Page 2 of Saint's Preciosa
"Martinez," I tell the pharmacy tech, a new guy I don't recognize. My heart rate increases instantly.
"ID?" he asks without looking up.
"I have the prescription number," I say, sliding forward a piece of paper with trembling fingers. "Dr. Patel knows me. I'm here every two weeks for my grandmother's insulin.”
He raises an eyebrow as he studies me for a moment. Finally, he sighs and takes the paper, typing into his computer. "Insurance?"
"No insurance. Cash."
This gets his attention. He looks up, really seeing me for the first time, and his expression softens slightly.
"That'll be eighty-seven dollars for a month's supply."
I bite my lip, doing the math in my head. The electricity bill arrived yesterday—final notice. Our fridge is nearly empty.
"Can I get just two weeks' worth?" I ask, hating how my voice betrays my desperation.
He glances around, then lowers his voice. "Look, I'm not supposed to do this, but..." He types something into the computer. "I can mark this as a partial fill due to stock limitations. Forty-three fifty."
Relief washes over me. "Gracias. Thank you so much."
I count out the exact amount, and the tech hands over the small paper bag with half of what Abuela needs, and I tuck it safely into my inner jacket pocket.
His eyes reflect sympathy, but sympathy doesn't pay the bills.
* * *
I’m three blocks from home when I see them—thugs in blue bandanas loitering outside a liquor store. I know who they are. They’re members of the street gang Los Lobos.
I duck my head and quicken my pace, hoping they won't notice me. No such luck.
"Hey, mamacita!" one calls out. "Why you walking so fast? Venga aquí. We just want to talk."
I keep moving, eyes fixed straight ahead. Footsteps follow, closing the distance between us.
“Not very friendly," another voice says, closer now. "Pretty girl like you should smile more."
I say nothing and don’t turn around. I just completely ignore them. The streets of Wraithport are mostly empty at this hour, shops closed, few witnesses.
“Slow down, we'll walk with you," says the first voice, and suddenly there's a body beside me, too close, the smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes invading my space. "Make sure you get home safe."
I scan the street ahead desperately, looking for an escape route. There’s a convenience store on the corner, but it’s closed for renovations.
I turn sharply to cut through a parking lot, calculating my chances of running when a group of motorcycles roars into the lot, the thunderous sound making conversations impossible.
I figure it’s my chance to run, but one of the gang members grabs my elbow, jerking me backward. “Hey! Where you going, mama?”
I try to free myself, but his grip is punishing. "Leave me alone!"
From the corner of my eye, I see several of the bikers turn our way. "Everything okay over there?" one of them calls out.
The hand on my arm loosens slightly as the young men take in the bikers now staring in our direction.
"Just minding our business,” one of them says, but he’s not so cocky anymore.
I use the moment of distraction to wrench free, quickly putting distance between us until I'm stranded in a no-man's land—closer to the bikers than the gang members, but still vulnerable. Still caught between two groups of dangerous men.
One of the bikers looks up, scans the surroundings with predatory awareness, and narrows his eyes on us. When he strides forward, my breath catches in my throat. He's not the tallest of the group, but something about him commands attention. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built like a boxer, he has dark hair and even darker eyes that gleam in the fading light. His skin is a rich bronze and his full lips are set in a hard line. The patch on his leather vest reads "Sergeant at Arms," and beneath it, "Saint."
