Regrets
ESTELLE
The ride back to my apartment building feels much longer than usual. Everything about me is restless. My leg is bouncing from the adrenaline still running havoc in my body.
One day.
That’s how long it took for me to mess everything up.
What happened to not giving in to the bad mafia boss, Estelle?
This is such an epic fuck-up. I can’t even deal with myself right now.
All I had to do was say no.
He asked twice, or thrice, or whatever. And what did I do? Stayed silent and shook my damn head.
I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes, hoping to find some solace. He was right, though; the memory of his hand between my legs has effectively replaced the image of the dead man he shot.
I’m no longer fidgety about what I witnessed. I’m fidgety because he fucked me with his fingers, made me come, and I kissed him.
Thank God he pulled away.
How dumb can I be?
“No, Estelle,” he said. “Not like this.”
At least one of us had enough sense to put an end to it.
One day.
One fucking day.
How do I even go to work tomorrow and act like nothing happened? How do I—
“Miss Signon?”
My head snaps up to look at Ross. I see him looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“Yes?” I ask.
“We’re here.”
It takes me much too long to realize the car has stopped and is now parked in front of my apartment building.
“Right,” I mutter.
“Miss Signon?” I’m halfway out the door when I turn back to look at the burly security guard-turned-babysitter. “There will be more days like this. Buck up.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Number Two.”
“It’s Ross.”
I act like I didn’t hear him and close the door. By the time I make it to my apartment, I’m spent, and it doesn’t take long for sleep to claim me after my head hits the pillow.
It’s still the break of dawn when my eyes open, the light filtering through the drawn curtains I usually close before going to bed.
Of course, my mind was too preoccupied to bother with the simple task of closing them last night. I leave the bed reluctantly, too restless.
The morning is spent cleaning and preparing meals for the next few days, so I don’t have to cook if I get home late again. Who knows how many last-minute dinners crime lords usually organize.
Hopefully, they don’t all end up with someone getting shot. But what do I know? Where I come from, gangs usually settle their differences on the streets, not during fancy dinners.
When Ross picks me up, I’m somewhat clear-headed, though the dread in my stomach tightens the closer we get to Calabasas. I don’t know what to expect, but an empty house isn't it.
The paper is pinned to the massive refrigerator door with a magnet in the shape of a hand, all five fingers splayed wide open and a smiley face in the palm.
I don’t recall there being any magnets on it yesterday.
The long list is written in familiar block letters, with a note at the bottom that says: for ten people.
So, another dinner.
The encrypted phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, trying to ignore the tightening in my belly.
Your day ends at 6.
The relief is instantaneous and overwhelming. It’s only when I’m in the pantry that I release the shaky breath I might as well have been holding all morning.
The next five days are exactly like the second one. Ross picks me up, we drive forty minutes to the residence, I find a note pinned on the fridge door—always with a different magnet—and go about my day.
Ross comes and goes, but for the most part, it’s just me in the big kitchen.
No calls from Mr. Fuentes.
No messages either.
And no sight of him.
I resist the urge to ask Ross about him, knowing it’s not my place and that he will probably find out I have been asking questions.
Regret hangs in the air like a thick fog.
Days ago, he was fingering me in the kitchen, giving me mind-blowing orgasms, and calling me little dove.
And now—nothing.
This is a blessing.
I should feel blessed.
I should.
So why don’t I?
The chilly air is almost a shock when I step out of the car onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t this cold this morning, so I didn’t bring my jacket.
Another regret to add to the list.
The elevator doors groan open to my floor, and I pull out my keys as I step out.
“Aunty Estelle!”
I barely have time to brace myself when Micah slams into me, his small arms circling my waist.
“Hey, Micah. What’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.
It’s nearly seven o’clock.
“We’ve been waiting for hours,” he whines.
I look up and see Elsa pushing herself off the ground outside my door.
“You had Micah sitting on the floor for hours? I don’t know the last time they cleaned these floors, Elsa,” I say.
She doesn’t respond. I walk to her with Micah still holding onto me.
“Why didn’t you call?”
When I get close to her, she doesn’t meet my eyes and keeps the right side of her face turned to the wall.
“I don’t have my phone with me,” she whispers.
Her small, broken voice is like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped on my body.
“Hey, Micah, why don’t you unlock the door and go find the bag of marshmallows I left just for you? It’s on the counter.”
He smiles broadly and hurries inside. I close the door and turn to face my sister.
“What happened, Elsa?”
She looks at her feet, her bottom lip between her teeth.
I walk closer to her and grab her chin, then gently turn her head. The reddish-blue bruise covers her entire right cheekbone.
“Who did this?” She shakes her head. “Karl?”
Her silence is the answer. I feel my hand curling into a fist.
“Tell me what happened, Elsa,” I ask as gently as I can.
“He found out I’ve been keeping money from him. I wanted to leave weeks ago.”
I didn’t know things were that bad.
“You need to go to the police—”
“No. Are you crazy? He’s in with The Vipers, and if I involve the law—”
“Since when is he in with a gang?” I ask, failing to keep the frustration from my voice.
She bites her lower lip again.
“I can’t go to the police.”
I sigh.
“Stay with me until you figure out what you want to do next. I have a sofa bed.”
She nods, eyes glistening. “Thanks. I mean it.”
We’re making up the sofa bed when my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s an unknown number.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Tell Elsa to come down right now."
It’s Karl.
“Like hell she will,” I grit out.
“Fine. I’ll come up then, and we’ll settle this in the living room like a fucking family.”
The line goes dead.
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