Page 3 of Saint's Preciosa
Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us—a current so powerful it momentarily makes me forget the danger I’m in. I've never felt anything like it before, this immediate, visceral connection to a complete stranger. My body reacts in unfamiliar ways—heart racing, skin flushing, a strange warmth pooling low in my belly.
"She don't look like she wants to talk to you.” His voice is deep—authoritative, dangerous.
The Los Lobos members hesitate, weighing their options. They're outnumbered and outgunned.
"Whatever, man," one finally says with forced casualness. "Bitch ain't worth it anyway."
They back away, throwing insults to save face, but the threat has passed. Relief washes over me, followed immediately by a new anxiety as I realize I'm now alone on the street with a motorcycle gang. Did I just leap from the frying pan into the fire?
I should thank the bikers and hurry on my way, but I'm rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from the man in front of me. There's something fierce in his eyes, but it’s not fear that’s making my heart race.
"You okay, preciosa?" The gentleness in his tone contrasts sharply with his intimidating appearance and the endearment catches me off guard. No one has called me "precious" since my father died.
"I'm fine," I manage, finally finding my voice. "Thank you."
He nods once, his intense gaze still locked with mine. Something passes between us again—recognition, connection, possibility.
I force myself to walk away, my legs trembling, feeling his eyes on me with every step. Something makes me glance back over my shoulder.
He hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me—staring at me. Our eyes lock, and a strange heat floods my body, starting in my chest and flowing outward to my fingertips. I've never felt anything like it. His gaze is intense, dark brown eyes burning with something I can't name. He's handsome in a harsh way—dangerous. A tattoo peeks from his collar.
No man has ever looked at me like he does. I’m not even sure what it is in his eyes—lust, protectiveness, possessiveness…recognition.
Then he nods, a slight acknowledgment that sends an inexplicable shiver down my spine.
I break the connection first, turning and forcing my legs to carry me away. When I turn the corner, I finally release a shaky breath.
What was that?
I've spent years making myself invisible, keeping my head down, yet in that single glance, I felt completely exposed.
Three blocks and one fire escape later, I finally reach our apartment—a tiny one-bedroom on the fifth floor of a building with more code violations than working amenities. But it's home, the only one we've had since fleeing Mexico after my parents were killed.
"Abuela?" I call softly as I enter, "I'm home."
A wracking cough answers me, and my heart sinks. She’s had a nagging cold for weeks and it seems to be getting worse.
I find her in the threadbare armchair by the window, rosary beads moving slowly through her fingers. Our ancient chihuahua, Paco, is curled in her lap, his own breathing labored.
"Mi niña," Abuela smiles wearily. "You're late. I was worried."
The small apartment smells of yerba buena tea and Vicks VapoRub—Abuela's home remedies. They can't replace prescription medications, but it’s what we can afford.
I don't mention the gang or the bikers. She’d flip out. "Just busy at work. Have you eaten?" I ask, noting the untouched bowl of pozole on the side table. She made it yesterday from our dwindling pantry supplies.
She waves dismissively. "No appetite."
I press my hand to her forehead—too warm. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, avoiding my eyes. "The Virgin watches over us."
She gestures to the small altar in the corner with its statue of La Virgen de Guadalupe surrounded by votive candles and a photograph of my parents on their wedding day. My father in his best suit, my mother radiant in her white dress with the red embroidered flowers that now hangs in our tiny closet, preserved like a sacred relic.
"Abuela, I think you need to see a doctor?—"
“No! Doctors cost money," she interrupts, then dissolves into another coughing fit that leaves her gasping for breath. Paco whimpers, nudging her hand with his nose before making a strange honking, gasping sound.
Frustration and desperation wage war inside me. We've had this conversation too many times.
