Chapter 33
Efren
Ipace the length of the kitchen.
Back and forth.
My anger hasn’t yet subsided.
Back and forth.
Alma watches me over the rim of her glass of horchata. Her brain has been going a mile a minute since I revealed that Patricio is my biological father.
“I’m confused,” she says finally.
“Confused about what?” Something in my chest snaps.
“About everything.” She sets the glass down carefully. “Explain it again. How did you even find this out?”
I drag a hand down my face. There’s so much anger boiling inside of me at Patricio’s accusations.
First and foremost, Adrian is my friend.
I’ve never once used him for anything. Second, Patricio was making me out to be this bad influence when the reality of the situation is that I was arrested because of Adrian’s stupid ex-girlfriend.
“Do you remember the story about Adrian’s mom? Sandra. And Patricio,” I ask.
Alma frowns, thinking. “Sort of. Mireya told me something about it, but—” Then her eyes widen. “Wait—Adrian’s Sandra and Ivan’s son, right?”
“Yes.” I stop pacing and face her. “Patricio and Ivan were in some sort of sibling fucking rivalry. Sandra was with Patricio, but Ivan tried to pursue her to piss off his brother. When she denied him, he got mad and assaulted her. That’s how Adrian was conceived.”
Her jaw tightens. “I remember now. Fucking piece of shit.”
“When that happened, Patricio spiraled,” I continue. “Started disappearing to Tijuana for days at a time.”
“And that’s where he met your mother?”
“Yes. I don’t know much about their relationship, other than my mother was an escort, and according to the woman I spoke with, he only requested her company.”
“Oh god.” Alma’s breath catches slightly.
“Anyways, Vicente puts an end to these weekend rendezvous and forces his son to get his shit together. Patricio comes back, his image is wiped clean, and well, you know the rest.”
Silence stretches between us.
“Why haven’t you told him?” she asks softly. “If he knew the truth, maybe he’d—”
“Maybe nothing.” The word rips out of me before I can stop it. I force my voice lower. “You saw how he treated me, Alma. I don’t have much, but I have my integrity. I refuse to beg that man for scraps of decency.”
“You don’t know how he’d react unless you talk to him.”
“I don’t want to talk to him.” My hands curl into fists. “Even if I wasn’t his son, it’s not okay to treat people like they’re beneath you.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. You’re right. I just… I want what’s best for you.”
“Well, the Consuelos aren’t it.” The words spill out, the hate from inside me overflowing into the conversation.
“They’re fucking cursed. Every single one of Vicente Consuelo’s grandchildren is broken in some way.
Thalia had to hide her kid. Adrian’s mom destroyed herself trying to survive what Ivan did.
Cassiel’s in a coma—and don’t tell me that family didn’t have something to do with it. ”
“Cassiel was already unhinged,” Alma says carefully.
“Was he?” I fire back. “Or is he just another product of that environment?”
She looks away and exhales slowly.
I pull out the chair beside her and sit, the fight draining enough for the truth to slip through.
“Bud’s sick,” I confess, “Like really sick. He has cancer in his liver.”
Her head snaps up. “Efren, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just—I’ve been thinking lately. What if we just get out of here? Go with Bud to Corpus Christi and leave all this bullshit behind? We could open that coffeeshop we talked about.”
Her smile is immediate. Real. And then it fades.
“I want that,” she says. “I really do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t,” I repeat. “Or won’t?”
“I’ve worked so hard to figure out my past. I can’t just leave right now. Not when I’m so close to figuring out the truth.”
I release her hand and pull back. Her words cut me like a thousand tiny knives. She sees my hurt and reaches back for my hand.
“Efren.” My name falls from her lips like a plea.
“No.” I stand, the words burning their way out of me now. “This has gone on too long. Missy kidnapped you. Your real parents didn’t try hard enough to find you. And I’m over here moving heaven and hell for us, and it’s never enough. It’s never fucking enough for you.”
“That’s not fair.” Tears spill into her eyes.
“You’re right,” I say hoarsely. “It’s not. And I’m done being the only one who sacrifices everything.”
“Efren,” she pleads, her voice cracking.
“If you want to stay here, fine. But I’m done with this family. All of them. I’m not going to do this shit.”
I step back, grab my keys, and slam the door behind me before I say something I can’t take back.
_______
After my fight with Alma, I drive for a few hours to clear my head. Somehow, I end up at Los Peregrino’s Motorcycle Club with Ricky glued to one side of me and Silas plastered to the other.
