Against the Wall (22 page)

“What about it?”

I can't bring myself to be more specific.

“Did I get raped? Is that what you're asking? Did my cellmate make the pretty Mexican boy his
puto
?”

My vision blurs with tears.

“The answer is no,” he says, looking out the window. “I didn't get raped. I probably got exposed to all sorts of shit doing tattoos, but they tested me in the halfway house. I'm clean.”

I'm relieved, and not just because of possible diseases. I can't imagine what it was like for him to worry about getting attacked every day.

When we arrive at the drug store, he insists on going in with me. The medication is in the same aisle as feminine hygiene protects, next to the lube and condoms. It's in a big plastic package with a padlock.

“How do you buy this?” Eric asks.

“Let's ask at the front counter.”

He carries the package to the checkout area. I feel self-conscious as we wait in line. My panties are wet from a mixture of body fluids. This is an unfamiliar, uncomfortable sensation. It's embarrassingly messy and intimate, with an extra side order of stress. The checker unlocks the package and sells Eric the product without blinking an eye. It's more expensive than I thought it would be. He doesn't complain. I wait until we're in the car to open the box and read the instructions.

“Is it oral?” he asks.

“No, you take it anally.”

He arches a brow at my sarcasm. “In that case, let me help.”

“You're not funny,” I say, washing the pill down with bottled water.

“Are there any side effects?”

“I might get cramps.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” I say, my annoyance fading. We were both irresponsible. I got just as carried away as he did. The medication isn't one hundred percent effective, so I hope to God it works. As much as I love Eric, an unwanted pregnancy is the last thing we need.

The realization gives me a start. I
love
Eric.

Still.

Always.

My stomach drops to my shoes and I break out into a cold sweat. With shaking hands, I toss the package into the backseat. I'm afraid he'll be able to guess my thoughts if I look at him. I've never felt more vulnerable or more exposed.

“I'm sorry it was over so fast, too.”

I avoid his gaze as I pull out of the parking lot. If he's trying to keep me at arm's length, expressing regret over his fast and furious performance isn't the way to do it. Maybe he doesn't want it to end like this.

I don't want it to end at all.

I'm back in prison again, huddled in the corner of a large holding cell.

Just as I drift off, I'm dragged to my feet and tossed into a violent mob, like a scrap of meat before hungry wolves.

“What the fuck is
this
?”

I jolt awake, my nightmare bleeding into reality. Noah is in the garage with me. He's clutching the front of my shirt, yanking me upright. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes blazing. It's already morning. Dull light filters in from the garage windows. Noah shakes me a couple of times to make sure I'm awake.

He's holding something in his other hand. Even in my fuzzy state, I recognize it as the plastic package for Meghan's contraception.

Fuck.

Maybe his anger is justified, but I don't care. My brain doesn't have time to process what's happening. I just react on instinct, because that's what people do when they feel attacked. I leap to my feet and shove him backward. My fists rise in front of my face. I'm ready to deflect, ready to swing.

Noah's gaze darkens at my aggressive response. He's no desk-jockey detective or pussy pacifist. He tosses aside the package and gets in a boxing stance. “Go ahead, motherfucker. Come at me.”

I don't advance, but I want to. I want to knock his straight white teeth out.

“You said you wouldn't touch her,” Noah growls. “I had a feeling you did it anyway, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Because you promised, you lying piece of shit. You promised me.”

“Fuck off,” I say. “It's none of your business.”

“It is my business, because it's my fucking house! It's my sister! Not only did you break your promise, you didn't use a fucking condom! You probably gave her whatever diseases you picked up in prison.”

That's it. I lower my shoulder and charge, making a sound of rage. I hit him in the rib cage and take him down. We fall over the weight bench with a terrific crash. Then it's on. He punches me in the face, hard enough to smash my teeth against the inside of my cheek. I return the favor, connecting with his jaw. We roll across the garage floor in a tornado of flying fists. He's a dirty fighter. So am I.

“Stop it,” Meghan screams in the background. “Eric, stop!”

I don't want to stop. We just started, and I'm nowhere near satisfied. I've got years of pent-up resentment and frustration to work through. I keep swinging, gaining an advantage when he hesitates. There's a red warning flag somewhere in my brain, but I don't take heed. My focus is on spilling blood, and crushing him, and shutting up his stupid face. I roll on top of him and draw back my fist to strike again.

Then I catch a glimpse of April in the periphery, too close for safety. She grabs the crook of my elbow on the downswing. I can't halt forward progress or slow my momentum. My arm continues forward, with her attached. She loses her balance and goes down hard.

“Oh,” she cries, holding her belly.

