Buried (Hiding From Love #3) Page 7

  I pick up the clipping and focus on his image one more time. I try hard as I can to control what I feel when I look at the photo, but I can't. I'm cold and angry and empty. And I know that he's getting closer every day, and there might not be anyone who can protect me this time around.

  * * *

  1 Santos Mexicanos = The Mexican Saints

  I visit Juan two more times before I bring Alexis and her boyfriend, Gabe, over. Each time, he tells me not to come back. Each time, I give him a kiss goodbye and say that I’ll see him in a few days. In between those battles, we talk—about growing up, about his mom, about plants. I explain my research project to him, and he asks about it when I see him the next time. I tell him my favorite drink at Starbucks, and he tells me he’s never been to a Starbucks. He says gangbangers don’t drink coffee. I laugh and ask him what gangbangers do drink. He says, “Coke and Colt 45.” I laugh harder.

  The third week, I bring Alexis and Gabe. I know they only want to meet Juan because they think he’s dangerous, but I don't care. I want him to see how many people will care about him if he'll let them.

  I watch as Gabe, a former Army MP who can give Juan's bad-assery a run for the money, sizes up the guy I’m falling hopelessly in love with. Once some sort of unspoken acceptance occurs between the two of them, an awkward conversation about tattoos takes place, ink apparently being the only thing the super-mechanic and my gangbanger have in common. At the end of the visit, Juan asks Alexis to keep me away from him and my heart is a little worse for wear.

  I ride home with Gabe and Alexis, and I’m acutely aware of how difficult it’s going to be to integrate Juan into any sort of normal life. I’m at a loss as to how I’ll ever convince him he can live in the regular world when simple conversations with normal people are so fraught with landmines.

  All the usual questions—what do you do for a living, did you go to college, where do you live—were off-limits. Anyone with any sense will notice within a few minutes of meeting Juan that he has a seven-year gap in his life. Years that can't be mentioned, discussed, exposed. And that’s if they even get to the point of speaking to him, because he’s more than a little intimidating to look at.

  The tattoos are visible—on his arms, his neck, his shoulders, and his chest. And they aren't hipster, weekend tattoos; they’re gangbanger tattoos—the RH crown, the stars on his shoulders, three teardrops on his left hand between his index finger and his thumb. It makes me feel nauseated to think the teardrops might mean what urban legend claims they do—one for each murder the wearer has committed. I never fear what Juan might do to me, but I often fear what he might be capable of doing in general.

  I know there’s no way he could have served four years in the state pen without being capable of some serious shit. It’s frightening to imagine, and in some of my weaker moments, I wonder if it’s too late to save someone who’s done those kinds of things. But then I strengthen my resolve and I’m ashamed of myself for the doubt. Juan deserves someone who will believe in him unconditionally. I’m determined to be that person.

  And it’s with that determination firmly in hand that I leave my house two days after I took Gabe and Alexis to the halfway house. I go straight to my Uncle Max's office, where he meets me at the front door, locking it after I come in.

  "I've been here for about an hour," he says as we walk back to his office. "I took a second look at the investigator's report from Juan's third arrest for possession with intent to sell. There's something I want you to see."

  I follow Max into his domain, where he takes a file folder off the desk and motions for me to sit next to him at the conference table. He opens the file between us and runs his finger down the page, scanning for the spot he wants.

  "Here it is," he says, jabbing his finger against the paper repeatedly. "Just look at this. ‘An informant within the Reyes Hispanos contends that suspect, Juan Martinez, has severed family ties to the Santos Mexicanos and is under the protection of the Reyes Hispanos. There is no other information about this rumor and no evidence to indicate its veracity, so detectives have dropped the line of inquiry, feeling that, true or not, it has very little bearing on these charges.

  "Since we know Juan's mother isn't with the Santos Mexicanos"—Max huffs out a sarcastic laugh—"I didn't think a lot about this. The cops seemed to feel it wasn't worth much, and the informant was probably about as reliable as any desperate gangbanger would be. But then I was looking through a stack of back newspapers, trying to find something we'd posted in the legals for a client, and I came across this." Max slides a newspaper clipping along the surface of the table for me to read.

