Chapter 23
Alma
Sunlight slithers through my window like a sigh of relief. There’s this eerie calmness in my body. Soreness too. I slowly open my eyes, and the large light above my bed materializes in front of me.
I jolt upright and look to the side, afraid of what I’ll say or worse, who I’ll see. But there’s no one there. Not the imprint of a body or even a sign that he’d been there. Efren drove my car home, and I must have fallen asleep on the way.
“Fuck.” I cup my mouth as it all comes rushing back.
The sex. Wild. Rough. In El Purgatorio. With Efren.
I shove the comforter off and start pacing.
I fucked my ex-boyfriend’s brother.
I fucked my ex-boyfriend’s brother — the man who killed him.
“Don’t you fucking dare pity me, Alma. Don’t forget what I did to Esteban.”
My eyes snap up when I hear a familiar tune from the kitchen. Following the whistled melody, I walk down the hall to find him standing there singing Chalino Sanchez’s Alma Enamorada.
“Seriously?” I ask. Efren turns to look at me, smirking.
The strong smell of chiles tickles my nose.
He’s standing at the stove, stirring a reddish-yellow sauce.
Suddenly, the room feels hot, and I can’t look away.
My eyes take in every detail of him—the tattoos running down his arm, all Chicano inspired art—serpents, rosaries, and masks.
It’s everything that’s him. What he stands for.
An outline of his life and pain splayed over his six foot muscular frame.
“Almita. Buenos Dias. You sleep good?” His eyes are full of mischief.
“Bruno,” I mumble and move to make my morning coffee.
“Wait! I made you something.” He rushes to the fridge and grabs a small glass barrel jar. “Homemade Horchata.”
“Neta? You made Horchata from scratch?”
For me. He’d made it for me. My inner Whorechata is smiling at the gesture and I try like hell not to show him that.
Especially when he winks at me. I hate how hot he looks when he’s being smug.
I hate how, when I’m honest with myself, Efren has always been the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. But I can’t be blinded by his facade.
“Don’t forget I’m a cold-blooded killer.”
Words that fell that had fallen from those gorgeous full lips.
Even now, I wrestle with the truth. Something in me doesn’t want to believe him.
My memories stir at the corner of my mind, begging to free whatever is hiding there.
I know something isn’t right about Esteban’s death, but I’m also not a hundred percent sure it was Efren.
That small feeling propels me forward. Fuck, if this was a wild roller coaster ride, then I was first in line.
He’s the only one who can give me the answers I need, unlocking what happened that night, but also helping me fill in all the other blanks inside my mind.
I step forward until I’m standing in front of him.
“What happened?” I reach out to touch the bruise on his eye.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters.
“It matters to me,” I say as he turns his back to me.
It bothers me how weak I feel. Last night, he’d given me this surging sense of power. We both found pleasure in my anger, and I’d flourished in that role, but I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling like he holds all these secrets while I’m constantly second-guessing.
“Why does everything have to be a mystery with you?” I shake my head and take my coffee to the table.
Efren ignores me at first, setting the table how he likes it, setting down two plates, each with an open English muffin topped with chorizo, avocado, a poached egg, and the reddish-yellow sauce he’d been stirring.
“It’s a chipotle hollandaise sauce,” Efren says while adding a vase with fresh marigolds to the center of the table.
“Thank you.”
Efren joins me, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, and I grimace. I hate orange juice.
“This is really good.” My eyes widen at the flavor exploding on my tongue.
“Is that a compliment?” He smirks.
“Seriously, how did you learn to cook like this?”
“I read a lot of cookbooks in prison.” He laughs, but something serious settles on his face.
“What was it like?” I ask after several moments of silence. My eyes plead with him to give me something. He nods briefly, his eyes softening as they meet mine.
“It was hell at first, but then Adrian was able to form an alliance inside. The protection extended to me, and I was grateful for it, but I also had to continue to pay for that protection after he left.”
“Are you still paying for it?” My gaze shifts to the bruising around his eye.
“I guess so.”
Silence creeps in for longer than I want to admit I’m comfortable with.
Our time spent apart was a prison for both of us.
I was confined to the maze of lies Missy left behind.
Everything was made harder while dealing with my unreliable subconscious.
Efren was the only logical path to understanding what was hiding there, but that meant I couldn’t get physically involved with him the way I did last night.
Mixing business with pleasure is always a bad idea. Curtis Anderson was proof of that.
“We should probably talk about last night.” My eyes shift away before redirecting back to his. “It can’t happen again.”
“And why is that?” he asks, brow arching.
“It’s not right.”
His broad, muscular frame looks overbearing as he swallows and wipes his mouth. His eyes are lethal when they look into mine, like a viper ready to strike.