Noah shoves me across the garage floor and scrambles to his wife's side. His face is pale. Hers is etched in pain. Meghan rushes forward to help April.

“I'm okay,” April says.

“Are you sure?” Noah asks.

She nods, taking a deep breath. Then Jenny appears in the doorway, her eyes puffy and her hair mussed. I'm standing there with my fists bloody, heartbeat pounding in my ears. I feel like a ticking time bomb of dysfunction and despair.

I feel like my brother, Raul.

What I've done is inexcusable. It's not something you can come back from. You can't just apologize and move on from hurting a pregnant woman. I've never been more appalled at my behavior or more ashamed of myself as a person.

I want to die. Just…die.

“What's wrong, Mama?” Jenny asks.

“Nothing,
m'ija
. I fell.”

Tears burn my eyes at the evasive answer. April used to cover for Raul, too.

Fuck.

When she tries to get up, Noah lifts her easily and carries her into the house. He glares at me over his shoulder, sending the clear message that he's not done beating me up. Jenny follows them inside. Meghan crosses her arms over her chest, seeming torn.

I'm not torn. I'm
out
.

I don't belong here. I never did. I shouldn't have come. I'm like a disease, infecting everything I touch. Noah had every right to kick my ass. I only wish he'd done a better job. I'm still conscious. Horribly, sickeningly conscious.

“Tell April I'm sorry,” I say, wiping the blood from my mouth. I grab my backpack and shove it full of clothes.

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

Her face crumples with sorrow. “This is all my fault.”

I sit down to lace up my boots, unable to look at her. None of this is her fault. I'm the one who can't keep my dick in my pants. I can't remember to use protection. I made a big mistake last night, and an even bigger mistake this morning. I lost control completely. I flew off the handle, punched Noah, and knocked April down.

If she loses the baby…

I grit my teeth, overwhelmed by the thought. I'll jump off a bridge. No question. I'll drive my car halfway across the Coronado Bridge, get out and jump into the fucking bay. It's a common suicide spot. The distance to the water isn't survivable.

I don't think it is, anyway.

Jesus Christ, that would suck. Surviving the fall and becoming a vegetable would be worse than dying.

Noah returns to the doorway to see me off. His mouth is thin and his jaw tight. There's a scrape across his cheekbone and he's going to have an ugly black eye at the end of the day, but I feel no triumph. Only shame.

“How is she?” Meghan asks.

“She says she's fine,” he replies.

I put on my backpack. Noah presses the garage-door button to expedite my departure. He doesn't call me names or tell me to burn in hell. He doesn't say anything. There's nothing he can say that's worse than what I'm saying to myself.

I leave with my head bowed low and my gut churning. Jenny runs out the front door and chases after me, so I stop to accept her embrace.

“Don't go,” she cries, burying her face in my shirt.

“I have to.”

“Will you come back?” she asks.

My throat tightens at the question. I can't forgive myself for hurting her, either. I smooth her dark hair away from her forehead and meet her tearful gaze. “I'll always be your
tío, me entiendes
? I'll always love you.”

She stares up at me, chin trembling. “Okay.”

“Que Dios te bendiga,”
I say.

“You, too,” she says.

I kiss the top of her head and walk away. The adrenaline wears off after a few blocks and my knuckles start to throb. I imagine that Noah's jaw is throbbing, too. There's a convenience store nearby, so I go inside to buy a cheap first-aid kit. Then I borrow the key to a restroom that only junkies use. The scratched-aluminum plate on the wall doesn't reflect my injuries, but there's blood in the sink as I wash up. My knuckles are scraped and my left eyebrow has a seeping cut. I blot my face with paper towels and apply a few bandages.

I'll be okay. My teeth are all intact.

When I come out, I consider my next step. I'm tempted to call Junior and say fuck it. We could knock back a few beers, maybe spark up a joint. Later he might invite some hot girls over and bust out a bottle of tequila.

It's a variation of my post-prison fantasies, and well within my grasp, but the idea holds no appeal. I was never a big drinker, though I used to smoke weed like it was going out of style. I don't care that I had to give it up, or that I missed out on my prime partying years. I don't care about spring break or bikinis or barhopping anymore.

None of that matters to me.

I take the bus to the junkyard. Scrappy whistles when he sees my face. “Did you get jumped by some gangsters?”

“No, why?”

“A car drove by here yesterday. One of them lowriders. I think they were looking for you.”

“What kind of lowrider?”

“Chevy Caprice. Silver.”

Omar.

So much for this being my sanctuary. But I have nowhere else to go. “Do you mind if I stay here for a while? I could clean out one of the trailers, and pay rent.”