Sober Silas is one of the craziest motherfuckers I know.
Drunk Silas? One of the most emotional.
“We’re both in the doghouse tonight, Pa!” he announces to the whole fucking bar, slapping me hard on the back before barking.
I wince.
I should be back at the penthouse, reading Alma a book and cuddling with her on the couch.
Not here watching Silas fill up another round of shots and slide them toward me and Ricky like he’s dealing cards.
We’ve already knocked out half a bottle of Don Julio 1942, and I can feel myself edging toward that blurry place where bad ideas start to sound reasonable. Silas, of course, is way past that.
He’d been here for hours before calling me for a ride. Then he convinced me to come inside “for one drink.” Now we’re both too drunk to drive, and Ricky’s just happy to get some time away from Lurch.
“Women,” Silas says solemnly, lifting his glass. “They suck your fucking soul out, man.”
He demonstrates, curling his fingers toward his mouth and making a dramatic slurping noise like he’s extracting a demon from inside him. I stare at him, and Ricky snorts.
“And yet you’ll still crawl back, begging her to forgive you every time,” a voice says behind us. I look up to see one of the club members patting Silas on the back.
“Aye! Hermano sit down. Take a drink,” Silas replies. The man sits on the empty seat next to Silas.
“Jasper,” Silas says, waving lazily between us. “This is Ricky and Efren. They work for Vidal. I’m sure you’ll cross paths soon enough.”
I nod in greeting. Jasper nods back before slamming the shot in front of him.
“So, what’d you do this time?” he asks.
“I almost shot at Patricio Consuelo. And you know why? Cause of this fool!” Silas announces loudly.
“This fool saved me,” Silas’s voice fills the entire bar as he throws an arm around my shoulders and yanks me in tight. I stiffen, trying to peel myself out of his sweaty embrace. “He saved my fucking life!”
“Wait? Did you really?” Ricky asks, his chismoso ass never one to turn down a good story.
“Tell him the story, Pa,” Silas slurs, his body swaying to the side. “Tell them how ju saved my life.”
“Why the fuck are you screaming, dawg?” I say, and that does it—he bursts out laughing, loud enough to turn heads.
“Gente de rancho.” I shake my head, glancing across the bar at Ricky, Jasper, and a few other guys who’ve slowly migrated over.
“Okay, okay, cholo,” Silas says, waving me off. “You don’t wanna tell it, I will.”
He clears his throat dramatically, like he’s about to give a TED Talk.
“I was in solitary confinement when this fucker”—he jabs a finger into my chest—“would come by every day with the food cart. One day, I tell him, ‘Hey, you think you could get a message out for me?’”
Silas pauses, waiting for a dramatic effect, and I sigh as he holds me there in a headlock.
“Two weeks later?” He spreads his arms wide. “Aurelio busted me out.”
I catch myself on the bar when he drops me, and the floor looks like it’s spinning. Silas crosses himself, kisses his rosary, and points to the sky. As expected, absolutely no one is impressed with the story.
Silas turns and wraps his other arm around Jasper.
“And this guy, man, this guy’s a fucking brother to me.”
“Get the fuck off me,” Jasper growls, but Silas only tightens his headlock.
“Jasper’s a little uptight,” Silas whispers loudly. “He’s a P.P.I.”
Every drunk in the room laughs—myself included—until Alma flashes through my mind.
“You’re a dick,” Jasper mumbles, pushing Silas off him.
“Oh shit,” I say, sobering just enough. “Are you really a private investigator?”
A private investigator could solve a lot of problems in my love life right now. Maybe if Alma could just get the right information, then I could convince her to finally leave this hellhole.
“I was,” Jasper says flatly. “Now I just use my skill set for the club.”
“If you ever need a P.P.I., he’s the best,” Silas slurs. “Here—I’ll send you his contact info right now.”
Silas staggers up to the stage and grabs the karaoke mic. He starts singing every Chente song in the jukebox off-key while Ricky dances with a woman old enough to be his grandma. It buys me a few moments of privacy to explain to Jasper about Alma’s situation before the doors slam open.
The devil herself storms in, wearing eight-inch Louboutins. Thalia snatches the empty bottle of Don Julio off the bar, and marches straight toward the stage.
Silas’s eyes go wide.
“Oh shit,” he mutters into the mic.
Right before she breaks the bottle over his head.