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Easels, stools, blue and red cabinets splotched with every shade of paint, along with shelves lined with art supplies. The astringent smell of paint cleaner and the dull smell of paint enveloped her. She rubbed her hand back and forth against her nose. Ew. Artists might have acute sight but their olfactory sense had to be diminished.
Two artists sat on stools and painted at easels. Momma and a teenager. The kid was all skin and bones and stiff shoulders. Someone from the school?
Maybe. But whatever Momma saw in this frail girl made her special indeed. Momma had taken off her niqab. Revealed her scars. Mostly she didn’t, not even with her daughters.
She only showed her scars to girls so broken that they found comfort with people as wounded as themselves. Just one more way Momma made herself vulnerable to strengthen another.
That was Momma. The woman who’d rescued her. She wasn’t perfect, but she did want to do good in the world. “Momma, Sandesh and I are here to speak with you.”
She’d expected Momma to put on her niqab before turning around. She didn’t. She turned from where she painted a colorful landscape dotted with wildflowers. The slight spasm of Sandesh’s hand was all he gave away at the sight of her mother’s horrible scars. The vibrant beauty Momma painted only seemed to highlight the peaks and valleys of her puckered, damaged skin. “Come in, Justice. Sandesh.”
Technically, they were inside. Momma meant for her and Sandesh to stop lurking in the doorway. Justice let go of Sandesh’s hand, walked over, and kissed Momma’s scarred cheek. The skin was hard against her lips.
Her mother grasped her hand, looked at the band woven with the garnet on her wrist. Momma’s eyes traveled to Sandesh’s wrist and the matching band there. “I see it worked.”
He winked at her. He winked at Momma? Conspirators. How many of her family had been in on this whole get-Justice-to-marry-Sandesh thing?
“Thanks for the advice. Short and sweet.”
Huh. Guy had had a freakin’ army. “Nice to see you approve of the whole wedding thing, because I’m here about a wedding present.”
Momma raised one damaged eyebrow, or where the eyebrow should have been. “Okay. But first—”
“Nope. No. I need—”
Momma put up a hand, silenced her. “If it is in my power to give, it will be yours.”
Oh man. She’d probably regret that. Still, that promise worked for Justice. She grinned at Sandesh as if to say, Told you.
He winked back at her.
“I stopped you because you’re being rude. You haven’t said hello to your newest sister. I believe you have met.”
Huh? Justice took a closer look and sucked in a breath so sudden the girl turned.
It was Cee. Cee whom she’d saved. Cee who, in turn, had saved her life.
Cee pushed her stool back with a scrape and stood. Same bony body. Same half-challenging, half-wary tiger, red-brown eyes.
Justice licked lips gone dry, moved toward her. Cee wasn’t like Hope. Not physically. Hope was blond. And yet, she reminded her of Hope. In the tension of her shoulders. In the take-me-on-and-you’ll-get-more-than-you-bargained-for gleam in her fierce eyes.
That’s how Hope had protected her. Stood in front of her when they’d come to take Justice. She held out her hand. “It’s so good to see you, Cee.”
Cee’s fire-burned brown eyes looked at the outstretched hand. She shook her head. “I know it was you.”
Justice dropped her hand. She looked over at Sandesh, who’d moved closer.
Cee stepped forward and tucked her arms around Justice’s waist. “You were the one. You didn’t give up on me.”
Oh. A moment of warm surprise and, with her throat growing tight, Justice wrapped her arms around the girl’s thin body. They stood that way. Holding each other.
From behind, Sandesh placed his warm, strong hand on Justice’s shoulder. And something in her heart, a very small piece, but one she’d desperately missed and needed, repaired itself. She felt a spark of something that had been missing for a long time: Hope.
Order Diana Muñoz Stewart’s next book
in the Band of Sisters series
I Am Grace
On sale September 2018
Now for a sneak peek at the next installment in the Band of Sisters series
I Am Grace
Gracie Parish had learned three valuable things in the last two excruciating hours driving around Mexico: The fetal position was only comfortable in the womb. Her deodorant wasn’t trapped-inside-a-hidden-compartment strength. And blood circulation could be lost in your forehead.
There had to be an easier way to break into a sex-slaver’s home than smooshed inside this malodorous secret compartment, while her brother and his frenemy, Victor, drove into the compound, posing as mano-a-mano live “entertainers.”
