Against the Wall (26 page)

I can't stop thinking about Eric.

I spend every spare moment replaying the night before, remembering how good it was between us, wondering if we'll ever be together again. Maybe I should have yelled at him or issued some kind of ultimatum. I could have told him that if he goes to this foolish meeting, he can kiss our relationship goodbye.

I'm not sure it would make any difference, though. I can't make these choices for him. He has to want to change—for himself.

My classes keep me occupied until noon. When I'm done for the day, I stop by Kelsea's dorm room to pick up some stuff for her. Then I go to her dad's house and help her take a shower before she leaves for her doctor's appointment. I buy an iced coffee on the way to work. I'm tired and anxious, which isn't a good combination for a roller-skating waitress, but I manage to do my job without dumping food or drinks on anyone.

I take a break after the dinnertime rush and glance at my messages. Earlier this afternoon I asked Kelsea to check up on Eric for me. She just sent me a text saying he left work early for reasons unknown. Frowning, I call her back.

“What's up?” she says.

“Why did he leave?”

“I don't know. My dad said he had personal business.”

“You're kidding.”

“No.”

“Son of a bitch!”

He's meeting Omar tonight, not later this week. He
lied
to me.

“I have to go,” I say, hanging up.

I tear off my roller skates and shove them into the locker. Not bothering to change out of my uniform, I put on my shoes and grab my purse. On my way out, I spot my supervisor, so I make a sick face and press my palm to my abdomen.

“What's wrong?” he says.

“Female problems.”

He cringes and waves me away as if I'm cursed. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

I hustle outside and jump in my car, hoping I can reach Eric before he does something really stupid. Letting him make his own mistakes no longer seems like an acceptable option. He lied to me again, and I'm pissed. If he thinks he can get away with that, he's dead wrong. I'm not some meek little mouse who never speaks up or challenges her man. Maybe I didn't assert myself enough with Chip, but that was mostly out of apathy. I didn't care about making our relationship better.

Everything's different with Eric. My feelings for him are all-consuming. I love him and I hate him and I'm not going to hold back anymore. I'm not going to stand down.

The junkyard is closed when I arrive. I park in front of the gate, muttering curse words. I have no idea where else to look for him, so I get out and walk around the perimeter, trying to get a glimpse of his trailer. I can't see it, but I'm close enough to note the empty space where his car used to be.

While I'm standing there, seething, another car pulls up next to mine. It's a sleek black Chevy Impala. Not exactly a lowrider, but a cool muscle car in a more incognito style. The man who exits the vehicle is about Eric's age, with a shaved head and a goatee. He's wearing tan pants and a white T-shirt. Although there's no brown bandanna around his wrist, like Eric used to wear, everything about him says gangster.

My stomach drops as he walks toward me. He's tall and stocky, with tattooed arms. I think I should probably run, in case he wants to hurt me, but I don't move. I came here knowing I was putting myself in danger. I've committed to this course of action.

He stops about five feet away, studying me. My work uniform feels abbreviated and ridiculous in this context, like a cheerleader costume. His gaze lingers on my legs and breasts before rising to my face. Then he glances through the fence links at the same empty space I noted a moment ago.

“Looking for Eric?” he asks.

I moisten my lips, uncertain. “Do you know where he is?”

“I might.”

I'm not sure how to react to his cryptic attitude. Maybe he expects me to offer him something in exchange for information.

“I'll take you to him,” he says finally. “But you have to do whatever I say.”

That sounds like a bad bargain. “Can I follow you in my car?”

“No,
chula
. You have to ride with me.”

I nod my agreement, though I don't intend to go anywhere with him. “I'll grab my purse,” I say, walking toward my car. My plan is to climb behind the wheel and drive away. Then I'll wait for him to pass by and follow him.

Easy, right?

Not so much. He grabs me by the arm well before I reach my car. Then he shows me a switchblade, letting it glint in the fading daylight.

Oh shit.

“Get in,” he says, shoving me toward the driver's side door of his car.

I think he might be bluffing, but I can't tell. I can't even think. My mind goes blank at the sight of the knife in his hand. The self-defense techniques I've learned fade into nothingness. I remember one piece of advice: never let an attacker take you to another location, because you're more likely to die there.

