Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (5 page)

“You smoke?” he asks as if it matters.

“No.”

“Then why would you want to be a dishwasher?” He’s following my fucked-up logic now, I guess.

For some reason, I can’t shake this guy. Usually the gangbanger attitude keeps people at bay. It ensures that they don’t try to tempt me with crap about hope and a future I know I can’t have. But it’s not working with Navarro and that pisses me off.

“I
don’t
want to be a fucking dishwasher, and I don’t want to waste my whole day sitting here talking to you about nonexistent jobs I’ll never get hired to do. I
know
what my future is. Quit trying to tell me it looks like something else. The only future a guy like me has is one that includes a gang, prison, or a graveyard,
2
ese
. Just let me get to it.”

I stand up, knocking the chair over as I do because it makes noise and that intimidates your opponent. Pretty Boy taught me that the first week I started living with him and Lobo. Back when we were just punks handing out pills to kids down at the middle school.

“Make as much noise as you can in a fight, bro,” he told me. “Confuses everybody, gets ‘em off-balance. You gotta take every advantage you can get.”

It’s become second nature to me now, but somehow, with Navarro, it feels like more of a show than ever. He sits calmly and watches me as I flip him off and stomp out of the room.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on my bed, head resting against the wall as my mind spins with ideas of a job in a greenhouse.
Fuck
. I hate that he put it there. I hate that he wants me to grow hope. I haven’t had hope in years. Not since the day the INS sent
mi madre
back to Mexico. I don’t have the time or the energy for hope. It’s all I can do to stay hidden and alive.

I hear a knock. Then a voice travels through the flimsy, hollow-core door. “I’ll see you next week, Juan. Same time, same place. Bring me three job listings from the paper that you’d like to apply for.”

I scowl and don’t answer.

“It’s not a request,” he adds before I hear his footsteps receding down the hall.

If only I could explain to him that I’m not what he thinks. I’m not just any gangster looking to be rehabbed. I’m not a guy that the RH will ever let go. Hiding out and staying buried is the only way I’ll ever be free, and being free is the only thing I have left to hope for.

In the days since I’ve seen Beth, the yearning to catch a glimpse of her hasn’t lessened. But I’m used to being deprived of things I want. I’m used to wishing in vain. This is no different than the thousand other things from my previous life that I wish for every day. I keep my head down, spending any unscheduled time in my room alone or out tending to the plants. I convinced the house manager to get me a few small groundcover plants to put in the rose beds, so I’ve had a small task to fill the time.

The other two guys living here seem fine, but I stay as far away as possible. One was in for involuntary manslaughter in a DUI, and the other guy was part of an auto theft ring. They tried to make nice the first few days I was here, but I haven’t had a friend since I went in four years ago and I’ve learned to live without. I don’t talk to anyone, and they don’t talk to me. Makes things a lot simpler, and it helps extend your lifespan as well. The other two seem to be happy with the unlimited access to TV and a gaming console, so I’m left to wander the outside of the property at will.

I’ve been trying to decide how much space the groundcover plants will eventually grow to fill. Without a tape, my measurements are approximate, and I’m walking back and forth along the planter on the side of the building, pacing off the length one more time, when I hear the door to the house next door open and shut. I try not to turn and look—I really do—but it’s like I have no control over my head as it swivels on my shoulders, my body following right behind. Before I can blink, I’m standing there, staring right at Beth.

She’s wearing a sundress, the hem falling to a couple of inches above her knees. It’s flowered and has little straps on the shoulders, bringing instant memories of her as a little girl in those dresses her
madre
put on her.

“Your mom would be proud,” I say, remembering at the last second that I can’t simply walk over to her without setting off my cuff. It sobers me rapidly.

She tilts her head at me in question. “Why is that?”

“The dress,” I answer, wishing I hadn’t turned around now. She’s so fucking beautiful that it hurts. “She used to put you in dresses like that when you were little, no?”

She looks down at her clothing then back up at me, a smile rippling across her face. “Oh my gosh, you’re right. I never even thought of it. I can’t believe you remember that.”

She walks closer until she’s standing in front of me, a touch closer than you’d normally stand for a conversation. I catch a hint of cinnamon in the air around her and feel every nerve in my body stand at attention, like the whole battalion is salivating, ready to sit down to a feast. And really, being near Beth like this
is
a feast. For my eyes, my nose, my ears, my skin. Even though we’re not touching, I can feel her as if she were stroking one of her soft hands down my arm.

“I remember all sorts of things about you,
linda
,” I say, my voice rough.

She blushes. “I remember a whole lot about you too.” Her eyes sparkle in the afternoon sun, and I feel more out of my element than I ever have in a gang war or a prison lockdown. I’m drowning, and I’m not sure what to do about it, because simply willing it away doesn’t seem to work. I’m also hungry, so starved for any scrap of who I used to be, that I just can’t send her away. Not yet.

“So,” I say, gesturing to the patio around the corner at the back of my house. We walk that direction slowly. “What do you remember about me?”

When we reach the patio, I pull out the bench at the picnic table that’s there, abandoned, just like me.

We both sit, and I straddle the bench so I can face her. She leans the side of her face on her hand as her elbow rests on the tabletop.

“I remember how much you loved your mom,” she tells me. “She was a really sweet woman.”

