THE BIG MOVE (Miami Hearts Book 2) (18 page)

              Parker didn’t leave a voicemail, but she did leave a text after I failed to answer.

             
“Got so used to having you here day in and day out that there’s a big hole,”
it read.
“Hope everything’s fine. Contact me if you can.”

              Nothing was fine. I’d fulfilled my end of the ransom, but I still hadn’t heard from Antonio. It was very likely that he was dead. I would never see him again.

              I would always be alone.

              Even as I thought that, a place deep in my heart stirred. It reminded me that I didn’t have to be alone. It reminded me that within the circuits and wires and microchips of my phone, the answer to my despair could be found.

              I didn’t have to be alone. I had Xander. I had his number. I could call him at any time.

              A part of me wondered if it was best that Antonio was gone so I could guiltlessly pursue something with Xander, but the thought sickened me so thoroughly that I gave a dry heave, though nothing had been in my belly since the day before.

              That wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted Antonio to be okay. I wanted to hear from him. I wanted things that maybe I didn’t deserve, to not have to be afraid, to be able to love freely.

              And in that vein, my traitor fingers scrolled down my meager list of contacts until the very last entry in my address book.

              Xander.

              Before I could analyze it, before I could even begin to talk myself out of it, the number was dialed, the phone was pressed against my ear, and it was ringing straight into my skull. I set my teeth together, gritting them against what I was sure would be a resounding rejection. It would’ve been more than expected if Xander had just answered the call with, “Don’t call this number again, bitch.”

              That would’ve made more sense than anything that was happening right now.

              Instead, within two rings, the lines connected.

              “Sol.” Xander’s voice sounded breathless but entirely welcome, as if he’d fumbled in his pocket for his phone in his haste to answer it. That made me feel good — just a little bit better about things. Xander still wanted to talk to me, even after my long silence. That was something positive.

              “Hey,” I said, my voice cracking terribly, rasping like it was coming from the bottom of some deep well. I hadn’t spoken in long hours, and I tried to clear my throat.

              “Are you okay?” he asked, his tone colored with concern. I was sure I’d sounded like something that had just crawled from a grave.

              I started to say I was fine, but stopped. I wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. If things were fine, I probably wouldn’t be calling. But that wasn’t fair to Xander. None of this was fair.

              “Sol? Are you there?”

              “I’m here,” I said, my voice sounding small even to me. “I’m here.”

              “What’s wrong?” I could practically hear his smooth brow furrowing, imagining the way the skin on his mahogany would ripple to mirror the worry all the way up into his brain.

              “I need you.” That hadn’t been what I’d wanted to say, but even as the surprise words tumbled from my mouth, I knew it was true. I needed Xander. I needed him by my side. I couldn’t do this alone.

              I loved him when he didn’t ask for details, didn’t ask me to explain myself. He would’ve been well within his rights to do so, but he didn’t. I wasn’t sure that I could explain myself even if I tried.

              “Where are you?” he asked, his voice calm. “Are you safe?”

              “I’m safe. I’m at my apartment.” It was Antonio who wasn’t safe, Antonio who could be dead in the middle of the forest, for all I knew. I’d tried so hard to save him. But it hadn’t been enough.

              “Can you tell me your address?” Xander asked. “I can plug it right into my GPS and be there as soon as I can. We don’t even have to stop talking. I’ll be on the phone with you the entire way.”

              How was he so good? I was so clearly losing my mind and Xander was ready to sweep in and pick up the pieces. What could his mystery job be? A superhero? That was what he was sounding like to me right now.

              “I … you don’t have to come here,” I said, finally able to muster some command over my words. “I’m sorry. It’s stupid. I’m just being stupid.”

              “Sol, if there’s a problem I can fix for you, I’m going to fix it,” he said, resolute. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

              I didn’t know who I was anymore. It was so tempting to just give up and let Xander step in and help me that I heard myself giving him my address as if someone else were speaking. I looked around my tiny studio apartment, forlorn, well aware that there was a reason I never invited anyone there. I kept it clean, but it embarrassed me suddenly. Even Xander’s transient existence in a hotel room had been so much nicer than this place. Was there anything I could do to hide my home’s poverty? If there was, I couldn’t think of anything. I didn’t even think I had the energy to so much as try.