“Get in,” he says again, and I do it.

I get in.

He pushes me across the seat and climbs behind the wheel, pressing a button to lock all of the doors. Then he puts his knife away, because now what can I do? I'm trapped inside. “Don't fuck with me while I'm driving.”

“My brother's a cop,” I say.

“I know,” he says flatly, starting the engine. He gives me another once-over. “You look like him.”

I stare out the window, too scared to carry on a conversation. I don't want him to hear my wavering voice or see my hands shake. It's surreal. I feel sort of disconnected from my body, as if none of this is really happening.

I think I felt that way when Jack attacked me, too. But I was so drunk and stoned, it's hard to remember the details.

The gang member—Omar, I'm guessing—drives east on the freeway, while I try to focus on breathing and staying calm. I think he's going to use me as a bargaining chip. I'll be okay. There's no reason for anyone to cut me up into little pieces.

No reason except that I'm a cop's sister who can't be trusted to keep my mouth shut.

He pulls off the freeway and follows a sign that says
BROWN FIELD
. I know this is where Eric killed Oscar. My tension skyrockets as we travel down a dusty back road. There's nothing around here for miles.

Oh God. I'm doomed.

He stops at the top of a hill, waiting. There's a small group of cars parked below, two lowriders among them. If these are his friends, he makes no indication. He turns to me and takes the switchblade out of his pocket again. “Hold still, or I'll nick you.”

I gasp as he slices my tank top down the middle. I'm wearing a white lace bra underneath. I try to close the fabric to cover myself.

He examines my exposed skin with a slight frown. Then he brings the blade to his palm and cuts into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb. Blood trickles down his wrist and he smears it across my cheek. I turn my head to the side, cringing as several drops splash on my chest and stain my bra. He brushes his knuckles over the tops of my breasts, grunting in approval. It dawns on me that he wants me to look like I've been roughed up.

When he's finished wiping blood on me, he wraps a brown bandanna around his hand. “Tie this.”

After a short hesitation, I make a knot over his palm.

“Now get out.”

I don't have to be asked twice this time. As soon as he unlocks the door, I scramble out, clutching my ruined shirt together. “You're not Omar,” I say, finally understanding. “You're Eric's friend. You're Junior.”

“Yeah, so? You think you're safe with me?”

Clearly not. Because he grabs me by the hair and presses the blade to my throat, dragging me down the hill.

I drop my silver cross and tuck it under my shirt, aware that I've been seen.

There's nowhere to run. I'm not carrying any weapons. I just stand still, waiting for the procession of vehicles to reach me. Omar's car is at the front of the pack. Three others follow at a close distance.

He slows to a stop next to me. His window is rolled down, arm resting on the jamb. His car is flashy and expensive, worth five times as much as my Chevelle. I don't see any resemblance to his brother. Omar is younger than I am, with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache. He's wearing a black wifebeater undershirt to show off his muscles.

“Adónde vas?”
he says, smirking.

He thinks I'm running scared. I wonder how brave he'd be without his clique. I don't bother to answer, because it doesn't matter where I was going. I won't get there.

“Get in,” he says.

“I left my car on the other side of that hill. Why don't you just take it and we'll be done with this?”

“The car is there?”

“Keys in the ignition. Pink slip on the dash.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing.”

“
Ay, cabrón
. I've heard that before. Get in, or I'll have you put in.”

I walk around to the passenger door and climb in. He drives the short distance to my Chevelle and stops. The other members of his crew park in semi-circle around us. We all get out, but no one approaches my car. Maybe they think it has a bomb in it.

“Who gave you that
putaso
?” Omar asks, gesturing to my bandage.

“Some cop.”

“I heard you were going straight.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I'm not quite there yet.”

Omar is more personable than I thought he'd be. He seems pretty relaxed, but he doesn't have much to worry about. The numbers are on his side. I'm here alone, unarmed and cooperating. A short guy in baggy clothes jumps in my car and starts the engine to test it. Then he turns it off and looks at the pink slip.

This is the part where things might get dicey.

The guy brings the card to Omar, who reads it with a frown. “What the fuck is this?”

