymore.”
My head shot up. Did he mean what I thought he meant?
He cracked that magical smile, but something softened it to make it look less childish. Now it just looked warm and safe. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead—not yet—although if he keeps trespassing in our territory like this, I can’t promise anything. I took his stinking carcass back to La Muerta where he belongs. I dumped him in an alley near the Rialto Cinema. Maybe he’ll sober up in a few weeks.”
He disappeared chuckling. The sound faded into the darkened house. The longer I sat here talking to this casual stranger, the more the drugs and alcohol relaxed me. I began to understand Diego wasn’t around and wasn’t coming back.
Francisco came back. This time, he sat down cross-legged in front of me and held out a damp washcloth. “Do you want to do the honors?”
I blinked at it. I couldn’t understand what he wanted me to do with it.
“Here. I’ll show you.” He scooted a few inches closer and put out his hand to take mine. A flash of alarm shot through me and I yanked it away just in time. He waited a second. Then he pursed his lips. “Like this.”
Without waited for permission, he touched the cloth to my shin. He gave light, short strokes and sponged the blood off my leg. I stared down at the red stain coming off on the fabric.
“You’re not such a pretty sight like this, you know,” he muttered to himself. “You’re probably too sore to take a shower, but if you’re going to spend the night here, you might want to get some of this off.”
He moved the cloth higher to my knee where a ragged hole gaped raw and bloody. He wiped the mess away without touching the wound itself.
A sizzle of fire rushed up my leg into my insides. Was he trying to…? No, he was just cleaning the cut where I fell and scraped my knee. He washed one calf and switched to the other leg. When the washcloth got to bloody, he rinsed it out. I heard the water running in the sink.
At last, he took hold of my hand again. I stiffened, but I didn’t pull away this time. I hate to admit it, but it felt good having someone pay attention to me, to care about whether I was hurting or not.
How long had it been since anyone treated me like I mattered? I could remember my mother doing it when I was really little, but not much since. My dad raised me and his parenting philosophy was to toughen me up. If I hurt myself, he would jostle my shoulder and tell me to shake it off.
Francisco wiped my torn palms. His touch seeped warmth and relaxation into my skin. His hands told me in a different language what he’d been telling me in words. I was safe—for now, at least.
He cast occasional glances up at me while he worked. “How did you wind up in La Muerta?”
I kept my eyes down. “I don’t know.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s a new one. I never heard of that before. Just about everybody I know who winds up a marked member of a motorcycle club knows how they got into it. Most have to go through some form of initiation. Some have to go through a ritual thrashing to qualify. Did you lose your memory or something?”
I muttered down at the floor. “I didn’t lose my memory.”
“That fuckwit who attacked me,” he went on. “Did he have something to do with getting you into it?”
I cracked a grin in spite of myself. I tried to keep serious, but the expression struck me as so funny I couldn’t stop it. When I smirked, I winced in pain. “Ow!”
“Don’t laugh too hard,” he told me. “You might loosen one of those broken ribs of yours.”
I cringed. “I don’t have any broken ribs.”
“Are you sure?” He rotated to one side so he could move closer. “Either way, your face is a mess. Come here.”
He took hold of my chin and lifted my head so I had no choice but to look at him. He dabbed his rag over my cheeks. I initially went to pull away, but he never pressed so hard as to hurt the angry purple bruises around my eyes and cheekbones.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the shiny surface of his eyes. Fuck, I looked bad! I looked a lot worse than I thought. I couldn’t recognize my face through the swollen bags of flesh where my face used to be.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Nice and easy. He really did a number on you, didn’t he? Does he do this a lot?”
I wanted to look away, but the hand holding me wouldn’t let me.
For some reason, I couldn’t fight him. His easy, gentle manner insinuated him into my being. He moved my head back and forth to reach every spot and I couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe Diego’s beating turned me into a doormat.
Francisco studied the crown of my head. “Ah, here it is. Let’s take a look. We might need to stitch this up.”
