Chapter 8 Thalia
I never found my necklace or my phone. I had Ariella grab me a new one, and I messaged César Velarde that same day. There was no such thing as too soon, even with my lingering PTSD from the date with Hewey. I ran through a list of reasons I shouldn’t get involved with a musician, but then rejected them all immediately. If I waited for “my type” to show up, I would die alone. My type doesn’t exist. Not anymore.
Besides, this weekend would be the last one I had free until the season’s events were over. All my friends are either pregnant or too busy. By “all my friends,” I mean the only two I have—Alma and Mireya. Mireya is pregnant, and Alma is working more hours since we are understaffed in housekeeping.
César happens to be free this weekend, as well, before going on tour, so it seems like divine timing. You know what else is divine? Him picking me up in a flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and Wranglers. His pants are tight in all the right places. God bless Texas. Maybe adding more musicians to my roster isn’t a bad idea.
He offers me flowers, and I hop into the truck beside him. My eyes widen with excitement when I see where he’s taking me. I roll down the window to take in the rich smell of culture. I feel alive here in the heart of Houston. The Montrose neighborhood is adored by artists and visionaries. There is a freeness here. One I search for when I come here to people watch.
César is the perfect gentleman, opening doors and helping me into my seat. Conversation with him is easy. His Texas accent is mesmerizing, and his laughter is contagious. Most men are only focused on trying to impress me on a first date. Conversation always centers around business and money—how much they make, where they went to school, and their work history. It is fucking exhausting to listen to their resume verbatim.
“Where did you get that done?” César asks, pointing to the tattoo on my inner forearm. It’s of a small bird trapped inside a cage, with lilies framing the black and white design. It is one of my only really personal pieces. Everything else is just impulse or art, but this is etched not only into my skin but also into my heart.
“My homegirl, Lupita, did it. Her shop’s located around the corner.”
“Oh yeah, Bad Apple, right? I’ve seen a lot of her work around. I like it.” I’m grateful he doesn’t ask me to explain its meaning. I can never find words to explain the tattoo when people ask me about it. I always sum it up to a Maya Angelou poem, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings , but it is so much more than that.
I had been forced to memorize the poem in the seventh grade, and the words followed me into the darkest of nights. They comfort me when my nightmares replay. When I would cry out to the darkness to take me. I whispered the words over and over until sleep would find me. I am the caged bird trapped in the cemetery of my lost dreams with nothing left to live for.
“WHERE IS HE?” I scream out. My voice is hoarse, and I know better than to expect a reply. I knew something was wrong the moment I woke up, and Silas wasn’t next to me. I was desperate to find him roaming the halls through all the chaos.
Everyone is staring at me. I move to the front lobby and see Josefina calming another woman. When I walk toward her, she stiffens.
“Did you know?” she asks. I shake my head.
“D-did I know what?” I say, looking around, trying to make sense of the commotion in the lobby. Josefina steps toward me.
“Did you know your father was going to set them up?” she says, lowering her tone. I shake my head and look around. I felt it first in the pit of my stomach, then I felt it in the aching of my heart.
I rush up the stairs to my father’s office, where I can hear my uncles shouting.
“What did you do?!” I scream. I know what my father is capable of. I know I am just a piece to be manipulated in his game.
“Get this bitch out of my face.” His eyes are cold and empty, the way they always are. Everyone in the room freezes around us. I spent one night with my husband. One night. I step to my father and shout again.
“Where is he?” My voice shakes, but just like Josefina, I stand tall. His fist crashes into the side of my face. I fall to the floor from the impact. Pain making its way to my jaw.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Patricio says as he rushes toward me.
“Tell the bitch to stay out of my way.” My father drops down in front of me and glares at me. “You’re a fucking Consuelo. Step in line or get the fuck out of the way.”
The memory is a small reminder of the things I have suffered at my father’s hands. My mother never loved him, and because of that, she never loved me. When she tried to escape him, she was killed. The moment I found out Silas was dead, I took a step back into that lonely cage. When I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t even angry. I always saw it as a miracle that one night would lead me to a piece of Silas that I would keep forever. Only forever never came.
I carried my daughter for nine months and held her in my arms for ten minutes before I had to discuss her future. My future . One that would exist with her, but also without her. It was the only way I could ensure her safety. I was willing to sit on the sidelines of her life if it meant that she would be given every opportunity to succeed. I would love her from afar. I would sing in the cage because there was hope that she would fly.
César excuses himself to use the restroom. I pull out my new phone to check on the twins. On my lock screen appears a new message from an unknown number.
Unknown: If he touches you, it will be the last time he touches anything.
I look around the bar to see who could be watching me and reach to my outer right thigh where I keep Selena, my gold and black 9mm. When I see nothing out of the ordinary, I message the number back.
