An unsettled, frantic twisting has my stomach practically boiling. What the fuck is wrong with me? My palms are sweating like crazy and my heart is thundering so fast it almost feels like it’s battling to get away from me. I stand up, feeling slightly lightheaded.
Breathe, for fuck’s sake, I tell myself. Fucking breathe. But it doesn’t seem to help. The last time I felt like this was when the bars on my cell in prison slammed shut on the first night in Chino and I realized I was fucked. Totally vulnerable. At the will of another man. I hadn’t lived like that since before, with my uncle. And I’d sworn I would never again. I’d let myself panic on that first night, and then I had shut everything down. Decided that they could put me behind bars and tell me when I could eat and when I could shower and when I could exercise, but there was no fucking way they were gonna tell me how I was gonna feel about it. After that I’d walked around with my head held high, daring anyone to try and test me. To try and push me. There had been no obligatory fight with another inmate to prove how tough I was when I began my stint in Chino. I’d been a walking invitation, an open offer for anyone to be stupid enough to try. None had. Not once. The feeling of helplessness had vanished after that, and I realized I was in control in a few small ways, even inside prison.
But not now. The feeling wrenches through my insides, knotting everything together into one painful gathering of intestines, organs, muscle and blood.
Completely fucking unacceptable.
I don’t know where they are.
I don’t know where she is.
I don’t know how to get to them.
There’s nothing I can do.
But I need to do something. I have to. I snatch up my jacket, testing the weight to make sure the Camaro keys are still inside. I’ll drive all day and all night if I have to. I’m going to find those girls. My girls. My girl.
On the other side of the door, Julio and one of the guards from the entrance the other night, the tall one, are already heading down the hallway, serious looks firmly plastered onto their faces. A serious look on a Mexican gang lord is a bad sign. When Julio is suspicious or considers himself threatened, he acts to the contrary; he smiles. When he suspects someone is playing him for a fool, taking liberties, spying and generally fucking around in business he has no right to be fucking around in, that’s when the smile disappears.
“Going somewhere, ese?” Julio asks. There’s no brother here now. Only a mild contempt that lets me know I’m truly screwed. Ese’s the kind of name reserved only for other Hispanics. Julio’s using it ironically, pointing out that I don’t belong here. That he knows something is seriously up. The guard at his side is carrying a gun tucked in the front of his waistband, thumb hooked obviously in the belt alongside it.
I shrug. “Not much, man. Just going out to pick up a friend. You said I could bring someone to this event, right?” It’s not for another two days, but I have to risk it. It’s the first excuse that comes to mind.
“Sure, sure.” Julio nods. He scratches at his chin, eying me up and down. “Before you go, come chat by the pool a while, huh?” This isn’t the kind of request a man says no to. The fact that he’s even disguised it as a request gives me a glimmer of suspicion that he might not know as much as I think he does. Not yet, anyway. I nod, narrowing my eyes at him. Julio gestures in front of himself, signaling that I should go first. After three days casually wandering the halls, hoping to randomly bump into Alexis, I’ve gotten a pretty good lay of the land within the compound’s villa. I head straight for the pool. Outside, a fruit platter has already been set out along with fresh juice and beer. Julio sits down on his sun lounger, the guard taking up position standing behind him. I chuckle at the ridiculous punk, who glares back at me in return.
“Gonna shoot your dick off with that thing,” I advise him, raising my eyebrows at his gun. I reach for a strawberry, which I chew slowly, smiling a dark smile at him.
Julio makes a tsking sound at the back of his throat. “Come now, Zeth. Be nice to my friends. I’m always nice to yours, true?”
I eat another piece of fruit, rocking my head from side to side—a non-committal gesture, even though I say, “True.”
“I just wanted to ask you something, my friend.” Julio makes a waving gesture toward the guard, who produces a folded over thin manila envelope from the back of his waist band this time. Julio accepts it and pulls out a piece of paper, which he places face down on the table between us. “I was wondering if you could explain a little further about your business here in L.A.? You said you were catching up with some friends on your way to visit family, no?”
“That’s right.” I reply instantly, not blinking at his line of questioning or at the piece of paper he’s pulled from the envelope.