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“Maybe he—” I begin after we get clear of the man.
“Don’t give a shit about what he’s going through. It’s not my fucking problem.”
I can’t help but feel like he thinks of me the same way, and I’ve done nothing but cling to him since he came to the hotel where I was with those motorcycle people.
“You need different shoes. Your feet have been hurting because they’re too small for you.”
“Cerberus gave them to me,” I tell him. “It was very kind.”
He stops and turns to face me. “If they’re so kind, then why didn’t you tell them the shit they gave you didn’t fit?”
I freeze when he tugs at the side of the hoodie I’m wearing.
“This motherfucker is three sizes too big. You have to keep tugging up the waistband of those sweats you’re wearing, and your shoes are so fucking tight, they’re cutting off circulation to your toes.”
I have no idea how he knows my shoes are too small, but the fact that he figured it out floors me.
“You need new clothes.”
“These are fine,” I counter, trying not to sound like I’m arguing with him.
He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to back down. I haven’t figured out what he needs to feel powerful yet. I don’t know how to act with him to make me less likely to end up on his bad side.
“You can’t run in those shoes. Those loose-ass clothes will snag on every damn plant you get close to. I’m not going to end up getting caught by border patrol or some fucking raging militia group because you get tangled up in the brush.”
Well, that makes a lot more sense.
“I didn’t consider—”
“You think I’m buying you new clothes because I want to see you in some pretty fucking dress, Ayla?” He shakes his head as if he’s disgusted by the thought. “Neither of us are up for winning a big goddamned fight, so I need to do everything I can to help make getting across the river easier for us.”
I nod. His explanation doesn’t exactly leave any room for argument.
The seediness of the neighborhood begins to shift as we walk, turning into a tourist mecca. Neither of us seem out of place as we walk among the other Americans wandering around the shop-lined streets. There’s laughter and happiness, dozens of people who have no clue how easy it is to be victimized in the daylight. I used to be one of those people who thought darkness is the only thing that brought out the bad people, but I know better. Despite having been taken at night, I knew a woman at the compound who was snatched from the grocery store parking lot with her baby. That same woman had her child ripped from her arms and didn’t know where they took the baby. I was on the housekeeping crew at the compound, one of the ones responsible for cleaning up the mess after she killed herself.
I cough, an attempt to clear my throat and the tears that threaten. For some, what happened to me was as bad as it gets. Others suffered things greater. But at the end of the day, it isn’t about who hurt more. I think it needs to be about survival. I’ll never deny that the threat to Alani is the only thing that kept me from doing what that mother did. Cortez somehow knew my limits. I was more valuable to him alive than dead, and he manipulated my love for my sister to keep making money off me.
Deep down, I think the man was worse than Pirro. The second-in-command lost his temper often. He’d get agitated or too high to control himself, and he’d fucking go berserk. It wasn’t hard to know what Pirro was feeling. He was always quick to lash out.
Cortez maintained this calm coolness that spoke loudly of his psychosis. He could watch someone die with less emotion than he’d have watching his favorite meal being placed in front of him. The pain he caused others didn’t register. He didn’t seem to enjoy it, but if anything compromised his ability to earn money, then he removed the problem. It was always as simple as that.
“I find myself doing that sometimes.”
I jerk my head in Nash’s direction, discovering that we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to walk around us.
“What’s that?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Getting lost in my head. We need to keep moving.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but I can’t chance him chastising me for the memories taking over. It makes me vulnerable, and, despite his confession, I don’t see the man getting so distracted by what happened to him that he’d allow himself to be vulnerable again.
“Hungry?” he asks when we near a row of vendor food trucks.