“Damn,” one of his friends says into his fist. “It's made out to Noemi. She's going to ride around in his car, like she's his
heina
? That's cold, dude.”

I knew that I was taking a risk by going over Omar's head and not consulting him. I didn't walk away quick enough, and now I'm fucked. It's clear that he feels disrespected. His friends' comments only add fuel to the fire. I didn't realize they would think I was trying to stake a claim on Noemi.

“I'm not looking to get with her,” I say.

Omar's nostrils flare with anger. “You already got with her.”

I can't argue that. “She needs a car. You don't.”

He passes the card to one of his friends and grabs me by the front of the shirt. My collar is already stretched to the limit from the earlier altercation. “That's none of your fucking business,
güey
. You killed my brother. You owe
me
.”

“Were you there that day?”

“What difference does it make?”

I glance at the guy beside him, who looks familiar. “We agreed to fight
mano a mano
. He thought I'd be easy to beat, but I wasn't. When he started losing, someone slipped him a knife. I didn't bring it. I took it from him.”

“You're a fucking liar.”

“Ask them,” I say, indicating his crew.

Omar shoves me to the ground, furious. I stay there while his friends stammer unconvincing denials. One says he didn't see, and another claims I'm full of shit. But they can't meet his eyes, and I can.

“Ask Noemi,” I say. “She was there.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Omar says. “I don't care about that. Your debt is to Eastside. The car is mine.”

“So take it, and give it to her yourself.”

He glances at his friends, incredulous. “Can you believe the nerve of this motherfucker?
Levántalo
.”

Two of his friends grab me by the arms and haul me upright.

“I'll do whatever I want with your car, and I'll do whatever I want with you. Who's going to stop me?”

I don't say anything. The only person who has my back is Junior, and I'm reluctant to make threats on his behalf. I'm on my own, unprotected. No one in CVL or La Eme will care what happens to me.

“CVL's been soft on you because you were Junior's little bitch in prison. They haven't jumped you out.”

“We should do it for them,” his friend says, smacking his fist against his palm.

A jump-out is a severe beating, usually done by members of your own clique. It's not a pleasant experience, and I don't want to be Eastside's punching bag, but I'm in no position to barter for a better deal.

Before I can respond, a female scream rings out in the distance. I search for the source of the sound and spot two figures coming toward us.

It's Junior. And Meghan.

She looks terrified. Tears are streaming down her face and her shirt is torn, revealing a bloodstained bra. Junior is holding a knife to her throat.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. He's my best friend. I've known him for more than ten years. His choice to bring Meghan here is beyond my comprehension. The fact that he attacked her and tore her clothes…

My vision turns red at the edges and my hands curl into fists. Our friendship is over now. I'll kill him.

He drags her closer, teeth bared in menace.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Omar asks.

“I'm taking the car,” Junior says.

All of the Eastside members stare at him in shock. They're young men, not experienced criminals, and Junior is…well, he's kind of a psychopath. He's using Meghan to create a spectacle.

“He turned his back on CVL,” Junior says, jerking his chin toward me. “He owes dues.”

“Who's she?” Omar asks.

“She's his bitch. You can have her.”

“What would I do with her?”

Junior grips her hair tighter, pulling her head back. “Use your imagination.”

She's on display, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Omar might be disturbed by the sight, but he looks.

They all look.

I struggle to break free from the two guys holding me. They don't let go. I feel like a bull in a pen, eyes wild, snorting with rage. Junior has completely lost his mind. I don't even recognize the monster he's become. First he puts his hands on Noemi, now he's terrorizing Meghan? “Her brother's a cop,” I say in a low voice.

Omar doesn't need to hear more. “Are you high?” he asks Junior. “I can't be part of this. Get the fuck out of here and take her with you.”

“If you want the car, you have to make a deal with me. I'm claiming it.”

“You're crazy,
güey
.”

“Sí,”
he says, pressing the blade harder against Meghan's throat. She whimpers in pain.

“Let her go,” I yell.

“Calmate,”
Omar says. He doesn't want her blood on his hands.

