Chapter 3
THREE
JUDAS
Iheard Mom and Dad talk about me; it was mostly Mom shouting at Dad for letting me ride the bike again.
She doesn’t get it. He doesn’t either.
But he stands on my side only because I have a cock in my pants. Boys have to stick together.
They both think it’s just a hobby, something I do to show off to the girls at school, but they don’t know what it means to me. No one gets it.
Ever since I got here, they’ve treated me like a broken toy they need to fix. They planned my future all the way to thirty, mapping it out like I am not even here. Maybe that’s what parents do.
But when you are haunted by nightmares that keep you awake at night, by demons no one can tear out of your soul, by a past that already scars you for life, control is the only thing that matters.
And I never had it.
Everyone sees me differently. The girls at school see me as a boy they have to fix because they can’t fix their own lives. The boys see me as a walking monster with two different eyes, calling me names just because I can’t talk. The adults pity me.
So the bike is the only control I have.
When I ride it, when I move with it, my thoughts go blank. The only things that exist are the road and the speed. No names, no faces, no stupid decisions everyone expects me to make. It’s just me.
One mistake can be fatal. The only mistake I ever want to make is never coming back. They think I have everything, but I see this house as a cage. When I ride, I feel free, like there are no limits and no expectations.
I don’t ride to get somewhere. I ride to leave everything else behind.
They will never get that.
I exhale and move toward the balcony. I gaze at the beach. Since it’s night, the moon is brighter than it should be. I smell the salty air as a soft wind blows from the south. Autumn here feels almost like late summer, with a lot of wind and some rain.
I turn around and lean on the railing, looking into my room. I tilt my head to the right and see her walking through her room.
Carmen De la Cruz, and from today onwards, Carmen Harrington.
My little sister.
I like her.
I know her.
She is a breath of fresh air. Not fake like everyone else around me. When she found out I couldn’t speak, she didn’t change her voice or look at me like a charity case. She stayed the same sharp little asshole she was from the second she arrived in this house.
I heard them talking about her, too. About how she lost her family two years ago, facing either foster care until she turned eighteen, or ending up homeless, or someone adopting her. And of course, my parents were the ones who stepped in. No one else wanted a problem.
I admire them. I truly do. But they don’t fucking think, what if she is a cold-blooded killer?
I watch her walk toward her room, her phone in her hand, videos playing about how to sign. She passes her nightstand and leans in too close, causing her toe to slam into the corner and making her fall forward. Her mouth opens, and Spanish words pour out. I can read it clearly on her lips.
She drops to the floor, clutching her foot, teeth sunk into a scream she didn’t allow to escape.
I laugh.
She lifts her head, eyes moving toward the window. I step back just in time, my reflection disappearing from the glass balcony door.
Nah, she is not a killer. Too clumsy to be one. Maybe I am, who knows?!
She is just someone who likes to pretend, just like all of us. We wear masks in front of people so they never learn who we really are. Too fucking afraid that if they see a little more, they will leave us behind.
I walk back into my bedroom.
My phone starts ringing.
As I move toward the bed, I see the name on the screen. It’s Ella.
Why the fuck is she calling me? She knows I can’t answer her.
I roll my eyes and collapse onto the bed, my thumb sliding across the screen as I text her.
I am up.
Up for what?
I exhale, staring at the screen.
Why do I always choose the not-so-bright ones?
You called, and I can’t fucking talk, so I texted you because that is all I can do. Duh.
Oh, shit, yeah. I am sorry.
I miss you, baby bear.
I tilt my head, blinking once, then twice. Like maybe if I blink hard enough, the nickname will disappear.
It does not.
Baby bear?
I type.
It is cute.
Since we are official, we should give each other nicknames.
Here we fucking go.
I don’t wanna be a dick, Ella, but we are just friends.
I text.
Friends don’t suck dicks.
She fires back.
Special friends do. ;)
You are such an asshole.