He explored in my hair. The faintest trace of his fingers against my scalp sent a comforting, peaceful glow through me. This must be what chimpanzees felt like when someone grooms them. I went into a trance where he could do whatever he wanted.
He moved the hair away from the spot where Diego tore a chunk out of my scalp. “Huh. Well, it’s stopped bleeding at least and there’s nothing left of the skin. You’ll just have to let it scab over. You’ll always have a scar there, but your hair will cover it up most of the time. No one ever has to know.”
He left and came back with a small tube of what looked like glue. He held it out for me to see. “This is NuSkin. I’m going to squeeze it over the wound. It will form a layer of protection until your body makes a scar. It kinda stings, but it’s better than leaving it open to the air. I don’t think you want me to bandage it. You would look like The Mummy or something.”
Curious laughter came out of my mouth again. What he said wasn’t really that funny. Just something about Francisco made me want to laugh.
He raised his eyebrows again. “You ready?”
I nodded.
He knelt in front of me and dripped the stuff onto my scalp. It did sting, but I got distracted staring at his midsection. He didn’t carry one scrap of extra weight around his waist. He was solid muscle, and a distinct aroma of a man drifted into my nose.
I just left Diego’s apartment, and here Francisco was touching me and petting me for over an hour. I hadn’t even properly broken up with Diego. He probably followed me here thinking he would get me back.
Yet I found myself attracted to Francisco. He must have been horrified by the extent of the beating, but he didn’t show it. He just talked to me and treated me like any ordinary person. He invited me into his house and spent all this time and effort to make me feel better.
He moved back and capped the tube. “There. It dries right away and it’s as good as skin—hence the name.”
He laughed at his own joke. When he did, his whole countenance lit up and his shoulder shook with mirth. I didn’t think I ever met anyone who gave themselves over to laughter as fully as he did. His laughter filled the whole cosmos with sunshine. How could anyone be miserable with that kind of laughter in the world?
4
Francisco
I lay awake all night staring at the ceiling. That girl slept on the couch wrapped in a blanket. I stood across the room and watched her sleep for almost an hour before I retired to my own room, but I couldn’t sleep.
Isabel. She still didn’t tell me her last name—not that it mattered. In the morning, I would tell The Boss about her. We would send her back to La Muerta and I would never see her again.
That asshole wrecked most of her face with his fists, but I could still make out some of it. Her porcelain skin formed a milky halo over delicate cheekbones.
The sweeping curve of her body rolled in effortless waves from her thighs, around her voluptuous hips, inward over her narrow waist, and back up to a nice, round chest. Any man would be delighted to trace that curve with his hands or any other part of himself. One half of her lips showed the painted curve of a face just waiting for a reason to smile.
No one gave her any reason to smile, though. It took all my charm to get one grin out of her. Right up until she closed those bottomless green eyes, they kept skipping around the room on the lookout for any danger. She didn’t even dare tell me her attacker’s name.
I didn’t need this. I had enough girls who loved nothing better than to laugh and have fun with me all day. I didn’t need to rescue some stray, not even one as beautiful as she was.
The rest of her appeared more or less intact. I didn’t get a look at her ribs, but she would never have been able to run across Los Angeles if any of them were broken.
She moved all right after she had some time to rest, but she wouldn’t eat. I put the blanket around her and she got herself onto the couch. End of story.
So why was I lying here thinking about her until the sun came up? I wasn’t worried about the scumbag coming back. So, he knew where I lived. He was more than welcome if he wanted another taste of my knuckles.
I won’t lie. I was worried about her. If The Boss sent her back to La Muerta, they would give her back to the moron. They might kiss and make up—until the next time. He would probably wind up killing her and all my work would go for nothing.
No matter what we did with her or where she went, La Muerta would find her. They would always try to get her back as long as she wore their mark. The instant she left Los Diablos’ territory, the shithead would be all over her.
I went around and around in my head searching for some solution. Why should I care what happened to some La Muerta chick? They could have her. If they didn’t have the cajones to rein in one of their own to stop him thumping his old lady, that was their business.
