Buried (Hiding From Love #3) Page 8

  "You need to stay away from me, linda."

  One of her hands runs along the outside of my pants, rubbing my erection, and I jerk, pressing my groin against hers.

  "Ahh," she sighs, stroking me harder as I take her mouth again.

  I can't help myself. I'm completely lost now. I pump against her hand, over and over, not even noticing the layers of fabric between her skin and mine, only the incredible flame of pleasure that's been ignited inside me. While my one hand continues its exploration of her breast, I rub the other along the hem of her shorts, quickly finding my way underneath and then to the lace edge of her panties.

  "Tell me to stop," I growl

  "No," she demands. "Don't you dare stop."

  "Do you know how many times I dreamed about you?" I ask. "How many nights I imagined what it would be like to taste you, to feel you, to hear you say you loved me?"

  "Probably about as many times as I did," she answers with a dry laugh, undoing the button on my jeans at the same time.

  I slip my finger under that last tiny bit of fabric and find a hot, wet heaven. She gasps as I slide my finger through her folds and then inside her. She frantically yanks at the zipper on my jeans, lowering it as I begin to work two fingers in and out of her in a slow, sweet rhythm. Then her hand finds its way into my boxers, her soft fingers wrapping tightly around my dick, and I freeze, my fingers inside her, my manhood in her grasp.

  "God, oh God damn, 1mujer." My eyes are squeezed shut, and I'm trembling with the effort it's taking not to simply let go and humiliate myself all over her palm.

  She wiggles and contracts her muscles around my fingers.

  "Jesus," I hiss as I nip at her neck just hard enough to warn her. She squeaks like a little girl and then softly chuckles.

  I plunge my tongue into her mouth again, losing myself in the sensations of her hand stroking my cock and her little tongue teasing along my lips. I circle her clit with my thumb, eliciting a shiver from her and another moan. My hips are thrusting in time with my fingers pumping in and out of her, and things are just on the verge of flying apart for both of us when I hear an all-too-familiar voice.

  "Odalay, bro. Now we know why 2Guapo couldn't be bothered to drop us a line. He's been making up for lost time." Laughter and hoots follow the remark.

  I feel everything inside me freeze up. It's like racing down a smooth-as-silk highway and suddenly hitting a cattle guard, tiny ridges in the pavement that jar the shit out of you and ensure you slam on the brakes.

  Beth is frozen, her breath coming in little pants. Thank God I've got her pinned to the house so no one can see her around my back. I pull my face away from hers and turn to look over my shoulder.

  "Hey, homez. Give me a minute, yeah?"

  Pretty Boy snorts and rolls his eyes. "We'll be right here, bro. But hurry it up. We got business to attend to."

  I give him a sharp nod, watching as he saunters back to the big Lincoln Navigator parked at the curb. I turn to Beth. Her eyes are wide with fear, and our bodies are still pressed together, our hands in each other's pants. I lay my forehead against hers as I remove my hand from her shorts and smooth out her top.

  "Listen carefully," I whisper. "They're RH. I'm not sure what they want, but it probably involves taking me with them—"

  "No," she whispers back, her desperation evident even when speaking so quietly.

  "Beth. This is important. Really important. You need to do everything. Every. Single. Thing. That I tell you to do. Don't talk unless you absolutely have to, don't argue with me, don't let any of them close enough to touch you. We're going to get you out of here, and I can handle the rest."

  I stand up straight, releasing her from the weight of my body, and tuck everything back where it's supposed to be before zipping and buttoning my jeans.

  "I don't want them to take you," she says, her eyes misting up.

  I place my palm along her cheek. "I'll be fine, linda. I always am. It's time for you to go live that life now. Promise me you won't do anything stupid, yeah?"

  She nods, biting down on her bottom lip to keep from crying.

  3"Bueno," I say. I lace my fingers through hers and take a deep breath before I turn around and face my past.

