Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Her kiss is different from what I’ve experienced. I’ve kissed only girls. Adriana is a woman.
She guides my hands to her waist. She murmurs approval when I touch her. She laughs softly when I tremble.
“See?” she whispers against my mouth. “You’re not a boy.”
She brings me to her desk.
Papers scatter. A glass falls somewhere and breaks, but she doesn’t stop. She touches me, undresses me, makes me forget why I came to see her in the first place.
For the next few minutes, I forget the guilt. There’s only Adriana, her hands on my body, making me feel things.
And when she spreads her legs and nods, I plunge into her, letting her swallow me whole.
It doesn’t take long. Three, maybe four, thrusts, until I climax with both pleasure and shame tearing through me.
Adriana strokes my hair afterward.
She lets me rest my forehead against her shoulder while my body shakes. She lets me feel held. Safe.
Then she lifts my chin. “If you enjoyed that,” she says, “there’s more where it came from. But you’ll have to stay.”
It’s time to leave. I look again at my bloodstained hands. I’m wearing the sweatpants Robin found for me in the dryer, but my shoes and shirt are disgusting. At least my shirt is black, which hides the blood.
I stop in the kitchen and turn on the faucet. I soap up my hands and rub them together while pink spirals down the drain. I scrub until my skin burns.
Robin left ten minutes ago.
Maybe more now.
I’m wasting precious time.
Every second I stay here is another second Vega’s men draw closer. If Zabala checked in before arriving, Vega may already know. If he didn’t, they’ll know soon enough when he fails to report.
I need to get out. Figure out where to hide. How to survive without Robin Bellamy’s help.
I could still go to the US and ask for asylum.
And I have a passport.
Zabala got it for me a few years ago as a favor, and I’ve kept it on me ever since.
I step outside the back way.
I can’t do anything for Señora V. I can’t do anything for Robin.
So I walk toward the car I stole and hotwired. The street is quiet for now. Too quiet. Neighbors no doubt hear the shots. They’re staying inside.
Smart.
In my pocket is a wad of 100,000-peso notes.
Fuck. Where’s my gun?
I took it out of my waistband in the basement when I changed into the gray sweats.
I can’t go back now.
No time.
I reach for the car door—
“Leaving without saying goodbye, Cruz?”
The voice is familiar. Familiar as arsenic.
Adriana.
37
ROBIN
I drive with my hands locked around the steering wheel. Thank God Señora Valentina’s car has GPS. What was I thinking, just leaving without having a clue how to get to the embassy?
Every intersection feels like a trap. Every motorbike that pulls too close makes my heart slam into my ribs. Every man standing on a corner becomes Zabala. Every dark car in the rearview mirror becomes Vega.
I don’t know if I’m going the right way half the time.
I don’t know if I’m being followed.
I don’t know if Cruz is alive.
No.
I shove that thought away so hard it hurts.
I think about the road. The next turn. The embassy.
My throat is dry. I have no passport. No phone. The peso notes Cruz gave me.
When the embassy finally comes into view, I almost miss it.
I park quickly and run to the gate, ready to kiss the American flag.
Someone approaches. “May I help you?”
“I’m an American citizen,” I say. “I need help.”
After that, things happen quickly and not quickly enough.
Questions.
Identification I don’t have.
Names.
Dates.
My voice shakes as I explain enough to be believed but not enough to collapse. I say kidnapped. I say held against my will. I say escaped. I say my family is in Texas. I say I need to call them.
I do not say Cruz.
I do not say Zabala.
I do not say Señora Valentina.
I do not say the man who rescued me also almost killed my brother.
Relief hits so hard it feels physical.
For the first time since I woke up in that awful cell on that disgusting cot, I breathe without feeling fear.
A woman with kind eyes brings me water. Another person asks if I need medical attention. I say I don’t know.
Because I don’t.
What counts as medical attention?
My body is bruised. My wrists are scraped. I haven’t slept properly. My nerves are shredded. My heart keeps doing strange things.
“Come with me,” the woman who’s helping me finally says.
She brings me to a small room. Inside is a table. A phone. A box of tissues. A chair with worn fabric.
It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.
“Take your time,” the woman says.
I almost laugh. “I need to call my family. They’ll wire me money. Help me get home.”
She reaches for my hand. “You’ve been through trauma. You need to relax. Just give me the names and phone number of the person you want to reach. If you don’t remember the number, I can help you find it.”