Chapter 27
Ayla
“I thought you might want a little privacy,” I say when he pulls the door closed behind him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters as he turns to face the door, using the key to click the lock into place.
His face looks scrunched when he turns back around as if the half apology tastes terrible in his mouth.
I swallow and nod. What else could I say right now?
He had no right to just strip down right in front of me. On some level, it’s a violation, and I know that. The woman I was before I was taken wouldn’t have hesitated to ask him what his problem was or let him know he can’t just do shit like that.
Just like he mentioned no longer being the same Nash, I’m not the same Ayla either.
That isn’t the most concerning thing for me. I didn’t question his intentions because him getting naked in front of me didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. I wasn’t thinking how dare you as my eyes followed him toward the bathroom.
Despite the erection, I didn’t look him up and down and get aroused either.
It felt natural, like it wouldn’t be out of character for him to be naked in front of me, and that’s the rub.
That’s the part that irritates me more than anything.
Cortez was able to change who I was. The treatment and abuse I suffered while in his captivity made me a different person, and I despise the man for it.
I should’ve not only been offended, but I should’ve also spoken up against it and put Nash in his place.
I follow closely behind him, making sure to keep my eyes peeled and assessing.
It’s late morning now and the people in this part of Monterrey are moving around looking miserable. I see them as no less of a threat than I would’ve six months ago. I can also see the pain in their eyes, their struggles with addiction, and their lack of hope for any of it changing.
Before, I’d think they get what they put in. If chasing a high twenty-four hours a day is all they can manage rather than getting clean or finding a job, then that’s their own problem.
Now, I have to wonder with the passing of each hopeless person, if they were like me. Did they survive something horrific? Have they used drugs to mask and dull that pain? Did they lose someone they loved more than they loved themselves and this is their existence until they eventually die from it?
“I’ll slit your fucking throat,” Nash growls when a man with twitching fingers stands in our path.
The guy’s eyes dart between the two of us. Although I feel sorry for him, I’m also terrified he’s going to hurt me.
“Fucking asshole,” the guy mutters as he steps out of our way.
“Maybe he—” I begin after we get clear of the man.
“Don’t give a shit about what he’s going through. It’s not my fucking problem.”
I can’t help but feel like he thinks of me the same way, and I’ve done nothing but cling to him since he came to the hotel where I was with those motorcycle people.
“You need different shoes. Your feet have been hurting because they’re too small for you.”
“Cerberus gave them to me,” I tell him. “It was very kind.”
He stops and turns to face me. “If they’re so kind, then why didn’t you tell them the shit they gave you didn’t fit?”
I freeze when he tugs at the side of the hoodie I’m wearing.
“This motherfucker is three sizes too big. You have to keep tugging up the waistband of those sweats you’re wearing, and your shoes are so fucking tight, they’re cutting off circulation to your toes.”
I have no idea how he knows my shoes are too small, but the fact that he figured it out floors me.
“You need new clothes.”
“These are fine,” I counter, trying not to sound like I’m arguing with him.
He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to back down. I haven’t figured out what he needs to feel powerful yet. I don’t know how to act with him to make me less likely to end up on his bad side.
“You can’t run in those shoes. Those loose-ass clothes will snag on every damn plant you get close to. I’m not going to end up getting caught by border patrol or some fucking raging militia group because you get tangled up in the brush.”
Well, that makes a lot more sense.
“I didn’t consider—”
“You think I’m buying you new clothes because I want to see you in some pretty fucking dress, Ayla?
” He shakes his head as if he’s disgusted by the thought.
“Neither of us are up for winning a big goddamned fight, so I need to do everything I can to help make getting across the river easier for us.”
I nod. His explanation doesn’t exactly leave any room for argument.
The seediness of the neighborhood begins to shift as we walk, turning into a tourist mecca.
Neither of us seem out of place as we walk among the other Americans wandering around the shop-lined streets.
There’s laughter and happiness, dozens of people who have no clue how easy it is to be victimized in the daylight.