              “I’m outside your door,” Xander said into my ear, and I jumped as a knock sounded on my front door. That was much faster than I anticipated. Had he been in the neighborhood? Did he live close by now? Or maybe I’d just zoned out, like a strange little person, unwilling to accept the fact that I was slowly drowning in grief.

              I got up from the couch slowly, aware that I didn’t even have a chance to slap on some fresh deodorant or brush my teeth. It took all the strength I had just to walk the few steps across my floor, and open the door.

              It shocked me that it was already well into the evening hours. Had I really wallowed in my sorrow and panic all day?

              But what was even more shocking was just how easy it was to simply melt into Xander’s arms. I didn’t really know if he’d opened them to me, or if I just needed someone to hold me. But he embraced me gently, gingerly walking us into my apartment and closing the door behind us as if we were some sort of freak of nature, unable to disconnect or lead separate lives.

              In his arms, all of the worry and pain drained away.

              “I’m sorry for this,” I said haltingly, not even trying to pull away from the front of his shirt. My words were muffled, but I didn’t care. Xander smelled and felt so good.

              “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Sol,” he said quietly. I could feel his voice rumble in his chest better than I could hear it. “Sometimes, you just need somebody.”

              I accepted his words, was more grateful for them than I could hope to express. Somehow, we ended up on the couch. I was embarrassed that I was practically sitting in his lap, pressed up against him as if my life depended on it, but I was feeling better than I had the entire day. I’d recently realized just how hard comfort was to come by here, alone in my life.

              “Do you want to talk about it?” Xander asked, stroking my hair softly. It felt wonderful — not sexual at all, just relaxing. Hours and hours of tension were melting away from my shoulders. I sincerely doubted, however, that he would really want to talk about how afraid I was that my boyfriend had been killed just after I’d finally come up with the last installment of the ransom money. That was a conversation that would bring up way too many questions.

              “No,” I whispered.

              “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked. “I’m a pretty resourceful guy. You’d be surprised at the problems I can solve.”

              “Can you just hold me?” It was a plea from my very soul. I just didn’t want to be alone right now. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Xander, but it had been the only thing I could think to do.

              “Of course I can,” he said, his voice so tender that my heart threatened to break. “In fact, it’d be my pleasure.”

              He went on stroking my hair, and I closed my eyes. I just focused on his hand on my head, the predictable rhythm of it, the way it made my shoulders and neck relax. I focused on this small pleasure drowning out the cacophony of thoughts and worries in my mind and the very real possibility that someone I loved was dead.

              Xander was here now, and somehow, things were going to be all right — whatever the outcome might be in Honduras. Life here was going to go on. It simply had to. I couldn’t curl up and stop living. Antonio wouldn’t have wanted that. I understood that.

              I had to have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes, it was with a jolt. The light outside my lone window was bright — daytime already?

              “Sorry,” Xander said, his voice soft. “I didn’t want to wake you, but your phone just hasn’t stopped ringing. I was trying to silence it because it seemed like you need the sleep.”

              In an instant, I snapped out of my grogginess. “My phone’s been ringing?”

              “Yeah,” he confirmed. “You waiting for an important call?”

              “I am,” I said, sitting up and grabbing the device from him. The number wasn’t Antonio’s. It was a number I’d never seen before, but the telltale string of digits that started it was a dead giveaway. It was a number from Honduras. It had called my phone precisely five times. What did this mean?

              What befuddled me even more than the number I didn’t recognize was the time of day.

              “It’s already 5 o’clock?” I squeaked, glaring at Xander almost as if the passage of time was his fault. “In the afternoon? Why didn’t you wake me?”

              “You seemed really tired,” he said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal that I had passed out for nearly a solid 24 hours on his lap. “I thought it was best that I let you sleep. You obviously needed it.”

              I gulped. “I drooled on your pants.” I didn’t know it was possible to be this embarrassed.

              “Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Xander said, his mouth quirking up in a smile. “I promise.”

              “You had to have been so uncomfortable,” I babbled. How had I passed out cold for all that time? “Didn’t you have to go to the bathroom?”