  I look at the photo of a middle-aged man standing by a long, dark car, talking on his cell phone. He’s in shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled midway up his forearms, his tie loosened, one hand holding the phone and the other in his trousers pocket. Everything about him screams money, from the way he holds his body with such confidence to the thick, gold watch on his left wrist and the starched-linen collar of his shirt. He’s facing the camera, and from the slight blurriness in the photo, I’m guessing it was taken with a very long telephoto lens.

  A big man in a suit and dark glasses is a few feet behind the other man. He stands watch, obviously a driver or some type of bodyguard.

  As my eyes travel to the caption of the photo and back up to the man's face, my heart nearly beats out of her chest—Santos Mexicanos boss, Miguel Ybarra, stops to take a phone call on a street in San Antonio Saturday. US officials say they can no longer legally prevent Ybarra from entering the country, but they are keeping a close watch on him and his associates. The Mexican Consulate in San Antonio, where Ybarra was seen having lunch an hour before this photo was taken, had no comment on Ybarra's first visit north of the border in twenty-five years.

  I swallow once hard before looking up at Max. There is this little part in the back of my head that’s already figured it out, but the rest of my mind is screaming, “No!” What it’s piecing together is too awful to imagine. Too much for me to comprehend, yet it takes all the loose ends in Juan’s life and his story and ties them neatly together.

  "That was taken two weeks ago," Max tells me.

  "It couldn't be…right?" I ask, breathless with the shock.

  "I got online," Max continues, "and I found this." He pushes another photo at me, this one printed from the Internet. It’s a shot of Miguel Ybarra from a charity event. He is wearing a tuxedo and holding a glass of champagne, a smile gracing his face as he listens politely to the older woman talking to him. I stare, mesmerized and horrified in equal measure, into Juan's eyes in an older face.

  "Oh my God," I choke out, shaking my head. "Oh my God."

  Max looks at me seriously. "I'm not sure God is anywhere in this deal, mija."

  I spend the next few days in a stupor. I go to class, I come home, I eat, I sleep. My mind is a tangle of reactions, fleeting thoughts, ominous fears. Finally, on day four, Jill corners me.

  "All right. Out with it, Bethy. What the hell is going on?" Jill says as I stand waiting for soup to heat in the microwave.

  "What are you talking about? Nothing's going on," I mutter, turning my back on her.

  "I call bullshit." Jill hops off her perch on the kitchen table and walks over to lean against the counter next to me. She bends her face down, forcing me to look her in the eye. "What's. Happened? I know it's got something to do with Juan. Did he hurt you? Or threaten you? Don't be one of those girls, Beth. Don't protect him when he doesn't deserve it."

  I sigh and press ‘end’ on the microwave as it beeps.

  "I'm not, I swear. At least not in any way you might think. He's been nothing but good to me. And if he hadn't, you'd have known about it because you'd have heard me sharpening the knives before I castrated him."

  Jill bursts out laughing. "That's my girl!" she beams.

  I look at her, open my mouth, then shut it again, shaking my head silently.

  Jill becomes serious again. "So, what is it? You've got to t
alk to someone or you're going to make yourself sick. Seriously, Bethy, just take a load off."

  I take my bowl of soup and a package of crackers then motion to the kitchen table.

  After we’re both seated, I look at Jill, wondering what unforeseen consequences there might be if I admit what Max and I believe we’ve discovered. Max cautioned me against speaking to anyone about it, even Juan, for a few days while he digs around some more both in Mexico and the United States.

  "What I'm going to tell you can't ever leave this room," I say, giving Jill a serious look.

  "Oooh, cloak and dagger even." Jill rubs her hands together in anticipation. "This just gets better and better."

  "I'm serious, Jill. It's not fun and games. In fact, I'm guessing it's life or death."

  "Whoa. Okay, girl. My lips are sealed, I swear it."