I used to be one of those people who thought darkness is the only thing that brought out the bad people, but I know better.
Despite having been taken at night, I knew a woman at the compound who was snatched from the grocery store parking lot with her baby.
That same woman had her child ripped from her arms and didn’t know where they took the baby.
I was on the housekeeping crew at the compound, one of the ones responsible for cleaning up the mess after she killed herself.
I cough, an attempt to clear my throat and the tears that threaten.
For some, what happened to me was as bad as it gets.
Others suffered things greater. But at the end of the day, it isn’t about who hurt more.
I think it needs to be about survival. I’ll never deny that the threat to Alani is the only thing that kept me from doing what that mother did.
Cortez somehow knew my limits. I was more valuable to him alive than dead, and he manipulated my love for my sister to keep making money off me.
Deep down, I think the man was worse than Pirro. The second-in-command lost his temper often. He’d get agitated or too high to control himself, and he’d fucking go berserk. It wasn’t hard to know what Pirro was feeling. He was always quick to lash out.
Cortez maintained this calm coolness that spoke loudly of his psychosis.
He could watch someone die with less emotion than he’d have watching his favorite meal being placed in front of him.
The pain he caused others didn’t register.
He didn’t seem to enjoy it, but if anything compromised his ability to earn money, then he removed the problem. It was always as simple as that.
“I find myself doing that sometimes.”
I jerk my head in Nash’s direction, discovering that we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to walk around us.
“What’s that?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Getting lost in my head. We need to keep moving.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but I can’t chance him chastising me for the memories taking over. It makes me vulnerable, and, despite his confession, I don’t see the man getting so distracted by what happened to him that he’d allow himself to be vulnerable again.
“Hungry?” he asks when we near a row of vendor food trucks.
“Starving,” I admit.
He nods as if he approves. I have no doubt he thought I was going to deny it but what would be the point in wasted energy? My stomach has growled no less than a dozen times since we left the motel.
We step in line, Nash choosing a truck that’s selling breakfast tacos.
I watch in horror as the man in front of us smiles as the man selling the food hands him back less change than what he was owed. You don’t have to be abducted for others to take advantage. Hurting people isn’t always about forcing them into sex trafficking.
Nash steps up to the window and places our order. He doesn’t even attempt to speak the native language when the man reaches out for the money.
“I fucking dare you,” Nash growls before releasing the cash.
The man promptly hands back the correct change.
Nash is strong and a force to be reckoned with. I have to wonder if he was like this before or if this is part of the change I heard Angel refer to last night.
Nash doesn’t budge. He doesn’t step to the side as the cook makes our food. He’s ensuring that the man doesn’t tamper with it after being not so calmly called out on his thievery from others.
Nash locks eyes with the man as he reaches into the cooler at our feet, pulling out two ice cold bottles of water. The man doesn’t argue even though these items weren’t on our order.
“We didn’t pay for these,” I say as we sit down on a concrete ledge to eat, not feeling exactly okay with drinking the bottle of water he attempts to hand me.
“They were donated. An exchange for my silence,” he says, placing the water at my hip when I refuse to take it from his hand.
“You should’ve said something to the man he stole from rather than stealing yourself.”
Nash doesn’t make eye contact with me as he holds out the breakfast burrito.
“See that?” He nods, and I trace his attention to a man, clearly American. “Watch.”
It only takes a couple of seconds before the guy bumps into another American who’s leisurely strolling down the sidewalk.
My mouth hangs open as the second man apologizes to the first when he wasn’t the one who caused the collision. The first man says something to him before walking away. I watch in shock as the man shoves the other’s wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket.
I look back to Nash, but he doesn’t seem surprised as he takes a bite of his food.
“We should say something.”
Nash shakes his head. “We’d be here all damn day if we were going to let everyone know they’ve been conned. Plus, how do you think I got the money for this food?”
My hands freeze, the burrito smelling amazing a mere two inches from my mouth.
