Chapter 18
Darling
Miami at night is still hot. By the time I walk out of Vice Ink, Lady is long gone. Probably sent away by Shady.
Disco shifts on my shoulder, feathers brushing my neck, his talons gripping my dress strap like he can feel I’m not steady.
He’s heavy for such a small body, all attitude and sharp little toes.
I’m carrying his travel cage and keep the other hand near him without touching, like my fingers can protect him if my nerves decide to break.
“Tranquilo,” I whisper.
Disco answers like he always does, loud and dramatic, voice slicing through the night.
“?Mami!” he squawks, then whistles a rude little tune like he’s scolding me for bringing him into chaos again.
I shouldn’t have come back here, but Disco has to eat.
He needs to stretch his wings. But I know it the second I turn onto my block and the streetlights seem dimmer than they should.
Little Havana is still awake. Somebody’s frying something two buildings over, the smell of grease and garlic drifting out on the humid air.
A vent coughs up a ghost of cafecito. Somewhere nearby, a couple argues in Spanish like it’s a sport. Miami keeps moving.
My apartment building looks the same as it always does, beige stucco, a flickering porch light, a busted palm frond dragging itself across the sidewalk like a dead thing. The air feels wrong anyway.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, that I’ve been living on adrenaline for weeks and it’s finally making me jump at shadows.
Then I see my door.
It’s closed. It should be closed. But the doorknob is turned just a little too far, like someone twisted it and let it go, and the latch never caught right.
My mouth goes dry so fast it hurts.
Disco lets out a sharp chirp that makes my skin prickle. “?No!” he barks, like he knows before I do.
“Shh,” I whisper, because my voice is stupid and small and my hands are already shaking. I should run. I should back away and call Lady. I should go straight to Vice Ink and spit in Diablo’s face and tell him pride can rot when you’re scared.
I don’t.
I’m tired, and tired makes you reckless in the worst ways.
I climb the steps anyway, slow and quiet, like the hallway might bite. My keys are cold in my palm and I hold them like a weapon even though I know how useless they’d be against a man who already got in.
The moment I push the door open, the smell hits me so hard my eyes sting.
Rico.
Cheap cologne and sweat and that sour note of stale beer he always wore.
Every bruise I ever wore lights up in memory.
My muscles go tight. My breath turns shallow.
My brain does the stupid thing it always does with him.
It flashes the past like a warning sign, like if I remember enough I can dodge the hit.
“Rico?” I say anyway, because part of me still can’t accept he’s bold enough to sit in my life like a stain.
A shadow shifts in the living room.
Then he steps into the light like he owns it.
He’s sitting in my chair like he paid rent here.
Like he belongs here. Like I never mattered enough to take anything from him except the effort of hurting me.
His face is bruised but not enough, one eye a little swollen, his mouth split at the corner, his shirt wrinkled like he slept in it for days.
There’s dried blood on his knuckles and he looks like he got dragged through hell and came out proud of it.
He smiles anyway.
“Baby,” he says, voice soft like poison. “There you are.”
Disco makes a furious noise and flutters his wings, feathers bristling like he wants to bite.
Rico’s eyes track to the bird and his smile widens like he’s pleased I brought him a prize.
“Look at that,” he says. “You got him back. Guess your biker boyfriend really does fetch.”
My throat goes tight, rage and terror mixing so hot it tastes metallic.
“How did you get in here?” I ask. I don’t say I made them let you go.
Rico shrugs, lazy, like this is a joke between lovers. “You think I don’t know how to get into my own place?”
“It’s not your place,” I snap, and my voice shakes on the last word because my body remembers what happens when you challenge him.
His smile slips for half a second, and in that crack I see the real Rico. The one who can’t stand being told no. The one who needs control the way he needs oxygen.
Then the smile comes back wider and uglier, like he’s punishing me for making him show his face.
“It is when I say it is,” he murmurs.
My legs want to move and my feet feel glued. The keys dig into my palm so hard it hurts, and I cling to that pain because it’s a different kind of hurt.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, quieter, like lowering my voice will keep him from swinging.
Rico laughs, a short nasty sound that scrapes. “You shouldn’t have gone back there.”
His eyes flick over my face, my hair, the way I’m holding myself, and he looks satisfied like he caught me doing something shameful.
He stands slowly, savoring it, giving me time to panic. One step, then another, and my apartment suddenly feels tiny.
“You promised,” he says, and his voice turns sharp. “You promised you’d get me something.”