  I nod in acknowledgement then purse my lips, considering how to begin. Finally, I start at the beginning—the chronological beginning.

  "Juan was born in Mexico and always said he didn't know anything about his father. We've never thought anything about it, but my Uncle Max heard something Juan's mom said once—about his dad being dangerous and that's why she'd run from Mexico."

  "So, domestic abuse?" Jill questions.

  "That was Max's assumption, but then, when he was looking through the records of some of Juan's prior arrests, he found something that talked about Juan possibly having family ties to the Santos Mexicanos."

  "Holy shit! So you think maybe his dad was a gangster too?"

  "Um yeah, but not just any gangster." I stand and go to my bedroom, returning a moment later with a file folder. I place it on the table and remove the newspaper photo of Miguel Ybarra, which I hand to Jill.

  Jill's face bleaches of color for a few seconds. She stares at the photo then up at me. "Him? You think this guy is Juan's father?"

  "Yeah, we do."

  "Holy shit," Jill gasps out.

  "Yeah. It's a lot to take in."

  "And does Juan know this?"

  "He must. It's got to be the reason why he was so desperate to stay in the US. Apparently, until a few weeks ago, this Ybarra guy was banned from the US. He just got the whole thing overruled somehow and immediately came across the border."

  "So you think Juan's mom brought him here so that Ybarra couldn't get to him, and when she got deported, Juan was so scared of ending up in Mexico he was willing to join the RH to get forged papers?"

  I nod my head and look at my loyal, unyielding friend. "That's exactly what I think happened."

  "But now big, bad man is here. In Texas. Maybe even in Austin."

  I don’t answer, because there really is no answer that I want to vocalize. Somehow, every time I say it out loud, it becomes more real.

  Jill's hand is warm as she squeezes my arm. "A guy like that can find Juan easy if he wants to."

  "Oh yeah."

  "This is too dangerous, Beth. Juan is too dangerous. You can't continue to be involved with him. If Ybarra is his dad and he wants to see his son, he will. You can't stop him and Juan can't stop him. If you thought the RH was a problem, it's nothing like this. I mean, maybe his dad wants to kill Juan, or maybe he wants to take him back to Mexico to make him a mafia prince or something. There's no telling. But anyone who gets in his way or who he thinks can help him get to Juan is in danger."

  I look at Jill and swallow. I hate this moment more than any point I can remember in my life ever. More than when I found out my mother was in the hospital. More than when I heard my sister had gone missing in Afghanistan. More than the day Juan disappeared from our home.

  "Promise me. Please," Jill begs me.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I can't do anything without talking to Juan and getting his side."

  Jill scowls, chewing on her bottom lip. "One more visit, Beth. One more. Then you're done. You have to be. I know it's not his fault, but you can't risk your life for him."

  I feel my eyes fill with tears, and my throat aches. I know Jill is right. No rational, normal person would take the chance. And I am rational and normal. Very, very normal.

  "Okay," I whisper. "I know. I just need to say goodbye, and then it'll be over. I promise."

  Jill looks at me sadly. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

  I make one last effort to keep it from crashing in, but I swallow once and then the dam breaks. I sit with Jill's arms around me and pour my heart out in a river of salty water.

  AS soon as I walk out the front door of the halfway house, I know what Beth's here to do, and my heart skips a beat, simultaneously flooding with relief and sorrow. She’s standing on the front porch, waiting for me, and her eyes are downcast, the fire in her stance vanquished.

  "Hey, linda," I say softly as I shut the door behind me and look down at her.

  "Hi," she answers before she sighs and motions toward the two metal chairs sitting next to the door. "Can we talk for a minute?"

  "Sure." I sit down—just inches away from her, but the distance seems like miles—and I feel something deep inside me throb like a small animal convulsing in its last moments of life. It's just one achingly brief pulse. Then it's gone, and I know I'll never get it back.