She wouldn’t leave me alone, though. I kept imagining that one side of her face—the small area I could see through the devastation. What would she look like without all that black and blue all over the place? What would she look like smiling and laughing and loving life?
I always was a sucker for anyone or anything that was down in the dumps. I always tried to make kids and girls laugh, to make them happy. I could never stand to see some puppy left off by itself. Unhappy people and animals and kids attracted me like a moth to a flame. I couldn’t relax until I made them see how good and wonderful life could be.
Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. This girl was beyond saving. She wasn’t free to be saved, anyway. She belonged to another club and another man. Getting herself out of that was her job, not mine.
At the crack of six AM, I couldn’t lie on my back any longer. I got up and took a shower. When I got to the living room, she was still asleep. I stood in the doorway and gazed down at her for what seemed like an eternity.
She lay on her back with her head turned away. The cushion hid the bashed side of her face so the healthy part showed. Once again, the illusion tricked me that she wasn’t some worn-out wreck that some other cholo worked over with his fists. She was a beautiful girl blooming with innocence and promise.
Then she sighed in her sleep and shifted her head on the pillow. She rotated her head and now the opposite effect erased the illusion. The ugly ruined black swelling obliterated the tiny fraction of her that remained untouched. He destroyed a lot more than her face last night.
I walked away. I never should have let myself dream about her like that. I puttered around the kitchen making breakfast. If that didn’t wake her up, nothing would.
Pretty soon, the crackle of bacon frying filled the living room, to say nothing of the smell. I cast a few glances over my shoulder. Come on, chica. Rise and shine. Time to face another day on Planet Earth.
She stirred. The next time I looked over, she had her eyes open. She stared at the ceiling. I knew how that went. She was thinking about the day ahead, the year ahead, the rest of her life. She faced an uphill climb to drag her existence out of the mud, but who doesn’t, right?
She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through her hair. After a beating like that, every move the next morning is torture. She would feel the wound in her scalp. Her ribs would ache and every facial expression would send shooting bolts to her brain. Been there and done that.
She heaved into a sitting position and cradled her head in her hand. I kept my back to her for a while to let her pull herself together unhindered. She wouldn’t want me or anyone looking at her for a good long time.
I forked the bacon out of the pan and lifted the eggs onto a plate with the spatula. I buttered toast and poured a cup of coffee. I carried the mug an
d plate to the coffee table and set it in front of her.
“There’s your breakfast,” I chirped. “Eat it up and be healthy. I don’t know what you want in your coffee, so here’s the milk and sugar. You can fix yourself up.”
I looked at her face just long enough to smile. She glared up at me. “Are you always this cheerful in the mornings?”
“Yep. Always. Every day’s another chance to make the world a better place. I just can’t wait to get out there and do it. You know what I mean?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re a gang lord. How do you think you’re going to make the world a better place? You’re Public Enemy #1.”
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. Those words sounded so ridiculous when applied to me. “Maybe I am. That doesn’t mean I can’t try, though. I can only do my small part with the limited resources at my disposal, you know? I might not be able to do much. I might have been born in the barrio and never graduated from grade school, but at least I can try.”
She scowled up at me like what I said was the most insulting piece of trash she ever heard. “Do your brothers in the club know you feel that way?”
“Of course they do,” I replied. “They all know. All the women and kids know, too. I couldn’t exactly hide it from them, could I?” I laughed again in spite of myself. The whole idea sounded too funny for words.
“How do they expect you to do your job with an attitude like that?” she demanded.
My smile evaporated and I got dead serious. “Oh, I do my job. Make no mistake about that. I would give my life for the club and they all know that. No one ever questions that.”
“What’s to stop you from doing good and making the world a better place for your enemies?” she argued. “How do they know you won’t get out there and start taking care of other clubs the way you take care of Los Diablos? Shit, what the hell am I saying? The very name Los Diablos means you couldn’t make the world a better place. You’re a devil. You’re working for the wrong team.”