  Pretty Boy strides forward, hand extended. He's gotten a few more tats since I last saw him, including a teardrop at the outside corner of one eye. A gold cap glints on his top front tooth as well.

  "Fuckin' A, homez," he says as he clasps my hand and gives me a half hug, Beth still attached to my other hand.

  "Long time no see, ese," I tell him. I give a chin lift to Lobo, who is lounging against the SUV behind Pretty Boy.

  "Guapo," Lobo says, returning the greeting. He glances at Beth and grins. "Glad to see you back in action, bro."

  I scratch the back of my head, not even having to feign the embarrassment of being caught with my pants undone on the front porch of some house.

  "Yeah, this is Angel, man. I knew her back in the day. She organized a little welcome home celebration for me." I wink at the guys, and they laugh.

  Beth is silent at my side. Good. Just like I told her.

  "So, yeah, babe. I got some biz with my homies. You should head on out."

  I start to move her toward her car parked behind the SUV at the curb.

  "Not so fast," Pretty Boy says. He steps closer to us, looking Beth up and down lasciviously. "Maybe we'd like to get to know this pretty little Angel better ourselves."

  I feel Beth shaking, and I hope the guys can't see it. I keep her hand firmly in mine. "You know, I been sharing everything for four long years. I'm not really in the mood to share right now. I think Angel will just stick to partying with me." I pull her closer and wrap my arm around her shoulders. "I'm more than enough for you, ain't that right, baby?"

  She nods, swallowing hard and making a weak attempt at smiling.

  Pretty Boy narrows his eyes at us, watching her carefully. Fuck. He's way too smart for my purposes. Lobo, I can handle. Pretty Boy, not so much.

  "C'mon, vatos!" Lobo shouts from the curb. "El Jefe wants us to get Guapo back right away."

  "Yeah, man. It’s all cool," Pretty Boy answers. "We gonna take a little ride, and we can bring the pretty Angel along too, just to make sure Guapo here don't get lonely." He reaches out and grabs Beth's upper arm before she can move away and pulls her toward the SUV.

  "Hey, bro." I've got Beth's other arm and I’m not letting go. Pretty Boy's mouth sets now, and though I'm going to try, I know this isn't going to end the way I want it to. "I don't want a fucking bitch in the middle of work. Just leave her and let's roll. I want to catch up with my homies. She'll only be in the way."

  I eye Pretty Boy's hand clasped around Beth's arm and see his fingers tighten as Beth winces. Rage courses through me in waves, and I see red. I've never wanted anything so badly as I want his filthy hand off her skin. It's so vile and disgusting that I feel sick.

  "Nah, man," Pretty Boy continues as he moves toward the car, Beth—and therefore me—in tow. "We're all going on a ride. It'll be good, bro."

  I'm frantically scanning the area for a way out of this when I see Lobo lift up his T-shirt to scratch his stomach. It's a move with a very specific purpose, which is to show me the Glock he's got in the waistband of his baggies. Fuck. The game's up. They might have come here acting like long-lost friends who missed their boy, but it's pretty obvious they were sent to bring me in no matter what I wanted.

  "Yeah, it's all cool," I answer with a shrug as if I don't give a shit.

  Pretty Boy gives me a sharp nod indicating his approval that I've acquiesced. Beth looks up at me, her eyes desperate. I lean toward her as Pretty Boy leads us to the car.

  "It's all good, Angel," I tell her in a low voice. "Just remember what I told you."

  She nods and squeezes my hand tight as I slide into the backseat of the car behind her. The tinted windows hide us from public view as Lobo starts up the engine and we pull away from everything Beth's ever known, heading
into a world I'd give my life to keep her from.

  * * *

  1 Mujer = woman

  2 Guapo = handsome/good looking man

  3 Bueno = good/ okay

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

  Juan smiles sadly at her. "4Abuela. 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 5pan 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. 6Comprendes? 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.

  "7Vaya, 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

  AS 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. "1Lo 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.