Thalia: Your threats are amusing. Fuck off.
As a Consuelo, I am used to random threats. Most can be traced to some sorry piece of shit who needs money. I have no time for petty threats by some punk who found my number through a Google search. I had been receiving real threats from someone trying to expose my child. This threat is at the bottom of the barrel of my concerns. When I see César return, I quickly drop the phone into my purse.
“Did you want to get dessert?” he asks.
“Yes.” I give him a coy smile and lean in. “But I was thinking we could go to your place for that.”
There are catfish, and then there is this. A man who checks all the boxes, but has no idea how to use the most important organ on his body. I’m lying on a single mattress in a garage while César rams into me from on top. Maybe it’s the lack of air conditioning, or the way his sweat is dripping onto me, but I’d rather be stranded on an abandoned island than stuck here in missionary with him.
Thank God I used my vibrator this morning. They always say to eat before you go anywhere, just in case you don’t like the food once you get there. Same concept with hook ups. I’m accustomed to finding disappointment. I knew the moment I realized his idea of foreplay was slobbering on my neck for twenty minutes while fondling my pussy outside my pants. I knew the dick would be mid. He doesn’t let a minute go by without saying something cringy.
“Ah. Fuck yes, baby girl.”
Thrust.
“You naughty little kitten.”
Thrust.
And the throw up award goes to, “Are you almost done, angel?”
I love dirty talk as much as the next kinky bitch out there, but a bunch of random pet names between thrusts is not dirty talk. It also fucks with my attention deficit disorder and my ability to cum. Am I a kitten or an angel? Or am I a naughty angel kitten baby?
No, the best dirty talkers are more strategic than this. They are the type of men that are calculated in the way they alternate from calling you a dirty slut to a good girl. The type of men I am starting to think only exist in the dark romance section of Barnes and Noble.
I look up at the ceiling and send a silent apology to my vagina. Lo siento. He’s about to get off and his breathing becomes heavier. Since I feel bad for the guy— he really is nice —I go in for an academy performance.
“Ah. Don’t stop,” I moan out.
César’s pace picks up, and it’s showtime for me. He lets out a deep moan, and I join him. The fake orgasm erupts in a string of ohs and ahhs as his body crashes onto me. And just when I think it’s over, he kisses my cheek.
“I love you,” he whispers into my ear. Fuck.
Calling Ariella to pick me up from César’s parents’ garage was the worst end to an already shitty day. Ariella barely knows her way around Houston, and her driving makes me nauseous. But it’s my only option, since I am paranoid that all Uber drivers will rob me.
“He said what?” Ariella says as she narrows her eyes to see through the nighttime traffic.
“He said he loved me.” I shudder as the words leave my mouth. Faking an orgasm was common for me, but being told I love you after four minutes of sex was not.
“What did you say?” Ariella whispers. Her brows arch as I retell the tragic comedy that is now my sex life. I tell her the PG-13 version because I know she can be a prude when it comes to sex talk. I have never known her to have a boyfriend, let alone hook up with anyone.
She is beautiful, and men are always lusting after her. Her honey brown hair and green eyes make her look like a porcelain doll. Despite her beauty, no man wants to risk his life with her father and brothers. Her admirers are content with the little pieces of her they can afford. She deserves to be loved fiercely, by someone willing to go toe to toe with the devil for her. Not these men sending up silent prayers to angels while they hide in the corner. Love is an action, not a verb. But what the hell do I know about love?
If that man exists, I hope he will find her soon. The clock is ticking. Her mother has bought her time, but she is destined for an arranged marriage. Not that she can’t be happy in an arranged marriage. Not every love story has to be a tragedy like mine.
I try not to focus on the road and keep my eyes shut. I can’t complain about her driving when she is doing me a favor by taking me home. An old Selena song comes on the radio, and I sit up. I reach for my thigh, and my breathing picks up when I don’t find Selena there.
“Are you okay?” Ariella asks.
“No, I can’t find Selena.”
“Selena? S-Selena Quintanilla?” Ariella’s brows furrow. I reach in the back and open my purse. A wave of relief comforting me. I pick up the black and gold 9mm gun.
“This, prima , is Selena Quintanilla.” I kiss the gun.
“You name your guns?” she asks.
“Of course I do. They’re like my emotional support pets.” I made it a habit to name all my guns after badass Texan women. I have an armory full of them. All named after Texan women who deserve the praise and honor. Janis Joplin, Beyonce, Vanessa Guillen, Adina de Zavala, and my favorite—a .45 caliber named Miriam. Named after Miriam A. Ferguson, the first female governor in Texas.
“I thought Axel was the only crazy one in this family.”
She has no idea.