Used to be that the hatch to the basement underneath the barn would get rusty. Anytime anyone wanted to go down there, they’d need to take a hammer and chisel to the handle and prise it open with brute force. Not the case these days.
Now the damn thing’s opened so often the hinge doesn’t even squeak anymore. Breakfast, lunch and dinnertime, someone has to go down into the basement to feed our current guest, and usually that someone is me. I don’t carry out the task because it’s something I enjoy. I draw the short straw every fucking day because the job is so unpleasant that no one else will do it, and besides, the other Widow Makers’ arguments are kind of valid: our guest does insist that I’m the one to feed her and clothe her, as well as take her out every evening so she can stretch her legs.
Today, Soph doesn’t seem to want to get her ass out of bed and make breakfast, so I’ve had to concoct something on my own. I told Rebel what I saw—an older guy, who appeared to be Alan Romera, being dragged into Ramirez’s place. He was understandably furious, but he’s kept the information from his girlfriend thus far. Said it would be for the best, until we can confirm it really is her father. I have to tell him later that it is Dr. Romera, one hundred percent, no doubt about it, which isn’t a conversation that I’m looking forward to. So yeah, I’ll let the prospect stay in bed and I’ll cook myself if it means I can avoid spreading that delightful news.
The scrambled eggs, toast and sliced up fruit I’ve cobbled together aren’t going to be up to standard for our picky, precocious guest, but guess what? I don’t give a fuck. I lower myself down the rungs of the ladder that descends into the basement, using one hand to climb and the other to hold the plastic tray of food I’m carrying. Back when we realized we’d have to detain our guest for longer than we’d originally anticipated, Jamie had a proper AC and ventilation system installed down here, so thankfully it’s cool and doesn’t smell of shit and dried blood anymore. I head to the door at the end of the corridor and open it, readying myself for the abuse I’m about to receive. I’ve come to accept it now. The verbal and physical abuse (pathetic though it may be) I endure every few hours has become a regular part of my day. In fact, I find it kind of cute, now.
Inside the room, Maria Rosa, former head of the Desolladors Cartel, is sitting on a beaten up sofa, reading a battered copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. When Rebel shot her six months ago and we locked her down here, Maria Rosa’s English was pretty clipped. She could get by just fine, but she sure as hell couldn’t read in anything other than Spanish. Now she seems to be demanding a new book every time I come down here.
She knows I’ve entered the room, but she doesn’t look up from her page. Sometimes it’s like this—she’ll pretend I don’t even exist as I leave her food and clear away the remains of her previous meal. She’ll lay down on her bed and close her eyes, pretending to be asleep as I collect her dirty laundry and dump it outside for Sophia to pick up later. But then there are other days, when she’s like a deranged hellcat, jumping out from behind the heavy steel door, trying to claw my eyes out of my head as she tries, for the one hundred millionth time, to escape.
This morning doesn’t seem like an escape attempt kind of morning. Maria Rosa slowly puts down her book and stands, stretching, arms high up over her head. She looks like a cat when she does this, limbs long, fingers spread wide, head back, spine arched. She makes a quiet sighing sound as she turns around and bends over, reaching for the ground. The tight sweatpants she’s wearing—they read Juicy across the ass—don’t leave much to the imagination.
Her attempts to seduce me have ranged from subtleties such as this to blatant insanity, where I’ve opened the door to find her naked on her bed, her legs spread wide, while she teases her pussy and begs me to come fuck her. She stopped doing that a while back. Still, every once in a while she’ll try something like this, something designed to pique my interest. She should know by know that crazy bitches don’t get my dick hard.
“When is he coming to see me?” she purrs. “I need to talk to him.”
I put down her breakfast on the small chest of drawers we had brought down here for her, kicking the door closed behind me. “What do you need to talk him about?” This line is as old as the hills. She always needs to talk to Rebel, and Rebel never wants to talk to her. Funny, that.
“I need more space,” she says. Her voice is light. Breezy, almost. “I can’t work out down here like this. The place is too cramped. How am I supposed to stay in shape when I can’t run? Or do yoga?”