              “You were out like a log,” he said. “I utilized the facilities without your permission several times, so thank you, belatedly.”

              My phone buzzed again, and it was the same number from Honduras.

              “The number’s not from here, is it?” Xander asked.

              “No,” I said. All he had to do was search the country code on the Internet to find out it was from Honduras, to figure out that I wasn’t who I was telling him I was.

              “You should take it,” he said. “It’s important to you. I can see that. I’ll get out of your hair.”

              He pushed himself off the couch, suppressing a groan, and I suddenly doubted that he’d so much as stirred from that very spot with me on top of him. Why would he do that? Why would he put himself through torturous boredom and stiffness just for me?

              “Xander?”

              He stopped at the door, his back to me. I waited until he turned around, his eyebrows raised in a question.

              “Sol?”

              I smiled. “Thank you.” He’d helped me more than he could possibly know, more than I thought he could, just by simply being here.

              “Anytime,” he said, waving as he walked out of my apartment.

              My phone had stopped buzzing by then, but at least I had a number to call now — whoever might be at the other end of the line. Had Antonio’s cell phone ended up in different hands? Had that been why I’d received that cryptic text message? Maybe this was a new number for his kidnappers, a new way to extort money from me.

              Whoever it was, they were trying very hard to get a hold of me. I didn’t want to keep them waiting any longer, especially if it was related to Antonio’s life. For me, anything coming from Honduras meant Antonio. It had to.

              I heard the roar of Xander’s convertible’s engine fade down the street, and I took a deep breath. Xander had been here long enough to give me the strength to move forward. Moving forward meant figuring out who was calling me, digging into Antonio’s disappearance no matter what I might find.

“Soledad.”

              “Antonio.” I choked on his name, almost having resigned myself to the fact that I would never hear his voice again. The tears that hadn’t fallen before, when I thought he was dead, fell now upon proof he was alive. I was consumed with a spectrum of emotions ranging from relief to guilt. I’d spent the entire day and night with Xander. Of course I was happy that Antonio seemed to be fine, but how was I supposed to explain myself? I couldn’t even make it make sense in my own head.

              “I am so sorry for all of this,” he said, his voice gravelly either from disuse or overuse. I couldn’t imagine the circumstances for either condition. Maybe it had just been so long since I’d spoken with him that I’d forgotten how he sounded. Was such a thing possible — to forget what the love of your life sounded like to your own ears?

              “No apologies,” I said. “What was done had to be done. Are you safe? Is it over?”

              “It is over,” he confirmed. “Only because of you. You saved my life, Sol. I will never forget that.”

              I laughed through my tears. “What else was I to do? Leave you with them to die? They said they’d kill you. They sent me pictures of your face after they beat you. They kept you tied up. Do you think I would’ve just left you like that?”

              “You are so strong and amazing,” he said. “You amaze me, Sol.”

              “The thought of seeing you again kept me going,” I said. “I worked so hard, and now you’re free.”

              “I’m free,” he repeated, almost as if he doubted that fact. “Yes, I’m free now.”

              “I only wish that we would’ve been saving money for your return to Miami all this time,” I said. “We could’ve gotten you and your grandmother and my uncle and cousin first-class tickets by now, I think.”

              “It was a lot of money,” Antonio said, the tone of his voice dark. “Too much, Sol.”

              “Your life is worth millions and millions of dollars,” I protested. “$15,000 is nothing compared to your life. It’s a bargain, in fact.”

              Antonio gave a bark of laughter, a sardonic note in it that had never been there before. If I had changed in the time I’d been apart from him, he had most certainly transformed, as well. Would I even recognize him if I passed by him on the street?

              “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said darkly. “You should’ve left me to my own devices. I could’ve taken care of it.”

              Where was this coming from, and why did my heart hurt so much?

              “I would do anything for you,” I said. “You know that. You saved my life time and time again before, remember? You saved us both by getting us out of there. Let me return the favor, Antonio.”

              “Some things have changed, Sol,” he said, that strange tone still present in his voice. Who was this man? What had happened to him to transform him so completely from the one I’d loved?

