Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (2 page)

"Juan?"she asks, looking at me eagerly.

"Uh, yeah," I answer with a tip of my chin, full-on RH armor in place.

"Do you remember me? Beth. David's sister. From Floresville."

I study her for a minute as if I didn't know exactly who she was the moment I laid eyes on her. As if she weren’t the ideal for the kind of girl I wanted to marry someday back when I was Juan the straight-A student and not Juan the felon.

"Oh yeah. Beth.
6
¿
Que pasa
?" I turn back to the roses before she can answer, hoping she won't be able to see the panic on my face. I'm crazy scared she's going to keep talking to me, keep trying to act like I'm not what I am. She needs to go away.

But no. Instead, she moves around beside me, closer—so close that I can smell the spicy scent of her skin or her shampoo or something. Like cinnamon. I'm clipping at the rosebush frantically now, my eyes glued to it so that I won't see her, my adrenaline so high that I don't even notice the thorns that are gouging me right and left.

"How are you? This is so cool. I work right next door," she chatters, seemingly oblivious to my mounting discomfort. "At the women's house. Are you staying here then?"

"Yeah," I mumble.

"I can't believe I've run into you like this. Have you talked to anybody since you've been here? I mean, anyone from home? I know David would be so happy to hear from you."

This finally stops me. I freeze in mid-clip, the shears partway through a branch of the bush. I turn my head and look at her, so stunned that I forget to put the mask in place.

"
7
¿
Estás loca
?" I ask her. "Because in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a fucking convict, Beth. I just spent four years in Huntsville. Your
8
hermano
is an accountant, and unless he's cooking books for the RH, he don't want to hear from me."

She looks at me with her head tipped to the side for a moment, her pretty little lips pursed in thought. I'm so thrown off-balance by her that I just stare right back, hedge clippers dangling from my hand, the sounds of cars moving along the street out front echoing in my ears.

Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets loose. "So, you think my brother is such an elitist prick that he'd turn away a friend just because you've made some wrong choices? Glad to know you respect my family so much. The family that treated you like one of their own for most of your childhood. The same people who took you in when your mom was deported. Or maybe it's really you who's the snob. Maybe you think because you're all badass gangster with your tattoos"—she gestures at my arms—"and your time served that poor David the
accountant
isn't good enough for you anymore? Is that right? The Garcias aren't
street
enough for the big Reyes Hispanos man?"

A part of me wants to grab this girl and kiss the hell out of her right now. She's so beautiful. Her face is pink from being pissed, her eyes sparking like fire, hands on her hips, chest jutted out so that I can nearly touch the soft roundness there. Another part of me wants to warn her off though, tell her not to fuck with the big boys—because I am one, whether she realizes it or not. The things I've seen—and done—would shock her, I have absolutely no doubt about that. They shock me and I’m the one who did them.

But the part that wins out isn't either of those. It’s the part that is so astounded by her
9
huevos
, her guts and sass, that something inside me just bursts. It travels up through my chest, around my frozen heart, until it comes out my mouth—and I laugh. I laugh harder than I have in years. I laugh until there are tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

Then, I reach out, take her hand in mine, and say, "
10
Odelay,
11
linda
. You haven't changed a bit."

1
La prision = prison

2
Reyes Hispanos = Spanish Kings

3
Hijos de Puta = Mother Fuckers

4
Soldado = soldier

5
La inmigracion = The immigration department

6
Que Pasa = What’s happening/going on

7
Estas loca = Are you crazy

8
Hermano(s) = brother(s)

9
Huevos = eggs/balls/testicles

10
Odelay = exclamation meaning “cool” or “right on”

11
Linda = beautiful

I
didn't know it was possible for one body to contain as many emotions as mine has in the last five minutes. From surprise to fascination to red-hot attraction that reels into confusion, disgust, and white-hot anger. Juan Martinez, my older brother David's best friend from childhood. Juan Martinez, the sweet, charming guy who both my sister and I yearned for as young teens. Juan Martinez, the gangster convicted of being an accessory to a drive-by shooting at the age of twenty and sentenced to hard time in the state penitentiary.

I recognize him immediately, some part of me having always thought I'd run into him somewhere, somehow, like fate. But as I move closer and get a moment to look into his face, I realize how very much he's changed. His eyes are hard, his lips set, and he’s a man now, rough, dark stubble dotting his firm jaw. He also has a scar above his left eyebrow that was never there before. It isn’t long, but it’s jagged, and I cringe on the inside thinking of how he might have gotten it.

I can't help but be aware of how much his body had changed too. Gone is the young boy I knew, with his smooth limbs and loose gait. In his place is six feet of solid, lean muscle, biceps that bulge, pecs that are abundantly on display under the white wife-beater he wears. A posture that’s coiled as if he’s permanently ready to spring, attack, or maybe even run like hell.

Then there are the tats. His hair is cropped short but not shaved, so I can't see if he has any on his scalp, but he has them up the back of his neck, on each shoulder, and down onto his forearms. They’re scary and sad all at the same time.