  The afternoon sun is low in the sky, dipping down below the edge of the hills that surround the city. It makes her hair glow with a red sheen as she sits and looks down at her hands for a moment. I watch her delicate fingers clutch each other when she folds her hands on her lap. I can't help but reach out to touch her—a fleeting butterfly of a touch—just to reassure myself that she's real, that she's flesh and bones, and the same beautiful soul she's always been before she leaves my life forever.

  "It's okay, Beth," I tell her as I draw my hand back. "I know you can't come anymore. You're doing the right thing. I want you to stop feeling bad about it. This is how it has to be."

  She looks at me, and the pain in her eyes makes me want to shut mine.

  "I know," she says simply.

  "Good. I'm glad you finally accept it. Now you need to quit feeling guilty and go on with your life. It's going to be a great life, linda."

  She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. "No. I know your secret. I know about him."

  My heart hammers in my chest as my mind races with the possibilities. There's no way. No way she could ever connect us. She must be talking about someone else.

  Sounding every bit as cool as any seasoned gangster does under questioning, I respond, "Who's him? I don't got no secrets, linda. I've had it all laid out, nice and pretty, in the newspapers even. What you see is what you get."

  I see the anger take over, her cheeks turning pink and her eyes flashing. "Stop it," she hisses as she stands up and faces me, her hands on her hips. "Stop defaulting to gangster talk every time you're cornered. You know how to speak proper English. Quit trying to sound like some asshole who never finished middle school."

  I throw my hands out to the sides, palms up, indicating I'm not sure what she wants me to say.

  "I know about Miguel Ybarra," she whispers as she leans down closer to my face. "I know he's your father, and I’m guessing you've been hiding from him nearly your whole life. I know why you'd join the RH to get fake papers—so you wouldn't have to go back to Mexico. It's because he's looking for you."

  I blink. Once. Twice. Then my breath comes out in a whoosh, almost as if someone knocked the wind out of me, which is basically what this five-foot-three bundle of kick-ass woman just did.

  "No," I mutter.

  "Yes," she answers definitively. "And he's here now. In the US. In Texas. And my guess is he's coming for you."

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, motherfucking fuck. I stand up, forcing her to step back as I do so. I pace up and down the porch, feeling the sweat break out on the back of my neck.

  "Where the hell did you come up with this…this…bullshit anyway?" I snarl at her.

  She looks smug and all too sure of herself. "My Uncle Max has been helping me review your case files. He just happened to put three differe
nt clues together, and once he did, it all fell into place."

  I come to a stop right in front of her. She's nine inches shorter than I am and doesn't seem to be the least bit intimidated when I get in her face. "And why. Were you. Reviewing my case files?"

  "Because I'm in love with you," she answers obstinately. Then more quietly, she says, "I always have been."

  Once again, she leaves me speechless. We stand, nose to nose, staring into each other's eyes, and I see hers soften, I hear her breathing become rapid, and I can feel the heat coming off her skin. My own breath is audible. I'm nearly gasping as if I just can't get enough air. We look at one another—one second, two seconds, three seconds. She breathes, I breathe. Time stops. My heart stops.

  "Madre de Dios," I gasp as I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her to me.

  I crash my lips into hers, openmouthed, seeking, penetrating. I hear her moan, and I run my other hand up the front of her top, palming her breast over the cotton fabric. She's lush and full, and I'm ready to come just from the sensation of her slick lips and the ample handful I'm massaging.

  "Fuck, Beth. God," I gasp.

  "I'm so scared," she murmurs. "I promised. I promised I'd stop seeing you. He's too dangerous, Juan."

  I run my lips down her neck, skimming her collarbone, one hand squeezing her ass and the other rolling her hard, little nipple between my fingers.

  "I know," I pant out, some distant part of my mind telling me that I need to stop kissing her, stop touching her, stop wanting her. But it's no use. She's got her hands under my T-shirt, stroking my abs, making every part of me quiver in sheer delight. I walk her back against the wall of the porch, in between the door and the front window of the house. If anyone's sitting in the living room, they're getting a hell of a show right now, but I just can't bring myself to care.