I read the message and exhale, sinking deeper into the mattress. My phone buzzes again, but I don’t move an inch. I hear footsteps, followed by a loud thud from the balcony.
I tilt my head.
Carmen is there, leaning against the railing. She looks at me, then moves her head forward and shouts.
“Hey, asshole, stop stalking me.”
I move a finger to my chest, then type a text.
Stop shouting. I am mute, not deaf.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Her eyes drop as she pulls it out and reads the message.
“Stop stalking me,” she says silently now, almost whispering, but I can still read her lips.
I raise a brow, still leaning against the wall by the bed. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a guy named Nico, whom I met last week while driving around Del Mar.
My friend has a party at his place, wanna come?
As I look at the screen, I notice Carmen step inside.
She walks toward the shelf where I keep helmets and the soccer trophies I won at ten and twelve.
They are laid out with a few pictures from when I was a kid.
LEGO figures and medals are piled on the right side of the shelf in my messy compromise to make space for helmets.
She turned to me and said, 1“Qué chaotic.”
I stand up and move toward her. I grab one of the helmets from the shelf and push it into her chest.
She raises a brow. “What’s this for?”
I shake my head, lift my phone, and text.
To cover your face.
I laugh at my own joke, but she doesn’t find it funny.
“Very funny,” she says, pushing the helmet back to me.
I lift my phone again, this time showing Nico’s message, pushing the helmet back to her.
“You want me to go with you?” she asks. She raises her brow again, shifting the helmet between her hands and leaning into one hip. “Why?” She chuckles. “Do you need protection or something?”
I roll my eyes and type another message.
Don’t be a brat, wanna go or not?
She nods. “Sure.” She squints, suspicious. Then she turns and asks, “Why do you want me to go?”
I exhale and shrug.
I cross my arms over my chest, watching her, trying to recognize something I thought was lost.
“Whatever. Don’t answer,” she says. “I’ll change. When are we going?”
I lift my hand and hold up my fingers, showing ten.
She nods, sets the helmet on the table beneath the shelf, and moves back toward the balcony. Before sitting on the railing, she says, “I’ll be back in ten.”
I turn away, my reflection catching in the mirror near the closet. I look at myself. Years spent working on my body, trying to be perfect for everyone else, and they still find flaws. I breathe in. Every muscle shifts as I step closer to the mirror.
I will never be good enough for myself.
Tragic.
If we thought of ourselves before everyone else, maybe we would see how good we actually are.
I move to the closet and open the door. I pull off my sweatpants and toss them onto the chair with the rest of the worn clothes.
I grab a pair of black jeans and pull them on.
Then the black hoodie with the white Guns N’ Roses logo.
I drag it over my head, exhaling halfway before sliding my hands through the sleeves.
The leather jacket hanging on the wall still smells like cigarette smoke. I spray a few drops of cologne on it, sniffing to make sure it’s covered.
Ella calls it the scent of a liar: bergamot, cedarwood, pink pepper.
She isn’t wrong.
I crouch to put my sneakers on, and then I hear another thud from the balcony.
“I’m ready,” Carmen says behind me.
I ignore her until I finish tying the laces and straighten up.
I grab the jacket from the hanger. And when I turn around, she is standing there in tight blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and white Vans.
I raise a brow as I walk toward her and toss the jacket at her. The air shifts as it lands, carrying her sweet floral scent with it.
She smells so good.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I close my eyes and turn away, trying to get myself together before I pick up the helmet.
“Am I supposed to wear this?” she asks, holding it up with two fingers, nose scrunched.
I nod and grab my keys and wallet before turning back around. She pulls the jacket on.
I laugh.
On her, it looks like she could fit twice inside it.
I sign to her, You look good.
But she doesn’t understand. I sigh, then text her.
You look ridiculous.
She chuckles. “Yeah, I know,” and walks past me, grabbing the helmet. “Would I need this?”
I nod and walk toward the balcony.
She rushes after me, like a lost puppy following too close.
This is a bad idea, I tell myself.