On his shoulders, he has stars. I know those represent that he was more than a regular foot soldier in the gang. Nothing like having your rank etched into your skin forever. On the back of his neck is a three-pointed crown. That’s the symbol for the
Reyes Hispanos
, the Spanish Kings, one of the most dangerous gangs in the country. A couple of years back, a very high member was captured and convicted on a slew of charges including narcotics trafficking, racketeering, extortion, murder, assault, tampering with federal witnesses. You name it, the guy did it. My mind can't quite wrap itself around Juan working for people like that.

But before I can examine the tattoos any more, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and tells me, "You haven't changed a bit." He’s laughing. It has such a rich, warm sound, and it reminds me so much of who he used to be, the Juan I knew as a girl, that I forget all about the gangster and smile back at him, suddenly embarrassed for my outburst.

I look down at our still-linked hands. "I'm sorry," I say. "My sister always tells me I need to learn how to control my temper. I didn't mean to be rude."

He follows my eyes and suddenly stiffens, pulling his hand away from mine like I burned him. He turns to the rosebush then back to me as if he doesn’t know where to go or how to escape.

"No, you don't even know how to be rude," he answers quietly. "I, uh, just forget how to talk to normal people anymore." He gives me a wry smile then steps back, creating more distance between us.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not normal." I smile. "So, how long have you been out?"

He looks even more uncomfortable as he rubs his hand along the back of his head. "Uh, about ten days now."

"And how long are you here for?" I pursue, refusing to let him just fade away like I can sense he wants to.

"Ninety days." He pauses then glances at his feet.

I follow his gaze and see that he’s wearing an electronic cuff. I know exactly what they are and how they work. I’m in graduate school at the University of Texas for women's studies, and I have an internship at the women's halfway house next door. I work with post-release women, helping them with things like résumé writing and other life skills. Most of them have the electronic cuffs the first few weeks they’re there. I don't even notice it anymore.

But I can see the humiliation on Juan's face when he realizes that I’ve seen his. It breaks my heart. Juan was always a modest guy. He never bragged or strutted, but he was one of the smartest, most athletic, best-looking guys in school. He was always kind and generous though too. I realize immediately that I never want to see this look on his face again—the one that says he’s ashamed of who he is. It just doesn't go with Juan. Not my Juan.

"Those things suck, yeah?" I say, trying to lighten the moment. "My girls over here at the other house always bitch about how they can't get under the cuff to shave their legs, so when it finally gets removed, they've got one ankle that looks like a gorilla's."

Juan cracks a smile, and my heart hums with relief. "It's a good thing I gave up shaving my legs altogether then," he tells me.

"Really?" I ask, winking. "They were always so smooth and pretty in high school."

"Watch it,
1
chica
." He laughs. "Those legs got me a state soccer championship."

We start talking about high school then and who we remember. Juan doesn't know much about anyone or what they’re doing—except my brother, and my guess is he got that information off the Internet. It seems that, when you join a hardcore gang and spend four years in prison, you don't keep in touch with many high school classmates.

We’re still standing next to the side of the house. I know his cuff won't let him reach the back patio next door, where I was sitting earlier, but I also know that there’s a similar patio behind his house. He doesn't invite me to come sit down though, and after a few minutes, he grows quiet, the liveliness I saw in his eyes briefly fading as they turn hard again.

"You haven't told me what you do next door,
linda
," he says quietly. I can feel my cheeks heat when he calls me
beautiful
.

"I work there. Well, I volunteer. I'm in school at UT in women's studies. My focus is how poverty and abuse affect women in unique ways. So things like women who end up in prison because they're poor and forced to be with men who are committing criminal offenses. I mean, some of these women are pushed onto the streets as young as fourteen, and the only way they can survive is to hook up with a powerful man. A lot of times, that means getting involved in his illegal business too. The next thing they know, they've ended up in prison. I counsel them when they get here. Try to help them understand that there are other ways out of poverty. Ways that don’t require being dependent on men."

I see Juan studying me—his face softer and more open than it was moments before.

"I'm sorry," I say. "That probably all sounded really stupid to you. Just forget I said anything. I spend too much time with other graduate students and not enough time in the real world."

"No," he replies softly. His hand reaches out as if he’s going to touch my face, and then he quickly drops it back to his side, shaking his head gently as he does so. "It doesn't sound stupid. It sounds like you're every bit as smart and kind as I always thought you were. I've known girls who needed someone like you."

I feel something inside my chest sting suddenly. Juan knows girls. Given what he looks like, Juan has probably known lots of girls—known them very well. I’m pretty sure I don’t like that idea. I’ve always thought of Juan as belonging to my family—to me. It’s a ridiculous idea, but one that stuck.

"Well, anyway, that's why I'm here." The sensation in my chest is making me increasingly uncomfortable. I need to leave. I just have to. "And, uh, it's why I need to get back to it. It was nice to see you." I give him a tight smile.

"Yeah, of course," he says, his expression grim. "You take care, Beth."

"Okay." I falter, unsure what to do next. "Um, you too."

He nods, the mask he wore when I first saw him slipping back into place.
2
"
Hasta la vista, linda
," he whispers before he turns and walks away, into the house.