              “What things?” I asked. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

              “What choice do you think the people in this country really have?” he demanded, his voice angry. I realized his ire wasn’t directed at me, but I flinched all the same. “Why do you think they squat in poverty? Why do you think they join the gangs?”

              “Because of the corruption,” I said. “I know this. I remember this. We left because we didn’t want those things for us. That was the choice we made.”

              “We ran away,” Antonio corrected. “We fled.”

              “Yes. We did.” I didn’t know why he was being so combative about this. I’d been there. I remembered. It was Antonio himself who’d made that decision for us. I’d had very little to do with it except for the fact that it was my life — and my soul — that was being threatened.

              “How is this country ever going to get better if the people who care enough to make a choice to better their lives without the gangs just keep leaving?” he asked, his voice cracking. “The spirit of this place is broken, Sol, because its children keep leaving it.”

              “But what choice did we actually have, Antonio?” I asked him. “We couldn’t have stayed. I … you know what would’ve happened. We could’ve tried to stand up to Raul, but you know that I would’ve just ended up in his stable of throwaway girls and you would’ve ended up dead. That was how our stories would’ve ended.”

              “I’ve seen the plight of the gangs from the inside,” Antonio said, not giving any indication of having registered what I’d just said. “I understand, now, the desperation that drives the youngest boys of our nation to give up their families, their futures, and join in.”

              “They threaten them,” I said. “They intimidate them. They bully them into it. I know this, Antonio. I saw it, too.”

              “Not like I saw it,” he said vehemently. I fell silent. Whatever this was, this was something that Antonio had to say, had to get off his chest. I obviously couldn’t offer anything but to bear witness to whatever he had discovered.

              “We know that the gangs bully and threaten,” he continued, a little more calmly. “I hadn’t known that they hook the kids on drugs. Had you?”

              I blinked, my stomach churning. “No — no, of course not. This is horrible. How did you …”

              “Do you know what a ten-year-old strung out on heroin will do, Sol?” Antonio asked, his voice a harsh whisper. “Anything you ask him to. Everything to get that next fix.”

              I let my eyes slide closed, too sick to my stomach to shed a single additional tear. What could I possibly say to comfort the man who’d seen things I couldn’t even stomach trying to picture in my mind’s eye?

              “Antonio, come back to me,” I finally said, if only to end the brutal silence that dragged on between us. “I don’t know how to make this thing better. I just want to put my arms around you again.”

              He sighed noisily. “I don’t think I can make that journey again, Sol. I don’t think I have it in me.”

              “Of course you can make it again,” I protested. “You won’t have me to slow you down this time, remember? You won’t have to worry. You probably won’t even need a guide. You remember the way. You remember what to do.”

              “I remember, yes,” he said, “but I just can’t do it again. Not now, not when I know what I know.”

              I swallowed. “What does that mean, Antonio?”

              He took his time in answering me. “It means that someone has to do something. I can’t turn my back on this. You can’t ask me to, Sol. I just can’t.”

              “What do you think you can do?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you going to swoop in and take away all the heroin? Steal the boys away, hide them in some secret place, away from the gangs? Are you going to toss every gang member into prison? Are you going to somehow convince the government to actually start doing its job, Antonio? Can’t you see how fruitless this entire endeavor would be? You can’t fight it by yourself. You can’t succeed on your own.”

              “I’m not by myself anymore,” he said. “I’m not alone in this. There are people I met while I was held captive. Gang members I spoke with. Young men I befriended. They don’t like the way things are in this country any more than I do. These people are willing to change. They’re ready for change.”

              “How many?” I breathed. “How many do you have behind you?”

              “Twenty,” he answered. “Or so.”

              “You can’t stage a coup with twenty gang members, Antonio,” I said, grinding my teeth. “That’s suicide.”

              “I’m not thinking about staging a coup,” he said. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. A coup for the minds of the Honduran people, perhaps, for them to start believing that a different way is possible. That it doesn’t have to be like this.”

              I wasn’t sure what I could say to sway him. Antonio had always been so idealistic. But in the country I’d been born in, you learned to keep your head down. Idealistic people were always the first ones to get targeted. Ideas were dangerous — more dangerous than drugs or bullets.