I sit on the railing and jump down. From below, I see her gasp, leaning over, silently shouting, “What the fuck?”
I crouch, place the helmet on the grass, then straighten and lift my hands, fingers moving as I motion for her to jump.
Instead, she throws the helmet at me.
It hits me straight in the crotch.
2“Ay, cabrón,” she curses from above, slapping her palm over her mouth.
I lift my thumb in the air and turn away, clutching my balls as it might help. No sound comes out, just a single tear burning at the corner of my eye.
I always knew I would take a hit between the legs someday with the way I behave, but I never expected it to be while I am trying to help a sister in need.
Fuck. Me.
She jumps down, takes the helmet from my hand, and walks through the garden.
I roll my eyes, still bent over, still holding my balls. I can’t yell that she is going the wrong way, so I grab a small pebble and throw it at her.
It hits the back of her head. She spins around, clutching it like I just shot her.
I lift a finger and point to the right, toward the garage. She curses under her breath and walks back toward me.
I head right, legs spread as wide as possible, letting the cold air reach my blue balls before I get on a bike. I already know I will feel every bump on the road.
As I approach the garage, she notices and also stops. I text Nico for the location, and once I receive it, I continue walking.
The garage is open, which isn’t unusual since I am the only one who uses it anyway.
I exhale and step inside, walking toward my new baby—the Kawasaki Ninja H2.
Matte black bodywork broken by sharp lines of exposed carbon fiber, toxic green threading through the frame like veins.
Behind it sits my first baby, the one Dad got me for my birthday.
A Yamaha YZF R6. Blue fairings with white accents, clean, smaller than a liter bike, yet still powerful.
She steps closer to the Kawasaki and runs her hand over the seat.
“Shall we ride this one?”
I raise a brow.
She has good taste.
I exhale and walk closer. I pop the seat, pull out the balaclava and gloves, and shove my wallet into the small compartment underneath.
I pull it over my head and look at her. Our eyes met for a moment, and I got lost in the shades of blue staring back at me.
Not just blue. There is gray in them that catches the garage light, sharp at the edges, framed by long, curved black lashes.
Beautiful.
I drop my gaze to the helmet and pull it over my head. She does the same. I point to the two metal pedals, then guide her foot toward one.
“Got it,” she says.
I swing my leg over the bike and sit down, pulling on my gloves while I wait for her.
She places her foot on the pedal and lifts herself up, holding onto me. As she settles behind me, she hesitates, unsure where to put her hands. I grab them and pull them against my chest.
I turn the bike on. The engine growls, and her grip tightens instantly. I roll forward, stopping just long enough to press the button on the key and close the garage door behind.
She leans into me as we ride out, her helmet resting against my shoulder. There is only silence and the sound of the engine. Lights blur as speed takes over, and the faster I go, the tighter she clings to me.
Riding with someone suddenly feels lighter, like a missing piece I didn’t know I was missing.
Broken people attract broken people. We understand without words.
We know that behind smiles, something is falling apart.
Behind our eyes, tears are waiting to fall.
We are souls fighting demons, and all we can do is ride with them through the night.
My heart pounds. She can probably feel it beneath her palm. It doesn’t race because of the speed. It races because I finally feel something after a long time, and I can’t name it.
They say every second, someone finds someone. They never know if that person will stay or leave. But I know I didn’t find someone. She found me. And she has no idea how dangerous that is.
They also say salt and sugar look the same. I can’t predict if she will be the sugar in my life or the salt in another wound that leaves a permanent scar.
But I can feel she’s been through hell, just like I have. The Harringtons brought us together, hoping to make it a home, a family. Instead, they built a wall we can’t break through. Because my mind, my fucking mind, wants too many things.
And every single one of them is a sin.
Forgive me, Father, my cock is getting harder just thinking of how tight my little sister is holding me.
I speed up.
I need my thoughts to go blank again.
I need them to make sense again.
Because nothing makes sense now.
1. How chaotic.
2. In this context "fuck"