Junior inches closer to my Chevelle and glances inside. Then he removes the blade from Meghan's neck and shoves her forward. She falls down in the dirt with a startled cry. I break away from the Eastside members and rush toward her, crouching down to her level. She grips the front of my shirt and presses her face against my chest.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“I'm okay,” she whispers.

Junior stands in front of the car and waves his knife at Omar tauntingly. “Let's negotiate.”

“For what?”

“I want you to stay out of my territory.”

Jesus Christ. This isn't about me, or Meghan, or my car. It's about selling drugs on every street corner.

“I'm not in your territory.”

“B Street is mine.”

Omar crosses his arms over his chest, deliberating. “You can have it from 1500 west. But I'm keeping the car for Noemi. The pink slip is already made out to her.”

Junior glances at me in surprise. Then he puts his blade away and returns his attention to Omar. “I'll give you the car, but only if you can win it from me. All four of you,
choque en cadena
.”

Choque en cadena
means pileup, a brutal type of fight in which the participants take turns punching each other in the face until someone falls down. Whoever stays on his feet the longest is the winner. Even though Junior is a formidable opponent, the odds aren't in his favor. Maybe he could outlast two, even three other guys. Four is pretty much impossible.

But he's not playing to win. He's playing to settle the score. He's taking a beating so I don't have to.

Omar nods his agreement. He's losing the car to Noemi and a few blocks of territory to Junior. Even so, it's a fair deal. It's a macho deal, one that will garner respect in the neighborhood without causing a street war.

It's a good deal for Junior, and an even better deal for me, but nothing will ever be the same between us. Junior's actions send the clear message that I'm no longer a part of CVL. He can't protect me anymore.

I bring Meghan to her feet and pull her away from the carnage. When we're at a safe distance, I stop to study her face. Her eyes are swimming with tears, lips trembling. I touch her cheek tenderly, checking for injuries.

“Did he hit you?” I ask.

“No.”

“This is blood.”

“It's his.”

I lower my gaze to her ruined top and stained bra. “I'm sorry,” I say, hugging her close. “I felt like my heart was getting ripped out of my chest when I saw you with him. I'd die if he hurt you.”

She murmurs something against my neck.

I pull back to meet her eyes. It's the worst timing ever for a romantic declaration, but I have to tell her how I feel. If I don't say this now, I might never get the chance to say it again. “I love you.”

Her face crumples with emotion and my throat closes. I hope I can make it up to her, but I don't know if we can come back from this. When she inhales a sharp breath of dismay, I look over my shoulder to see Omar punch Junior. The impact rocks his head the side. He spits out blood and returns the favor.

It goes on like this for several rounds, with each Eastside member taking a turn. It's hard to watch. Noses are broken and teeth are loosened. After about a dozen punches, Junior weakens. He knocks out the smallest guy with a roundhouse punch, but it doesn't matter. Omar takes him down on the next swing.

He falls to the dirt and stays there.

The Eastside crowd disperses. They lift their unconscious comrade off the ground and carry him to a car. Omar drives away in my Chevelle. I guess I'll just have to trust him to deliver it to Noemi.

When the coast is clear, I approach Junior. He groans and rolls over, squinting up at me. His eyes are already swollen, his chin bloody and his cheek puffed up. I hold up three fingers. “How many?”

“Thirteen,” he says.

A joke, I'm assuming. When he reaches for my hand, I help him to his feet. He's none too steady, so I let him lean on me. Meghan keeps her distance. She might understand the sacrifice he made, but she doesn't want to be near him.

We get in his car and I drive to his apartment. I take him up the stairs and give him some painkillers. Meghan makes him an ice pack, saying nothing.

“Do you want me to stay?” I ask him.

“No.”

“You're all fucked up.”

“I always will be.”

This makes my eyes burn with a sudden, unstoppable rush of tears. Junior kept me alive in prison. He's had my back for years. And now I have to turn my back on him. There's no way we can continue to be friends.

“Don't be such a pussy,” he says. “I know how it is.”

I give him a CVL handshake. My last. “Thank you.”

“Go on, before I decide to steal your girlfriend again.”

Wiping my eyes, I walk outside with Meghan. It's full dark now, with blurry stars. We head to the nearest bus stop and I put my arm around her.

But she's the one who holds
me
up.