“I lied,” I say fast.
He tilts his head like he’s listening to a song he hates. “Did you?”
“Yes,” I say again.
He stops in front of me close enough that I can smell his breath, beer and pure spite.
“Then why am I still alive?” he asks softly, and the question is a knife twisting. He leans in, mouth near my ear, and my body goes rigid the way it always did when he wanted me to feel small.
“Because you didn’t do it,” he whispers. “You went running back to him and you cried and you played victim, and you made him feel sorry for you.”
“I didn’t,” I whisper, but my voice is thin and he knows it.
Rico pulls back and looks at my face like he’s reading a menu. “You did,” he says. “I can see it. You’ve got that look. The look you get when you think you found a different kind of monster.”
My stomach churns. Disco pecks lightly at my hair like he’s trying to ground me, and I hate that this bird is braver than I feel.
Rico’s hand shoots up fast and my breath catches hard.
“Give me the bird,” he says.
“No,” I snap, stepping back.
His eyes flash, and then he moves faster than my fear can react.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me forward so hard my shoulder pops with pain. Disco screeches, flapping, nails scraping my skin. I stumble, trying to keep him balanced, trying not to drop him.
Rico’s other hand grabs a fistful of my hair. My scalp burns and I gasp, head jerking back, vision blurring for a second.
“Stop,” I hiss. “Let go of me.”
He smiles in my face like he’s enjoying the sound of my breath turning shaky. “You really thought you could play both sides,” he says. “You really thought you could go in there, spread your pretty little sob story, and come back here to your sad little life like nothing happened.”
“I didn’t want this,” I spit, and my voice cracks on want because my body refuses to stop remembering.
“You always want it,” he says, low and nasty. “You just want to pretend you don’t.”
He drags me into the living room toward the couch, my feet scraping on tile, my keys slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor like a dropped prayer. I try to twist away, but he yanks harder.
“Rico,” I say, forcing steadiness I don’t feel. “Listen to me.”
“I am listening,” he says. “I heard you failed.”
He shoves me down onto the couch so hard I bounce, the breath knocked out of me in a sharp gasp.
Disco flutters panicked.
Rico snatches him right off my shoulder with a cruel quick motion.
“No!” I lunge, but Rico jerks back, keeping the bird out of reach like he’s holding a trophy.
Disco screams, a high frantic sound that splits my heart clean in half.
“?Suéltame!” Disco shrieks, furious and terrified, then throws in, “?Cállate!” like he’s trying to cuss Rico out.
Rico’s grip is too tight around his little body, fingers pressing into feathers, and my whole world narrows to the sight of that tiny chest moving too fast.
“Stop,” I shout, scrambling up.
Rico’s eyes go cold.
He pulls something from his pocket and the plastic catches the light.
Zip ties.
My stomach drops like I just missed a step.
“No,” I whisper.
Rico smiles. “Yeah.”
He shoves Disco into the travel cage like the bird is an object, like he’s nothing but leverage. Disco flaps and rattles the bars, furious and terrified, his screaming turning into harsh angry chirps that make my eyes burn.
Then Rico grabs my arms like he’s done a thousand times.
I fight. Of course I fight.
I twist and kick and claw at his hands, nails scraping skin, my elbow driving into his ribs hard enough that he grunts. It doesn’t matter. He’s bigger, he’s angry, and anger makes people strong in the worst way.
He forces me down, straps biting into my skin as he cinches plastic tight.
Pain shoots up my arms and my fingers go numb fast. My ankles get bound. My breath turns ugly and sharp.
The room smells like fear now, mine and his and Miami’s, all tangled together.
Rico stands and walks around me like he’s inspecting his work. He picks up my phone from the coffee table and flips it in his hand, smirking like he won a prize.
“You thought you were gonna call your biker king to save you?” he asks.
I lift my head as much as I can, cheek pressed to the couch, hair stuck to sweat on my face.
“He’s not my anything,” I say, hoarse.
Rico laughs, too loud. “Sure. That’s why you smell like him.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that the smoke from Vice Ink still clings to me like an imprint.
Rico crouches in front of me, grabs my chin, and forces my face up.
His eyes are wild now, paranoia thick in them like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You put me in front of him,” he says. “You let him touch me.”
I flinch.
“He should’ve killed me,” Rico mutters, then smiles like he’s proud of the thought. “But he didn’t.”
My throat tightens.
I force a swallow and make myself speak like someone who survives.