Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (13 page)

I’
VE
never been as scared as I am right now. I sit in the backseat of the big, dark car, rap music blasting from the multiple speakers. The guy in the passenger’s seat, the one they called Pretty Boy, is turned halfway facing the backseat, chatting to Juan.
Guapo,
they call Juan. Handsome. Guess he has a reputation of sorts. Of all the things to be worrying about right now, that seems like a stupid one, but it bothers me anyway.

Juan bullshits with Pretty Boy like this is all completely normal. Like people who are your so-called friends come and force you into a car in front of your house any old time they want and there isn't anything wrong with it. But as I watch him, looking so relaxed, so gangster cool, I can also feel the death grip he has on my hand. He keeps our clasped hands on his lap and strokes my knuckles with his thumb. But his grip never relaxes and he never looks at me.

I know my best bet of surviving this whole thing is to keep from attracting attention, so I stay mute, my eyes down, watching my hand in Juan's and praying there will be some way for me to get away and call for help once we’re out of the car.

A flash of light catches my eye and I look down at the floor of the car, wondering where the tiny, red beacon is coming from. Horror washes over me as I realize it’s Juan's ankle bracelet. The RH has pulled him out of the halfway house and set the cuff off. Now the police will be looking for him. He'll be wanted, in violation of his parole, and if he’s caught—
when
he’s caught—he'll be put back in Huntsville. My stomach sinks, a bitter feeling washing through it. I struggle to push the tears back.

First things first
—I repeat the mantra in my mind. Get out of this alive. Then we can figure out how to prevent Juan from being sent back. I’ve never wanted my parents and Uncle Max so badly in my whole life.

We’re quickly moving into a part of Austin I’m not familiar with, and there’s a reason for that, of course. No one goes to these neighborhoods if they don't have to. Pretty Boy stops his rant about the new patrol patterns of the local police and how inconvenient it is to his business.

"So, bro,
El Jefe
wants to see you right away." He turns to look back at Juan, lowering his sunglasses so Juan can see his eyes over the tops of the lenses. "You shoulda gotten in touch as soon as you were out. He's fucking pissed now, and there are offers on the table. I did everything I could, 'cause you know I love you like a brother, but this shit is bigger than me."

He turns to the front of the car as we pull through a set of iron gates that have been opened by two armed men. The gate is off of an alley at the back of a double lot on a small side street. Once inside the compound, the driver pulls the car into a slot next to several other similar SUVs.

Juan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, man. It’s all good. Thanks for putting the word in. I'll take my medicine."

We all get out of the car, Juan still holding to my hand. Pretty Boy faces Juan and looks at him. Then he reaches up with both hands and lays them alongside Juan's head.
1
"
Vaya con Dios, hermano
," he says quietly.

My heart stops. Even I can tell this is a goodbye, and it scares the hell out of me to consider what type of goodbye it could be.

"Don't forget us, yeah?" Pretty Boy adds with a soft pat on Juan’s cheek.

"Yeah," Juan answers hoarsely.

"Take 'em in," Pretty Boy tells Lobo, dropping his hands from Juan and turning away. He strides toward a group of men sitting on a patio outside a building on the other side of the property.

Lobo walks ahead, motioning with his hand for us to follow. We enter the back door of a large single-story house, the windows and doors covered in iron bars. We pass into the big kitchen, where some men sit eating while an older woman washes dishes at the sink. Her hair is white, and she wears an old-fashioned, cotton, print dress just like the kind I’ve seen my grandmother wearing in old photographs. The men look at us glumly, a few lifting hands in silent greeting. Juan gives them a chin lift and mutters a few names in response.

Then the old woman turns and exclaims, "
2
Mijo
! You're home." She rushes forward, grabbing Juan's face in her hands and inspecting him for a moment. "
3
Mira
. You're a man now."

Juan smiles sadly at her. "
4
Abuela
. It's nice to see you."

Abuela
's eyes turned to me then. "And you brought someone along. Isn't she pretty." She takes my free hand and squeezes it.

I smile as much as I’m able through the fear that sinking into my very bones. I watch her dark eyes, feeling the first tiny bit of hope I’ve had since Pretty Boy showed up at the halfway house. I don’t know gangbangers, and I don’t know what to expect from criminals, but Latina grandmothers are as familiar as Mass on Sundays and
5
pan dulce
for breakfast.

"Yeah,
Abuela
. This is Angel."

"Angel,"
Abuela
repeats. "She looks just like one."

Juan gives her a sweet smile. "I need to go see
El Jefe
. Do you think Angel could stay here with you until I get back?"

I shoot a look at Juan, and my heart seizes up at the idea of being separated from him. "No," I whisper, trying to keep my voice low.

But
Abuela
's hearing is obviously well intact. "Shh, shh,
mija
," she says quietly. "You'll stay with me, and you'll be perfectly safe.
6
Comprendes
? I'll take you to my granddaughter, Destiny. You can visit with her and soon your man will come back for you, no?"

Juan gazes down at me and runs his big, warm palms up and down my arms. "It's the safest place for you here," he whispers. "Just do whatever
Abuela
and Destiny say. I'll find you soon. I promise,
linda
."

