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‘I do what you tell me to do,’ I said calmly, the gun heavy but also oddly soothing. A mechanism by which I could be heard for once. A tool for controlling a situation that would ordinarily be out of my control.
‘So do it now,’ Guillermo hissed, looking around to make sure nobody could see our little Mexican/Colombian standoff in the back lot of Budget Funerals. ‘Do what I’m telling you. Put that fucking thing away and get in the car before you accidentally shoot me, you silly bitch.’
I shook my head. ‘I saved that baby,’ I said, my throat burning as a lump grew and grew within it. ‘I saved him, and he died because our fucking boss wanted to teach me a lesson. I started this, and I’m going to finish it, Guillermo.’
‘Pointing a gun at me ain’t gonna bring that kid back,’ he ground out. ‘Watching him burn ain’t gonna do anything except fill your head with more black shit, so black you won’t be able to close your eyes at night without seeing it. You really want that?’
I shrugged. ‘I can’t close my eyes anyway, so it doesn’t matter.’
Guillermo made a low noise in the back of his throat. Not a growl, but almost. ‘You see some freaky blue eyes when you close yours?’
I swallowed thickly, my pulse pounding in my temples. My grip on the gun wavered. ‘What?’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ he said, his dark eyes shining in the stark sunlight. It was too hot. Too bright. Too loud. Everything was too goddamn loud.
I looked around the lot nervously.
‘I know my place,’ Guillermo said, his expression tight as he shoved his hands in his jean pockets. ‘I’m the thug. I’m the stupid Mexican who does the grunt work.’
‘You’re not stupid,’ I said.
One corner of his mouth tugged up for a second, and then it was gone again. ‘No. I’m not. You know who was stupid?’
I wasn’t sure I liked where he was going with this. ‘Who?’ I asked reluctantly.
‘That damn DEA agent,’ he said, and in that moment, all doubt was gone. Guillermo knew I’d killed Murphy. He knew.
‘Guillermo,’ I whispered.
‘You move the money, too?’ he cut in.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, my arms heavy and tired from pointing the gun at him for so long. I wondered how long I could aim it at him before I’d have to lower it. How long before one of the employees at Budget Funerals came out for a cigarette break and found me bailing up a biker at gunpoint in their parking lot.
‘You trust me?’ Guillermo asked, his eyes wild as he fixed them on me. It was an excellent question. Did I trust him? Did I trust anyone?
‘I killed Murphy,’ I said, the gun getting warm in my sweaty hand. ‘I killed his girlfriend, too.’
‘I knew it,’ Guillermo muttered, shaking his head. ‘Of course it was you. Look at you. Waving a gun around. Creeping around with the prez like I’m stupid. Of course I know. You’ve changed, Ana. You finally grew some fucking cajones.’ He grabbed his crotch for effect. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say your balls are made of brass, cholita.’
That saying – my blood ran cold – it’s such a cliche. But I swear, in that moment, I felt all of the thick red blood in my veins turn into freezing sludge and sharp icicles that cut me from the inside.
I sagged against the car, all the fight draining out of me. I wanted to cry. Creeping around with the prez. Jesus Christ. It was all going to come undone.
‘You love him?’ Guillermo asked.
‘Who, Murphy?’ I asked incredulously.
Guillermo rolled his eyes. ‘John. You love John.’ It was a statement more than a question. It was true.
Yes. A thousand million times, yes.
‘Shut up!’ I said, launching myself at him.
He stepped back, my show of brute force apparently unperturbing to him, and raked his eyes up and down me. I imagined how crazy I must have looked. Messy hair, cheeks raw from crying and waving a loaded gun around like I was some kind of gangster.
‘You got it bad for him, don’t you?’
Was I really that easy to read?