I nod. Most of the pain I used to feel when I thought about my mom has dulled. I risked a visit once, years ago, before my arrest and conviction, when I knew the cops were closing in on me and I might not ever have another chance. I try to write her as much as I can. She quit going to school in Mexico when she was eight or nine, so she has to get someone to read the letters to her. It’s hard for her to find people she can trust to help her write back too, so I don’t get many return letters, but when I do, I can tell that she’s been reading what I sent. She was heartbroken over the conviction, but there wasn’t much I could do. I wasn’t willing to end all contact, and the return address to a prison makes it pretty damn obvious where you are.

“Yeah,” I tell Beth. “
Mi madre
is the best. She gave me as good a life as she could. I was a lucky kid.”

She nods, sadness washing over her features. I hate to see it, hate to see the sympathy or whatever the fuck it is. I’m a man. I don’t want a beautiful woman viewing me as something to be pitied. I struggle not to let my frustration show.

“So, where is she now?” Beth asks.

“She’s near Monterrey, and she’s got a place to live with her sister.” I don’t tell Beth that it’s a corrugated metal shack with a dirt floor and that my mom has had to move four times in seven years so he won’t find her. I don’t tell anyone about him. Ever.

“That’s good,” she says, giving me a small smile. She folds her hands on the top of the table primly, and I can’t help but reach out to touch one finger. Softly stroking the ring that circles it.

“And your parents? How are they?”

“Good. My mom had a heart attack a while back, but she’s doing well, and the doctors say she should be just fine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did it scare you?” I bring her hand down to the bench, holding the tips of her fingers in mine.

“A little, but she’s tough, and I feel good about the recovery.”

“Good.” I watch my thumb rubbing gently over her fingers as if it’s not attached to my body. Her skin is so soft that it sort of inhibits my ability to think straight. I hear a little sound from her and look up into her eyes. They’re sweet and warm, maybe a little tired.

“Juan?” she asks quietly.

I clear my throat, looking back down. “Yeah,
linda
?” I know I need to quit touching her. I’m sure that’s what she’s about to say, but I just…can’t. I can’t. It’s been so long since someone talked to me, wasn’t a threat to me, touched me, let me touch them. I feel like I’ve died and gone to Heaven just from this one little point of contact, my thumb on her fingers.

“I always had a thing for you. You know, a crush or whatever.”

I chuckle, the bitter irony of it all catching me hard in the solar plexus. I waited years to hear Beth say something like this to me, and now that she finally does, it’s too late.

“I always had a thing for you too.” I keep my head down, watching our now intertwined fingers so that she won’t see the sorrow on my face.

“I think I might still have a thing for you,” she tells me so softly that it’s almost a whisper.

Now I look up into her eyes. “Oh,
3
mi corazon
,” I answer sadly. “You can’t. You know that. I’m not for you, and you’re definitely not for me.” I let go of her hand and scoot back away from her.

She doesn’t move, just watches me thoughtfully. “But you’re out now, and you can change things, can’t you?”

I scratch my head and huff out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s not that simple,
chica
.”

“I know it’ll be hard—getting a job, finding a place to live—but you can do it. I’ll help you. It’s what I do. I know people who can work with you.”

I stand up, realizing what a mistake it was to let down, even for a few minutes. If I thought a job in a greenhouse was the shiny diamond of hope, I had no idea what talking to Beth Garcia could do. It’s like someone setting the Crown Jewels in front of me. But, of course, if I reached out, they’d be wrenched away before I ever touched them. Just like every good thing in my life has been wrenched away for the last seven years. I know better than to fall for that trick again. Fate loves to fuck with me.

It’s time to remember who I am. An RH. Put the mask on and get back to business.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I don’t need no help. Between the RH and the penal system, I got more help than I know what to do with. Really. Save it for your girls next door.”

She blinks at me. Then her eyes narrow and her lips purse. God, when she does that, it makes me want to plunge my tongue in her mouth and fucking eat her up.

“You keep telling yourself that, Juan. Tell yourself you don’t need us anymore—
4
tu familia
. Because that’s what we are. What we’ll always be. I’ve already called David and he and Tomás want to come up and see you. They’re ready to help. My mom is sending some tamales for you, and I’ve asked Alexis and her boyfriend Gabe to come with me one of these weeks to meet you.”

Wait. What the fuck? Panic wells up inside of me. No, no, no. This is not how it’s going down.

“What the hell, Beth? Are you fucking crazy?
5
Madre de Dios
.” I grip my hair in both hands, pulling hard to try to keep my fists from punching something. “I’m not going to hang out with your
hermanos
, and you shouldn’t be talking to your
madre
about me at all. What the
fuck
are you thinking?” I totally lose my cool at this point, pacing around the patio like a caged cat. I’m so used to being confined that I don’t stray from the concrete, ensuring that my cuff won’t get set off.

6
“
Estas loca. No sabes nada de mi vida
,” I start ranting in Spanish. I’m that pissed.

“I know more about your life than you think,” she counters. “And maybe I’m crazy, but nothing I’ve said is any crazier than what you
did
! I know you were upset when the INS took your mom, but to run off and join the RH? What the hell were you thinking, Juan? Why would you do something like that?”