“When I was going to school here, I’d come here and sit for hours, just looking at the murals,” I say. “I’d take it in and really think about what the artist was trying to say.”
He nods. “They’re important works. And they’re beautiful to look at.”
“Where did you get this great love of art you have?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He shrugs. “I guess it’s because when I rotated home, the therapist I worked with at the VA suggested I find something that interests me. Something I could focus on,” he tells me. “One day, I found myself in a museum. I don’t remember why I went in the first place, but I was in a room looking at some of the Goyas they had and something about them really resonated with me. It really captured my interest.”
“Goya. Yeah, that’s not too dark and disturbing or anything,” I say with a smile.
He grins. “In the frame of mind I was in back then, Goya’s works spoke to me,” he says. “But gradually, as I worked with my therapist, other paintings did as well. Dali. Caravaggio. Munch.”
“No interest in doing it yourself?”
He chuckled. “No talent at it. Not like you,” he says. “I can’t distill my thoughts and feelings into creating something beautiful like you. I just don’t have the skill set.”
I don’t know why but I find the frank admission endearing. Blake is a man who truly knows himself. Most would make some excuse about why they couldn’t do something. It’s refreshing to hear somebody be so honest about themselves.
“So, what is in your skill set?” I ask.
“Electronics,” he replies simply. “I can build anything. I make useful gadgets.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
He frowns. “Well, a little gizmo I built disarms alarm systems,” he tells me.
“Why would you need something like that?” I ask. “Planning on a little burglary?”
“Burglary? Nah,” he replies. “But we did use it to break into Zavala’s office.”
My blood suddenly runs cold at the mention of that man’s name, and I try to suppress the shudder that courses through me but ultimately fail. Blake turns to me and takes my hands in his. He looks me in the eye, and I already know I’m not going to like what he’s going say.
“I cannot tell you about these things,” he says. “But you did ask me to not keep anything from you.”
I nod. “I did. And I appreciate you being honest. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry though.”
He offers me a small smile. “And I appreciate it. But I’m here. Nothing’s happened,” he says, his tone reassuring. “And nothing’s going to happen.”
“Like I said before, you can’t promise that.”
He looks down at the ground and finally nods. “No, I suppose I can’t.”
I do appreciate that he’s being honest and not hiding things from me. And there is a small part of me that’s kicking my own ass for asking him to be transparent. But the bigger piece of me would rather know. I don’t know why it’s so important that he tell me these things—it drives me crazy with worry. But it is important to me.
“So why did you break into his office?” I finally ask.
“We bugged it,” he replies. “We figure the best way to get ahead of this prick is to know what he’s thinking. What he’s saying to other people.”
“And? What are you doing with this information?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We’re hitting him. Taking out his product,” I say. “We’re burning all of his drugs. The hope is that if we make it too costly for him to do business here, he’ll go back to Mexico.”
“Do you really think that will happen?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. But it’s worth a try,” he says. “It’s better than going to war with him openly. It’s a fight we’d lose. So, we’re just picking at him. Hitting him hard then backing off.”
I look Blake in the eye, and I can tell there’s something more to this story. There’s something he’s not telling me. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he knows it’s going to worry me. And part of me doesn’t want to know. Part of me would rather live on in that ignorance-is-bliss state of mind. But if I’m going to be with him, there can’t be secrets between us. We have to be open and honest with each other. That has got to be the foundation of our relationship.
“What incited this guerilla war?” I ask. “What started this?”