“We’re not doing this shit again,” he says.
“Efren—”
“When have you ever given a fuck about what’s right, Alma?”
“I don’t! But why can’t you just tell me the truth? You know something I don’t! What happened that night?”
“You were there, darling, you know what happened.” His eyes darken, and he shoves another bite into his mouth.
“I don’t remember anything, Efren. Only what you told me happened.” I’m glued to him. I feel that surge of power and anger rising in me like it did last night. “I don’t remember shit half the time, Efren. It’s…”
I think hard about whether or not to confess the next thing. The fucked up part is he already knows all my secrets. I can’t lie or hide them from him, even if I wanted to.
“It’s called dissociative amnesia,” I explain, the words heavy in my mouth. “It’s when your brain hides things from you. To protect you. Memories rooted in trauma hide somewhere in your mind until it’s safe to look at them.”
Efren’s shadow shifts against the wall behind him as he leans in, studying me. “Who told you that?”
“My therapist. She specializes in these types of conditions. Helps me when I can’t fill in the gaps.”
“Gaps?” He tilts his head, and I can feel his disbelief. I clutch my fork in my hand.
“Yes. There are gaps in my brain. You know what, just fucking google it.”
“I’m not googling shit, Kitten. Don’t get so defensive. Just explain it to me.”
I sigh, but then disclose what I can from what was explained to me.
“There are gaps in my memory, and I either leave them blank or try to fill them with false memories. Then something will happen to trigger the real memory, like a flashback, or through the hypnosis treatment I’ve been undergoing with Dr. Verduzco. ”
“So, the whole incident with Esteban? You really can’t remember?”
“No,” I whisper the confession.
The tense silence lingers before Efren stands and washes his plate. It’s a moment too long before he turns to look at me.
“Pack a bag,” he says, following with a sigh.
“For what?”
“You want answers? Then let’s go get them.”
_______
“Wow this is nioce,” I say, copying my favorite TikTok video as I step inside the massive jet.
Everything is velvet red and black leather. A black marble table divides the space where Ricky and the nut roll guy from Curtis’s house sit, nut roll wrappers already splayed out in front of him.
“Almita!” Ricky exclaims.
“It’s Alma,” Efren says from behind me. His large hand envelopes mine.
The warmth causes a cyclone of emotions to stir in me. I jerk free and take the first seat across from Ricky. Efren sits next to me, his large figure taking up a suffocating amount of space.
“Hold my hand,” he commands and reaches again for mine.
“I’d rather die,” I whisper
“We can arrange for that. Dying while holding hands, isn’t that a movie?”
“Yup. The Notebook,” Ricky interrupts.
I turn to him, my face bunched up, but he’s reading a magazine and doesn’t look up to acknowledge me. Efren grabs my hand roughly, placing it back in his and threading his fingers through mine to lock our hands together. I think about fighting him again, but then the plane lurches backwards.
“What’s happening?” I panic, my hand squeezing his tightly.
“We’re just taxiing,” he replies.
In front of me, Ricky has put down the magazine, and his eyes are shut tight.
Even Senor Nutroll has ceased his binge eating as we prepare for take-off.
There is little time for me to prepare for this.
Efren wasn’t too forthcoming about where we’re headed, other than he’s going to help me get answers.
I’d packed a bag for a week in under thirty minutes and arranged for time off from the hotel, declaring it an emergency.
“They’re lining us up for takeoff. It’s normal,” Efren explains when my anxiety causes me to stiffen in the chair.
Normal?
Normal to who?
“I’ve never been on a plane before. No identification, remember?” I remind him through my shallow breaths.
My palm is slick with sweat against his. Efren nods, squeezing my hand back, and it’s firm enough to anchor me.
“Breathe, Alma.”
I try, but then the plane slows to a stop. The engine roars, and my pulse climbs into my throat.
“Ey. Look at me. Yo contigo.” The warmth in his eyes is like a blanket to my anxiety.
“Tu conmigo,” I repeat.
“That’s right, Kitten.”
I take several breaths, closing my eyes when I feel the plane lift into the air. The motion shoves me back into the seat, and my stomach drops. Every muscle in my body locks tight. I grip Efren’s hand harder until the pressure eases.
“Look,” he murmurs. “We’re flying.”
I don’t let go of his hand. With my eyes closed and my heart steading, a memory slips through.
We’re back in California, and I’m standing outside his window.
It’s the day that Detective Johnson told me Missy wasn’t my real mother.
When he opens the window, I climb inside and sit on his bed.
In that very moment, I’m not confused or scared.
I feel the same way I feel right now. Safe.