19. Chapter 19
Isit down near the hole I’ve just crawled out of. Sand under my ass, sun in my eyes, hatch against my back. I’m completely disoriented. Spot has already taken off, hopefully to find a bloodhound to lead us out of here.
Weariness washes over me as I watch the setting sun and feel the sweep of goosebumps on my arms as the air cools.
I’m resilient. It’s the Mexican and Italian genes. A lethal combination. But still, I’m a little ashamed that the house of horrors below didn’t freak me out to the extent it should have. It doesn’t bode well for entry into heaven.
I was scared though, God. I swear it. But you know me, I’m not the kind of woman who stands around wringing my hands and waiting for help to come.
Maybe it was my upbringing; no mom to soften me. Only a dad who’s tough and overprotective. I take after him, clearly. At least the tough part. As I think of him, my heart stutters. Indestructible as he might seem, he’s still one man. I should have insisted he close the shop today. Insisted we take him with us.
Then I think of Reaper. I don’t know what happened to him. He dropped me down that hole and disappeared. I’ve never felt so alone, which is weird because with or without Reaper, I’ve never been alone. Friends, Pops. God. A few tears slide from my eyes and I swipe at them impatiently.
Stop with the pity party, mom says. It’s not like you.
She’s right. My parents brought me up to be proud of who I am. To deal with problems face on. Sure, the way I do it isn’t always conducive to a good outcome - the eclair to Edgar’s face is a case in point, but it’s still better than waiting for a white knight to rescue me.
I could call Pops, I think. Damn! No! I can’t because I left my bleeping purse next to the coke. I slam my hand down on the sand.
God, what the hell? Were you were worried I was gonna stuff the coke in my purse and rescue it too?
I take a deep settling breath and give myself a break. I was distracted by the concrete walls, the cloying smells of damp, mold, and copper. The locked cell doors. All those tools that I know weren’t there to build coffins. At least in a literal way.
I look down into the yawning black hole that I just escaped from and shudder. I am not going back for the purse. Even I have my limits.
So no phone. No call. No way to tell what time it is. No money so I can’t take a cab. Which doesn’t matter anyway since I have no phone to call one. And what would I say anyway?
Hello, I need a taxi please.
Of course, ma’am. Where would you liked to be picked up?
In the desert. Next to the hatch that accesses a chamber of horrors owned by the notorious Hell’s Jury Motorcycle Club.
Could you be more specific. An address perhaps?
I look around me for a mirage. Why didn’t I bring my purse? And where is Reaper? Why didn’t he come back? And why am I repeating myself?
I like to think I am good at reading people, but after the Miguel-Tracy debacle, I’m not so sure anymore. I trusted Miguel. I mean we had our problems but I truly trusted him. Then he screwed me over. Twice. Tracy first, then the coke.
But Reaper, I figured I found a winner. I stop that thought. I know I did. I’ve only known him a couple of days, but I already know he has this sense of honor that Miguel never had. Reaper’s not going to leave me at the mercy of his club, or the baddies who are looking for their coke. Not on purpose anyway.
I shiver at the coolness and rub my arms for warmth. Maybe I should go back into the hole, if not for my purse, the heat. I stare at the hatch as the cold I’m feeling is replaced by icy certainty. No, I am absolutely not going back in the hole.
I’ll go forward. Lots of people have walked out of deserts.
Name one, Ximina?
I don’t know, lots. Jeez. I stare around in dismay. Okay, not forward. Not yet. I’ll have to wait until the sun fully sets so I can see the glow of lights from Sagebrush, otherwise I’ll get disoriented.
While I wait, I sit, stand, pace. I’m not good at waiting. Spot comes back, whines at me. I whine back. “Do not go back to the clubhouse,” I tell him. “You’re an idiot if you do.”
He drops down on his haunches and tilts his head. I know what he’s thinking. There’s horses and dogs there. He’d be safe.
“Traitor!” I exclaim. “You stick with me, you understand.”
He gets up and wanders away.
“That’s why Reaper doesn’t like you!” I shout. Of course, that’s illogical since Spot seems to stick to him like glue. He has good taste. Spot I mean, but then Reaper kissed me, so he has good taste too.
And holy, did he taste good. I think of the slide of his tongue inside my mouth as he held me close, the unmistakable erection under the towel. I should have helped that towel to the floor because, right now, I wouldn’t mind a visual. I make one up and that keeps me occupied for a half-hour or so.
Finally, the lights of Sagebrush start to glow and I get up and head towards them.
