Buried (Hiding From Love #3)

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Books by Selena Laurence

The Lush Series (Rock Star Contemporary Romance)

A Lush Betrayal
(Lush No. 1)

For the Love of a Lush
(Lush No. 2)

Lowdown and Lush (Lush No. 3) Coming Fall 2014

A Lush Reunion (Lush No. 4) Coming Winter 2014/2015

The Hiding From Love Series (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

Camouflaged
(Hiding From Love #0.5)

Hidden
(Hiding From Love #1)

Concealed
(Hiding From Love #2)

Buried (Hiding From Love #3)

The Bittersweet Chronicles (YA/NA/Adult Contemporary Romance Novella series)

Book One: Carly (YA) 2014

Book Two: Pax (NA) 2015

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newsletter

For B—

The boy you once were. The man you never got a chance to be.

I wish you could have been saved.

I grew up in a very Latino culture in the American Southwest. The colloquial form of speaking that we called “Spanglish” was very common with both Anglos and Latinos, and it was especially prevalent with gang members. I’ve been true to that way of speaking in this book. All of the Latino characters sprinkle their dialogue with Spanish words, and especially the hero, Juan, who is a gang member. While I think the connotations of those Spanish words are pretty clear from context, I’ve also included definitions. Simply click on the footnote next to the Spanish word to see the definition, then click again to return to the page you’re reading.

Thanks for reading!

M
Y
homies used to say that you weren’t a real man unless you’d been in
1
la prisión
. Then you could show how loyal you were to the RH—the
2
Reyes Hispanos
. ‘Cause if some Aryan Nation
3
hijos de puta
were breathing down your neck while you were alone in the showers and you stayed true to the Reyes, then everyone knew you’d always be true. That was it, bro—if you were willing to take it up the ass for the Reyes, you were the real deal.

Fuck that. I made it through prison—with my
virginity
intact, if you know what I mean. I never betrayed the Reyes, but I’m not their
4
soldado
. I did what I did to stay in the US. I do what I do to stay alive. Sometimes that means playing ball with the RH. Sometimes that means hurting people I care about.

And now, after four long years in that fucking hell hole, after fights where I thought I’d never make it out alive, two stays in the prison hospital ward for stab wounds, more near misses on my damn backside than I care to remember, and endless fucking jobs for the RH, I’m free. Well, a hell of a lot closer to free anyway.

In every movie I've ever seen, when the dude gets out of prison, he walks out alone, no matter how out in the middle of nowhere the place is. Those scenes of the guy, paper bag of belongings in hand, walking out a big chain link gate, past the guards, and into the dust of some dirt road are bullshit. That's sure as hell not how I left prison, and thank God too. If I'd walked out of those gates alone, the RH would have had a car and driver waiting for me—probably Pretty Boy or even his girl, Destiny—and they'd have driven me straight back to the
barrio
, where I'd have had to go to work without so much as a welcome home party.

No, I didn't exit prison on my own two feet. I left in a van, with an electronic cuff on my ankle, and went straight to the Austin Sanctuary Halfway House for Reformed Offenders. Shit—as if anyone's going to use that entire name. We just call it
La Casita
—the little house—because it's like the Big House, only a whole hell of a lot smaller. Here, I'm still a prisoner, bound by this cuff for another six weeks, while I endure classes and lectures and meetings about shit like writing a
résumé
, how to dress for a job interview, the importance of education, and all the logistics of renting an apartment.

The thing is, if anyone had ever paid attention to my history, to who I was five years ago, they'd know that those lectures are bullshit. Hell, I could
give
most of those lectures. I was a straight-A student in high school, a varsity soccer player, and a really good kid all the way around. And I would have stayed that way—would rather have stayed that way—if only
5
la inmigración
, the INS
,
hadn't ripped my whole world apart. After that, there was no more Juan the student, Juan the soccer player, Juan the son. Only Juan the RH, Juan the drug runner, Juan the accessory to a drive-by shooting.

And now, there's Juan the ex-con who will fight like hell to be Juan the ex-RH.

My new prison does have a few advantages over the old one though. The halfway house is in a regular neighborhood in Austin, and it has a yard. Not a fenced-in patch of dirt, but a real yard—with grass and plants. My cuff will only let me go twenty feet from the house—not far enough to hop in a car pulled up out front—but it's far enough to get my feet in the grass, my hands in the soil, and my mind off my future.

I'm outside now, checking out the rosebushes along the side of the small, brick, ranch house. The place must have been for a family at some point. There are three bedrooms, a living-dining room combo, the kitchen, and two more bedrooms in the basement. Outside is mostly grass, but there are planters along both sides and part of the back, and they've got a few roses and some honeysuckle in them.

It's a beautiful spring day, not too hot or humid yet, and I found a pair of hedge clippers in the outdoor storage trunk, so I'm pruning the roses. Yeah, that's right—I like plants. Big, bad gangster boy likes plants. I spent hundreds of hours reading about plants in prison. I'm so damn happy to get my hands on some that I'd stay out here all day if I could.

What I don't have, though, are any gloves, so I'm getting my fingers chewed up by the thorns. I've just stabbed my thumb and snapped out something along the lines of "fucking bitch," but in Spanish, when I hear someone laughing.

I turn around, the meaty part of my thumb in my mouth, and there she is. It takes me a moment to process. She's seven years older—just like I am. Her hair isn't quite as long, but it's still thick and shiny and a dark mahogany color that makes me think of leaves in the fall—someplace like Vermont. A place I'd like to go someday—if I ever get out of the bottomless pit I've buried myself in.

She's looking right at me, and too late I realize she knows exactly who I am. I drop the smile that automatically came to my lips when I saw her and replace it with my RH face. It's a look you learn to don real quick once you've been in a couple of street wars. You learn not to give anything away through your face—not fear, not anger, not disgust. And nine civilians out of ten who see that look will turn around and leave—fast. The thing is, though,
she
doesn't. She doesn't turn and run or look scared, or panicked, or even offended. She gives me a glowing smile and walks right over from the women's halfway house next door, her firm, lush tits bouncing in her too-thin tank top, and those smooth, brown legs sliding against the fabric of her shorts.

She's fucking beautiful, and she's coming right up to me—within touching distance. What is she, nuts? Doesn't she have any regard for her own safety? I'm a fucking felon, she's alone, and I have scissors in my hand.