Sweat salted her eyes, slicked her skin. The good news? If she did die, the house of Hades would feel like an oasis. A spacious oasis.
This was it. This was the absolute last time she took part in her family’s insane vigilante schemes. Ugh. Sometimes she wished she’d never been adopted into this mess. She needed a vacation on an island. A Canadian island. Someplace cold.
With a flick of her jaw, she clicked her mic. “How much longer, Justice? I’m roasting.”
“Please, you’ve been in there for two hours. People smuggled out of Mexico stay in that compartment for days.”
Days? Days pretending to be the back seat of a car, while your legs were tucked, foam padding stuck to your skin, your right arm went numb, your right hip screamed, and you could taste exhaust. “Yeah, well, not me. If my cyber skills weren’t needed to rescue your boyfriend, nothing could get me into this Dante’s Inferno. Nothing.”
“Chill your white privilege. You’re almost inside the compound.”
Her sister scored zero on the empathy meter. Zero. “Easy for you. You’re on a hilltop, stretched out, overlooking this whole scene through a scope.”
“Just playing to my strength. I’m the best shot.”
She was a good shot. Hey. No. “You know, this bull-poop has been going on since childhood. ‘Gracie’s the smallest, she can fit in that pipe.’” She mimicked a child’s high-pitched voice. “‘Gracie’s the smallest, let her squeeze through the vent system. Gracie’s the smallest—put her in the smuggling compartment so she can break out Trojan horse-style inside the compound.’”
“Bull-poop? If you cursed, you’d realize bullshit is way more satisfying.” She could hear the humor in Justice’s voice. “And it’s not my fault you’re a shrimp.”
“Being petite isn’t a talent.”
“You also have great red hair and hot underwear.”
Oh. God. She’d never live that down. “Good thing. Otherwise I’d have no excuse if they find me. Assuming they don’t shoot before I explain that Tony and Victor hid me here as a surprise bonus to their sex show.”
“Trust me, no red-blooded male is going to shoot you when he gets a look at that thong.”
Humiliating. Circles of heat singed her already too-warm cheeks.
Should’ve just nodded when Justice had said, “Sure, Gracie, pretending to be a stowaway entertainer is better than nothing, but we don’t have a costume for you.” She’d looked around the desolate plane hangar, thrown up her hands, and teased, “We’re shit out of eight-hundred-dollar bras, and there’s no Agent Provocateur in sight.”
What happened after that was probably one of the top five most embarrassing moments of her life. She’d dropped her pants. She’d lifted off her shirt.
Justice had burst into laughter. Tony had sputtered. Victor had whistled. “Damn, Red, if I’d known you were hiding that, I would’ve been nicer to you.”
Yeah. Top five. Definitely. And this, being in this car, was definitely in the top ten most uncomfortable places she’d ever been.
Well, maybe top fifteen.
“Our boys are pulling up to the compound gate.” Justice’s voice was low in her ear. “So stay quiet.”
The car turned. The crunch of gravel vibrated under the wheels and through her bones. The car jerked to a stop. Her forehead thunked against metal.
Her headset clicked. She heard Justice’s breathing and then, “There’s a big American Ninja Warrior-like security guard. He seems to be in charge. He’s gesturing Tony and Victor out.”
Gracie caught the sound of a deep voice, a guy with an American Southern accent. Southern?
The car doors opened and shut as Tony and Victor got out.
Come on, come on. It’s the home of a human trafficker, not the White House. Just let us inside.
Justice snorted through the headset. “Victor just pirouetted to show he had nothing to hide. Hysterical. Man has balls.”
And then some. She pictured that fine Latino pirouetting in his Magic Mike costume. Victor could fill out a G-string.
“Heads up. They’re coming to check the car.”
The front car doors opened with a squeak of hinges. Her heart rate jumped to please-God-don’t-let-them-find-me pace.
Sweat rolled down her face, perched on her lips. She held her breath.
They’d find her. They’d hear her hyper heartbeat like in Poe’s “The Telltale Heart,” ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. And then they’d shoot her. Boom.
Someone climbed into the back seat. Blood whoosh, whoosh, whooshed in her ears. Her hearing focused in tight. Did he have his knee on her left butt cheek? Not a featherweight.
Oh Lord, please. If she survived, she’d go back to running her bar. Maybe keep her cyber-warrior stuff going on the side, but she’d stay far away from the field. And danger. And death.
