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“Yeah. Like you.”
His mouth narrows, and his fists tighten. “He was wearing black leather?”
“No. Not...just all black. He was wearing black sweats, black shoes, and a black hoodie.”
“Did he say anything?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “No. I just...I saw his eyes. Wide light brown eyes....” I frown.
“What? Wide, light brown eyes and what?” he asks, leaning closer.
The scent of leather, eucalyptus, and cedarwood tickles my nose. I lean back because the overwhelming rush to touch his beard and lips assaults me. I’m blinded by that urge, unsure where it comes from, and then I recall my fantasy from yesterday afternoon.
I thank God that though I’m not dark, I’m dark enough that the man can’t see me blush and pray that he can’t read my thoughts.
“What?” he presses again, bringing me out of my sensual remembrance.
In his presence, my emotions are all over the place.
“When I grabbed his wrist, I saw a couple of tattoos.”
“Of what?”
“The one on the wrist I grabbed was of a marijuana plant growing out of a skull.”
“Colors?”
“Yeah. The plant was green, as you’d suspect, but the skull was green, white, and red.”
“Like the Mexican flag?”
I nod. “Exactly.”
“The other tattoo?”
“Was over his knuckles...almost like yours, but it was one complete tattoo. It was a green snake curling around the numbers five and two. The five was—”
“Stretched across the index and middle fingers, and the two stretched across the ring and pinky fingers.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s the insignia of the Víboras. The Vipers,” he translates their Spanish gang’s name to English.
“The street gang.”
His lips tighten further, and he stands to his full height. That’s all the confirmation I need. A chill runs down my spine before my body heats up and memories assault me again. I rock back and forth, wrapping my arms around my body.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I can’t find the words to speak nor any way to communicate to him that I’m as far from all right as possible. Tears fall down my face coursing over the planes of my cheeks, dripping to the inside seams of my lips.
“Hey,” he says in a dark, husky tone as he kneels before me.
I keep rocking, trying to force the dark memories and fear away. Anger replaces fear, and I want someone to pay, but no one can. My enemy doesn’t have a particular face, and, at the moment, the closest representation is the one standing before me.
“Get away from me,” I whisper through the tears.
“The fuck!”
