Tears that won’t dam.
“Can’t we just run away, cariño?”I plead with him.“Let’s just run away.”
He obliges me because all he’s ever done isgiveof himself to me.
We leave.
Riding off into the sunset in a drop top car, hot wind in my hair, his hand on my knee, and safety all around me.
I shake awake for the millionth time and give up on sleep.
I’m only awake for twenty minutes when the silence of the empty motel room shatters with the sound of my phone ringing. The real phone. Not the secret one. Which means it’s Joaquin callingagain. And I shouldn’t have turned it back on just to torture myself by watching when he inevitably calls.
The sight of his name flashing on the screen is like the world’s most addictive drug, but I remain impervious to the temptation.
It rings until it goes silent again for a couple of minutes, then it chirps with a voicemail notification. And that is the drug I will indulge in.
I stand up from the ragged, fraying loveseat and cross the linoleum floor to pick up the phone off a cheap, aged, blonde wood coffee table. Curling up on the loveseat, I hit the button to call the voicemail and listen.
The deep timbre of his voice is tinged with subtle desperation, remorse, and regret. As if there isanythinghe would ever need to be remorseful about or regret. As if he’s not the kindest, most good-hearted man I’ve ever known.
His words are the stuff of insanity.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to feel safe.
I want you to know you can trust me to take care of you.
We can be so happy together.
I’m not letting you go.
I will find you.
I know that you love me.
I know that I love you.
I love you.
It is excruciating.
Hehasto be insane if he believes the things he said, and I don’t believe him.
At least, I tell myself I don’t believe him.
Nevertheless, I can’t resist the temptation to crawl back into the bed, pull the blankets tightly around me, and drift back into sleep to the sound of his voice.
And this time, the sleep is deep and restful; as though all I need in the world to be okay is that voice saying those wonderful things.
I WAKE SOMETIME LATER. Slipping on clothes that are not the uniform of a street walker, I locate a different type of alley. Barricaded behind an unmarked, heavy steel door, I trade nearly all of the remaining money for a Glock 17 and enough ammo to fill two magazines.
Thirty-four bullets.
Where I am headed, there will likely be only twelve men—Xavier plus his core group of soldiers.
If God gifted me with anything in life, it’s a steady hand and an eagle’s eye.