I look between the old woman and the man I’m so hopelessly in love with. Both sets of eyes beg me to trust them, believe in what they’re telling me. I take a deep breath, stuff down my fear and nod with a tight smile.

"Please be careful," I tell Juan, hoping he can hear all the words I’m not saying as well.

"Come on, man.
Jefe
's waiting," Lobo directs from the doorway where he stands finishing a cookie he swiped off the kitchen counter.

"I got to go," Juan says as a look passes between him and Abuela.

"
7
Vaya, vaya
,"
Abuela
indicates, sweeping me into her embrace and bustling us through another doorway.

I look over my shoulder at Juan, but his back is turned, his shoulders squared and his head held high. All I can think is how very much I hope this isn’t the last time I ever see him.

1
Vaya con Dios = Go with God

2
Mijo/a = my son/daughter / my boy/girl

3
Mira = look

4
Abuela = grandmother

5
Pan dulce = sweet bread

6
Comprendes = you understand

7
Vaya = go on/ you go

A
S
I walk away from Beth, my heart screams. It rants and rages and tears at the inside of my chest. But seeing
Abuela
standing there in the kitchen was the first break I've gotten since Pretty Boy and Lobo showed up. I had to take it. If anyone in this shithole can protect Beth, it's
Abuela
. She's Jefe's
madre
, and even though she's spent a lifetime raising gangbangers and feeding them and waiting on them, she knows what they're capable of—especially when a pretty woman is involved.
Abuela
will do everything she can to keep Beth away from the guys, and then hopefully I'll find a way to get my
linda
off the property before
Jefe
puts a bullet in my head.

Lobo leads me to the den where
Jefe
holds court when he isn't out tending to business in the neighborhood. Luis,
Jefe
's personal bodyguard, frisks me as I go into the room, and then both he and Lobo leave, closing the door after them.

The den is oblong, a flat-screen TV on one wall, doors to a patio on another. There's a large, ornate desk of dark wood at the far end and two leather armchairs with a side table set up between them in front of the desk.
Jefe
stands from the desk, eyeglasses balanced on his nose.

"
Guapo
," he booms as he strides across the room to grasp my hand and pull me into a tight hug. He steps back, his hand still on my shoulder as he leads me to the desk and indicates that I should take a seat in one of the armchairs. "You didn't call me when you got out. I'm hurt. It was ungracious, and I thought your
madre
raised you better than that. It cost me a lot of money to keep you safe inside. You were a popular commodity."

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "
1
Lo siento
, Jefe. It
was
ungrateful and I didn't mean it to be. I've just been chillin', trying to lay low until the cuff comes off so I could visit proper-like, you know?"

I watch his hands carefully as he leans back in his chair. I once saw
Jefe
smile and laugh as a guy told him a story right in this very office. He looked as relaxed as though an old friend were regaling him with some tale from their childhoods. And in the middle of the whole thing, with no warning whatsoever, his hand came up with a gun in it and he shot the guy right in the face. The smile never left, and after the guy's blood and brains had splattered all over the room,
Jefe
slowly replaced the gun and closed the drawer, chuckling to himself. "I always loved that story," he said.

Now, luckily for me, the sick fuck's got his hands on top of the desk, but I don't trust him for a second.

"Well," he continues, looking at me thoughtfully, "I understand. It's hard to adjust when you first get out, and I would have let you have a few more weeks of vacation, but something's come up."

I nod, keeping my face as neutral as I can until I hear what he has to say and then determine what my reaction should be.

"You remember what I told you when you came to me all those years ago, Guapo?"

"Yes, sir," I answer.

"Good. You remember I said I'd protect you from your old man under two conditions—the first that you work for me, and the second that he was in Mexico. I never thought I'd see the day when he was allowed back in the country, but now it's happened." He stands and walks over to a small bar in the corner.

Once again, I keep a close eye on his hands. He pours two shots of tequila and grabs a bowl of limes out of a mini fridge and a shaker of salt before he returns.

"Drink?" he asks as he sets a shot down in front of me.

I nod my acquiescence while he wets his hand between his thumb and forefinger with tequila. Then he pours salt on it, licks it, and downs the shot, sucking on a wedge of lime afterwards. I follow his lead, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it rolls down my throat, leaving a trail of numbness in its wake. I can't help but think that, if he's going to kill me, I'd like about five more of these so I don't have to feel the bullet tearing through my flesh and bone.

"I like you,
Guapo
. I always have. You did good work, and you were useful when we wanted to keep the
Santos Mexicanos
out of our pockets. Your
padre
has been very clear for years that he wants you alive, and as long as I kept you that way, he stayed out of my business. It pissed him off, and you don't even know all the times he tried to take you away so I'd lose my leverage, but I've always thought you were worth it."

He leans back in his chair again, his hands folded across his stomach. "Now though? Now I'm afraid your
padre
has become more than I can reasonably handle. With him here in the country, he's got access to resources he didn't from Mexico, and you've become more of a liability to me than an asset. Please know this is all just business, kid. Nothing personal, no?"