A smile I’ve never seen before tugs up both corners of his mouth, and he’s no less handsome with red sauce from the burrito on his bottom lip.
“Just kidding, Ayla. Eat.”
“Where did you get the money?”
He tilts his head as he considers my question.
“Does it matter? Will you starve if I told you I robbed some tourist?”
I look from him down to my food, answering him as I take a bite before he answers my question.
“Angel gave me money.”
I don’t think he’s lying just to placate me.
“The point is to keep an eye out. Anyone can be a victim and anyone can be the perp.”
I nod as I chew, my eyes once again finding the man who was robbed. I feel bad for the poor fucker as he pats every part on his body at one of the food trucks, his eyes darting down the street when he realizes what happened to him.
The person behind him steps up to order the second he gets out of line, unconcerned that the man probably lost every means for him to continue his vacation.
“He’ll have a hell of a time getting home. But as much as that sucks, he’s not tied up in some sick fuck’s dungeon, forced to fuck people to keep someone he cares for safe.”
I refuse to look at him, unsure if he’s saying that shit to make me feel better or worse. His words don’t help, and I can’t understand the purpose of them. Maybe he’s just always so crude and inconsiderate.
“Helping draws attention we don’t need,” he continues around another bite of food. “Do you know if there was a mini fridge in the room?”
I snap my eyes in his direction, my brain incapable of keeping up with his train of thought.
“What?”
“A small refrigerator?”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to focus too much on the zing of electricity I feel when the corner of his lip twitches in amusement. The guy’s sudden change in moods is making my head spin.
“I know what a mini fridge is, Nash.”
He licks his lips as he watches mine, and I have to look away from him.
“Why are you asking?”
He tilts that handsome head of his once more. “To refrigerate things.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, but I find myself smiling as well.
“Angel said it’ll be a few days before the patrols move a little further north. I’d prefer not to have to deal with all these fucking people more often than we have to. If there’s a fridge, we can grab a few groceries while we’re out.”
“There isn’t a fridge,” I say, rather than tell him how annoying it is for him to explain things to me like I’m a child.
“We can grab jerky and shit then. Come on.”
I follow him to one of the shops, wondering just how much time he spent in Monterrey before getting taken. He seems to know the area rather well.
He pays for shoes and two more changes of clothes without an argument. I grab undergarments for myself when he places a package of boxer briefs in the shopping cart, ignoring the way his eyes lock on the simple panties and sports bra I’ve selected.
At the counter, he pulls a box containing a prepaid phone from the shelf and purchases that as well.
“To call your sister,” he says when I look from the phone to him as the cashier rings him up.
My eyes burn at his consideration. They sting even more when, for the first time since the group rushed into the room killing Pirro and his men, he touches me.
It’s a simple squeeze of my hand, but it carries with it a level of reassurance that things will get better that I didn’t know I was desperate for.
He lifts his hand, his intention to swipe at a tear that managed to escape, when the cashier gives him his total.
For some reason, I hate the interruption when he pulls his hand up short, only to reach into his pocket for cash.
“I think you need bandages for some of those cuts,” I tell him as we leave the store.
He looks down at me, another small smile playing on his lips that says he’s aware that I watched him walk naked into the bathroom earlier today.
“I’m most concerned about the one on your ribs.”
“I’m more concerned about the tattoo on the back of my neck. Do you think you could take it off for me if I got the right supplies?”
“I want mine gone too,” I say, stopping once again in the middle of the sidewalk to look up at him.
“A tattoo cover up would be less painful,” he says.
“I don’t want it on me.”
He nods, understanding completely. I don’t think it would help at all to know that the numbers were still there just not visible.
What I don’t tell him is that my sister knows I’d never get a tattoo. It doesn’t make sense to be afraid of needles as a nurse, but I didn’t get to pick my phobias.
“We’ll do it for each other,” he says as he redirects me to a shop that’s very similar to what a pharmacy would look like back home.