He stares across the cemetery of dead cars, considering. “My brother just broke his hip. That's why I was gone the other day. He's going to need help for a few weeks. If you can keep an eye on the place for me in the mornings, you can stay.”

“Sure,” I say, relieved by the offer. We work out a schedule. I'll be at the yard every day until noon. Then I'll go to Fine Ink and come back in the late evening. He gives me a key to the padlock on the front gate.

“Don't bring any more trouble or hoodlums around. You hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He waves a dismissive hand and walks away. I check on my car, which appears untouched. Maybe Omar came by to see if it's worth killing me over. I continue down the rows, to a small trailer.

I spend most of the morning cleaning the interior. There's a bathroom and a rusty old kitchenette. It would be nice to have a stove, a fridge, and running water. For tonight, all I need is a place to sleep. I take out a ton of trash and junk. Then I remove the mattress and hose it off, leaving it to air-dry in the sun. I sweep away the debris and scrub every inch of the interior.

My head aches from the pounding Noah gave me, and I just want to lie down. But the mattress is still wet, and I'm hungry. I should buy some supplies. I might be roughing it for a while. There's a sporting goods store a few miles away, so I hop on the bus and take it to the main drag. On the way I spot a familiar, provocative sign with an electric pink outline of a female body.

Club Suave.

Maybe Noemi is inside. I hit the yellow strip to indicate my stop. Then I get off the bus and walk across the parking lot. The bouncer checks my ID at the door and charges me twenty bucks. I don't understand why it's so expensive until I get a glimpse of the stage. There's a topless woman twirling around a silver pole.

I guess they changed management, or just returned to their roots. Club Suave started as a gentlemen's club. When April worked here it was a singles bar. I take a seat at an empty table between the door and the stage. I'm not here to see tits, but I watch a few dances anyway. A waitress appears to take my drink order. She's wearing the same outfit April used to wear. Fishnet stockings, satin tank top, short skirt.

I ask for a soda. Then I raise my voice to be overheard above the loud music. “Is Noemi working today?”

She studies my beat-up face, as if gauging my threat level. Then she hustles away without giving me an answer. Noemi returns with my soda a minute later. She sets it down on the table, none too gently. “Five dollars.”

Jesus. There's not even any alcohol in it. I count out five ones for her.

“Nice tip,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I don't have any more small bills, and I thought the tips were for the girls on stage. I wonder if she ever dances up there, or if she just hustles drinks. “I need to talk to you.”

Her mouth thins with annoyance. “You've got a lot of nerve, coming here.”

I'm not sure why she's so angry. Last time we saw each other, she was flirting with me. Maybe she's worried that my visit will get back to Omar. “I'm not looking for trouble. If you want me to leave, I'll leave.”

She tucks the money into her apron and glances around the mostly empty bar. “I'll meet you on the smoking terrace.”

After she walks away, I leave my overpriced drink on the table and head outside. She joins me, lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand.

“I heard you've been talking about me,” I say.

“Not by choice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your friend barged in the other night and grabbed me around the throat,” she says, clutching her neck in demonstration. Her fingernails are short, painted a glossy dark red. “He said if I didn't stop lying about you, he'd choke me out.”

I'm chilled by her account. Junior put his hands on her. He threatened her in my name. “Did he hurt you?”

Her expression softens at my show of concern. “No. He just scared me.”

“I didn't send him. I wouldn't have done that.”

She takes another drag of her cigarette, not responding.

“What did you say to him?”

“I said that I wasn't lying. I wasn't even talking about you. I didn't tell Omar shit. He just saw us together and went crazy.”

“Why didn't you deny it?”

“I did, but he didn't believe me.”

“Why not? Does he think you fuck everyone on the street?”

Her eyes slide away from mine, nervous. “He's always been jealous.”

Something about her demeanor makes my gut tighten with unease. She looks embarrassed or ashamed, as if she slept with him, too. Maybe I was wrong about which brother she was trying to get back at. “Did you set me up?”

“No,” she says with a frown.

“You weren't using me to make him mad?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why did you do it? Why me?”

“Because you were there,” she says bitterly. “Because I've been alone too long, and I wanted to feel good.”

I can't find fault with her answer. If anyone's at fault, it's me. I'm the one who showed up on her doorstep. I made the first move, and I knew the stakes. The danger and illicitness of our encounter added an extra thrill.

“Who hit you?” she asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

I touch my battered face but don't answer. I have more important things to discuss. “Omar says I owe him a car.”

“Because of us?”

“Because of the drive-by.”

She stubs out her cigarette. “And?”

“I was wondering if you could talk to him. Tell him it's over between us.”