              “Antonio, I’m begging you,” I said, my voice breaking. “This is dangerous. This is too dangerous. I don’t think you understand — this is the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do.”

              “I’ve already changed the minds of twenty members of MS-13,” he said. “Did you think that was ever possible? To reason with a gang member?”

              “No,” I admitted, after a long pause. “No, I didn’t think that was ever possible.” Not after the bloodshed I’d witnessed. Not after the horrors I’d lived through.

              “Then what else might be possible, if this is?” Antonio asked. “I have to stay. I have to see this through. Even if it costs me my life — what is my tiny, insignificant life worth if I walk away from this? Change is possible, Sol. I have to believe in that because I’m seeing it.”

              Blood pounded in my ears. Was I really hearing this? Could this actually be happening?

              “You’re staying,” I said, feeling faint. “You’re staying in Honduras.”

              “I’m staying,” he agreed. “I’m doing what I always talked about doing. I’m staying and facing these problems. I’m not running away. This country has lots of problems, but I want to see what I can do to help solve them. Somebody has to help this place.”

              I realized that he probably didn’t mean to be doing it, but every word about change and staying was like a twist to the knife in my gut.

              “Do you think I abandoned Honduras?” I asked, the words hard to get out. “Do you hate me for being in Miami?”

              “When you and I left, it was because we had to,” he said. “And I regretted, at the time, getting deported. But now I’m thinking that maybe everything that happened was meant to happen. Maybe I was needed back in Honduras. And maybe you can come back, too, and help me fight for our country’s future.”

              Of all the things I thought Antonio might have said, this wasn’t one of them. He’d been the one who’d pushed me to leave the country in the first place. It had been his plan to save me. How could he expect me to come back after what I’d been threatened with, after all of the trials I’d been through simply getting to America, after everything I’d done to stay here?

              “Antonio …” God, I didn’t know what to say. What could I say?

              “I miss you,
amor
,” he said, rolling the “r” in the way that was so familiar to me. For a second, I even believed that this was the man I’d spent so much time with.

              “I miss you, too,” I breathed. But mostly, I missed the man I’d fallen in love with. This Antonio wasn’t that man anymore, and there was nothing I could do about that. I doubted I was the Sol he’d known before, either.

              “Then come,” he said. “Come back to your home. Come back to my side. You won’t have to live in a place that doesn’t want you anymore. You won’t have to live in fear.”

              “But that’s not true, is it?” I said. “I would still live in fear in Honduras. Fear that something would happen to you. Or me.”

              “Honduras is your home, Sol,” Antonio pressed. “Honduras would never call you illegal just for trying to live honestly.”

              “But Honduras would be indifferent toward my rape, my death — or worse,” I said. “That’s why we left, Antonio. Why I can’t go back.”

              He inhaled sharply. “You can always go back to the place you came from,” he said. “Have you been in America for too long? Has your brain been poisoned? Your heart? Is that place truly better than Honduras?”

              “I don’t fear for my life here,” I said, struggling to find the words to explain myself. “I don’t wonder if I’m going to be gunned down or taken as I’m going to work.”

              “Sol, you’re working in that country’s sex industry,” Antonio said. “America is a country that cares nothing for you. If they knew you weren’t specifically invited to live there, they’ll kick you out in a heartbeat, just like me. People hate you for where you came from, and the fact that you’re there without permission.”

              I thought about Xander, about what he would say if he ever found out I was Honduran instead of Cuban. Would he hate me if he knew?

              “I still don’t think I can come back, Antonio,” I said. “Honduras hasn’t been kind to me. It’s hard in America, but I’m finding opportunities.”

              “When you are able to stop selling your body, then you can speak to me about opportunities,” Antonio said, his voice full of bitterness. It shocked me.

              “You told me that, though working at the club wasn’t ideal, you’d always support me,” I said, pushing my forehead into the palm of my hand. “You told me that, Antonio. Did you not believe it?”

              “I said that when our situation wasn’t ideal,” he said. “I didn’t want you doing that forever, and yet you’re still there. That isn’t the American dream, Sol. That’s somebody’s nightmare. I never should have allowed you to work there. I would’ve rather wallowed in poverty than let other men lust after you. That’s no better than Raul’s stable of women.”