I stumble along, hoping I find a road soon. Walking in a desert in the dark is not a great idea. I’m not an expert on survival in the wilderness, but I expect the list of reasons not to walk in a desert at night would be obvious. You might trip and twist your ankle. Or break your leg. You might fall into a deep hole. You might stumble across a skeleton. A scorpion might bite you. Or a coyote. Or worse.
What’s worse? Vampires, I suppose. Werewolves. Do they live in deserts, though?
Spot, who is jogging next to me, seems unaware of all the dangers as he smiles up at me like we’re on the best adventure of his life.
“Take me to Sagebrush,” I tell him. “And attack any coyotes you see.” It wouldn’t be fair to escape Hangman’s lair to die by coyote. I shudder again because the president of Hell’s Jury’s name is Hangman.
How does a man get a road name like Hangman? He’s a beast too. Loud, cranky, and lacking in finesse or any other civilized behavior. A bully, I guess, but only sort of, because he bitched and blustered, but didn’t tell Reaper to get rid of me. I’m trouble, I know, but this isn’t my doing. It’s stupid Miguel’s.
How did he come by a kilo of coke and why would he hide it in a box of my stuff? The unanswered questions gnaw at me like a Dalmatian with a bone for most of the hike, but by the time I get to the outskirts of Sagebrush, all I can think of is a hot bath and a warm bed.
Except… I don’t have anywhere to go. I mean, I can’t go back to my apartment and I don’t want to bring any more trouble to Pops. I choke on the thought. What if trouble has already arrived. What if Pops is dead? What then?
If Reaper were here, he’d know what to do. He’s a man who understands how to navigate everything.
But where is he? Why didn’t he come back?
I look down at Spot and he looks up at me. “Maybe he did,” I tell him. “Maybe I left too soon.”
I let out a breath as I make a decision. I have no money, can’t go home. Don’t dare go near Pops. My former friends are all in Reno and for all I know, they’re dead too. “We’re going to Reaper’s house. If I can remember where it is.”
Spot gives himself a whole-body shake, then looks up at me with trusting eyes. Of course, you can.
He’s right. I wrote the book on stalking. Despite being there only once, I know where Reaper’s house is. What color it is and the identity of the flowers and two trees in front of it. I know what the houses look like next door and across the street. I know the street name, the house number.
It takes me another hour to get to his house and to my dismay, it’s in utter darkness. Spot lets out a happy bark and heads to the door,
“Spot,” I whisper loudly, as if that would fool the bad guys if they were hiding in the bushes. “Get back here.”
He races back. I can’t figure why he’s obeying me. Maybe on the long walk, he had time to think too. Maybe he’s decided I killed Miguel and is afraid of what I’ll do to him. I don’t disabuse him of the idea.
I glance around. All quiet, the other houses are dark. Everyone’s sleeping or out. No lurkers that I can tell. Okay, Ximina. Start with the obvious.
I walk casually up to the front door and rap, then rap again. No answer so I try the handle. Locked up tight. I ring the doorbell and wait. Nothing. No sound of movement inside. I ring it again. Wait. Still nothing.
I glance furtively to my left and right, then walk around back to the sliding glass doors. I tug on the handle. Locked. Of course, but damn all the same.
I don’t think the house is alarmed though, so I suppose breaking a window and crawling through would work.
How though? Wouldn’t the smashing of glass draw attention? Wouldn’t I gouge myself on the glass as I crawled inside? Clearly, I’m not a breaker and enterer; I’m an enterer for sure, but I generally go through the front door.
I keep an eye out for baddies as I sneak around the house and try every window. Locked up tight. I tap on the bedroom window, thinking maybe Reaper’s a heavy sleeper. I’m lying to myself. Reaper probably hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he went to prison. My heart breaks at the thought.
Spot senses my mood and yelps impatiently. I shush him.
Ok. What to do next. A light bulb goes off. A dim one sure, but still it went off. Maybe there’s a key under a flowerpot or something. Why didn’t I think of that first?
“Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in hours.” I say to my brain. “College, then off to the bakery, then the coke, the clubhouse and into the hole from hell.” Thirty-six hours? More than that. I’m used to running on not enough sleep, but I’ve never had to climb out of a hatch then walk however many miles it took to get to Reaper’s house.
Spot paws me.
I look down at him. “Make yourself useful. Find a key or something to open the door with.”
He nods like he knows what I’m talking about and heads off, but the search is futile and I’m out of steam. In the backyard, I lower myself to the decking and lean against the sliding windows. I’m too tired right now to be resourceful. I tuck my knees up to my chin and rest my head on them. I’m cold but I’m beyond caring. I want sleep. A hot bath. Six cannolis. Most of all, I want Reaper.