"She probably wouldn't go anyway!” My aunt’s voice can be incredibly snappy, and each word punching out of her mouth is like a slap across my face.
I mean, she’s right.
I’m not going to some counselor.
How am I supposed to express what I’m feeling?
I don’t even know!
I used to be happy, and life was perfect.
Now I’m just… hollow. There’s a massive void where my heart used to be.
No one seems to understand that feeling.
They don’t know what it’s like to lose your everything.
I’ve felt naked and raw since the day my parents were supposed to come home and never made it.
3
The Devil in a Silk Shirt
I pop the cigarette between my lips and light up, inhaling the smoke before leaning back in my seat and staring out the window. It streams out through my lips, and I beg the easy vibe to take the edge off my rattled nerves.
I’m not a chain smoker or anything, but I always need a puff after leaving Jade and Arley. I refuse to smoke around the little one, so I save up my ciggies for later.
The drive back to Chula Vista is always a tense one. Leaving light laughter and cuteness to return to Cruz’s seedy compound takes it out of me.
I don’t even know why.
I don’t belong in a world of light laughter or cuteness, but Arley just makes me feel better. She’s so innocent and forgiving. She doesn’t see what I really am. She just knows me as Dee Dee, the guy who makes her giggle. The guy who will lie on the couch while she pretends to be my doctor, whacking a cheap plastic stethoscope against my chest and poking me with a plastic needle. Every bruise was covered by a Band-Aid. She and Enzel made sure I was completely “all better” by the time I left.
I snicker and shake my head, taking another drag and swiveling in my seat, when I hear the door open behind me. My side complains, and I adjust my position to ease the pressure on my bruised torso.
“Hey, bro.” Angelo raises his eyebrows at me. “Where you been?”
I shrug, going for casual while my stomach knots into a painful ball. Angelo and I have been roommates ever since I moved to Chula Vista. Cruz set us up in a crappy apartment with two of his other guys. We basically only use the place to sleep in. The rest of the time we hang out at Cruz’s compound. It’s a nice pad—lush, with free drinks whenever we want them.
When I first got here, I thought I was freaking set. No more sleeping on the streets or living in group homes. It didn’t take me long to realize that the apartment was just another form of a group home. There was still someone in the background always checking up on me and wanting to know where I was. Angelo seems to have taken on the role now, which isn’t the worst, I guess. The guy’s my friend, but I can still lie to his face when I need to.
“Just went for a drive,” I murmur, popping the cigarette back between my lips.
My friend saunters past me, his clumsy legs shunting the coffee table before he flops onto the couch opposite me. He’s a big unit, about my height, but more flab than muscle. His broad chest and arms gave the tattoo artist a pretty big canvas to work with. The guy is covered, from his belly button all the way up to his perfectly round face. The guys always call him cabeza de bola, which means ball head. It’s hard not to laugh along with them. Especially since Angelo shaved his head, making the shape all the more obvious.
He doesn’t seem to care, and it’s one of the reasons I like him.
“You always driving, man.” He nudges my knee with the toe of his newly acquired Nikes. I glance at the pristine white shoe with the red swoosh and know they were stolen. He’s been wanting a pair for months because they link him to the Diablos. I’m sticking with my red Converse high-tops for as long as Cruz doesn’t notice.
“Where you go, anyway?” Angelo asks, bumming one of my cigarettes and lighting up.
My insides hitch, but I go for another shrug. “Just… around. The coast. Whatever.”
Angelo gives me a doubtful frown.
“Shut up, I like it. It relaxes me.” I look past his shoulder, keeping my eye on the blue sky outside. I need something other than his face to focus on.
I don’t want him reading me, figuring it out.
Shit, man, this is why I get so tense.
Taking another deep drag, I tell myself to relax.
“Wanna beer?” Angelo jumps up and heads for the fridge behind the bar, knocking a cushion off the couch.
I watch it spin on the wooden floor. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”
Keeping my eyes trained on the balcony outside, I study the blue sky and try not to think about another blue sky in a state far away. A place that is so revered in my memory it could be freaking mythical. Mountains and fields, crisp, fresh air. Man, Jade and Arley would do well there. I used to think I was untouchable in that haven. Until I wasn’t.
My jaw clenches, my chest aching, as I remind myself that I’ll never see the Barrett ranch again.
Angelo cracks open two cans, and I force my mind back to what is real, taking the drink and tapping it against Angelo’s like we always do. I don’t know when that tradition started, but it reminds me that Angelo’s my friend. Maybe if he did know about Jade, he would help me keep it a secret.
Or maybe he wouldn’t.
His loyalty to this gang is a hell of a lot stronger than mine.
I resist the urge to mention anything. Jade’s safety means too much to me, even though I should really trust the guy who brought me into this place. He gave me a home, helped me out when I was losing my mind over Michael.
I was supposed to look out for my lil’ bro. I even distracted the cops for him so he could get away. It scored me a few months of community service and having to live in that stupid group home, but I’d do it again if it meant saving him. What I didn’t mean to happen was to lose him.
I searched that town for weeks, but he’d vanished.
It makes me sick to my stomach if I think about it for too long. Is he dead? Was he taken? Tortured?
Shit, it kills me.
He was always the quiet, sweet one. A lover, not a fighter.
But he was a damn good runner.
That’s my only solace. He knew how to run and hide. Our psycho father helped him hone that skill, and maybe that’s what has saved him.
I sure as hell hope so. It’s the only comfort I can get.
Angelo taps my shoe with the tip of his. “Cruz is coming.”
I hear the door and turn, watching the big guy walk in. He’s taller than me by an inch or two, and he’s as broad as a bus. Not fat, just one solid chunk of unrelenting brawn and muscle. He struts in—the guy doesn’t know how to walk any other way—and I’m pretty sure I’ve only ever seen him smirk at the ladies. For everyone else, it’s a menacing scowl and nothing more. It would almost be comical if he wasn’t such a scary piece of work.
You don’t cross the guy.
Ever.
Anyone who’s tried to ends up dead or so beat they don’t recover.
I take one more deep drag before stubbing out my cigarette.
“Been looking for you.” Cruz points at me, walking around to his leather chair and sitting with the grace of a cat.
I nearly tell him he could have just called or texted me, but I keep my mouth shut. This guy doesn’t do humor or snark.