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“Catch her,” Judith yelled before someone cradled me in their arms and eased me down to the sofa.
My heart was racing, and I closed my eyes, willing myself to keep the contents of my stomach under control. For some reason, the idea of puking all over myself or this room because of the sight of blood was beyond embarrassing. Normally, I had no problem with bodily fluids, my mom called me her junior nurse, but that red liquid now represented something different than the stuff that flowed through our veins. It seemed to trigger unwanted memories of that night. The smell of the coppery blood hit me again and again with each breath, but I forced myself to stop panting.
Someone elevated my feet, but I kept my eyes closed as slight tremors started in my hands and worked up my arms.
Vaguely, I was aware of Judith berating Fernando, but I didn’t really pay them any attention.
At the moment, every bit of everything I had was dedicated to staying conscious.
It wasn’t until something cold and wet enveloped my hands that I opened my eyes, and found Diego cleaning my fingers off with a wet handkerchief. A look of concern furrowed his brow. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this. It’s just the smell of the blood…it reminds me of that night. I get flashbacks.” The shaking got worse, and I loathed the fact that tears were filling my eyes, exposing my weakness. “Really, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
Diego stopped cleaning my hands, and instead held them in his own. “Of course, you are. You’re here now, with me, and I’d take a bullet for you, kid. Want me to get you a drink?”
Taking an unsteady breath, I shook, hating having to depend on anyone. “I’m fine. Really. I just needed a second.”
Mrs. Cordova said something in a hissing whisper and Fernando groaned, “Jesus, Mom, take it easy.”
I felt well enough to gently tug my hands from Diego and sit up so I could look over at Fernando.
He was trying to pull his hand away from Mrs. Cordova, who was making little hissing noises through her teeth. “You’re lucky you didn’t cut a tendon, idiot son of mine. And you’re bleeding so much because your blood is more tequila than plasma. Thank goodness Joy was here to help you.”
He lifted his bloodshot eyes to mine, and I tried to see if I was dealing with sad but nice Fernando or asshole Fernando.
He snorted, “Yeah, real fucking lucky Ramón’s pet whore was here fo—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the crack of flesh meeting flesh rang through the room as Mrs. Cordova slapped him across the face.
“You will not talk about your future sis—” Her gaze cut to me then back to Fernando, who was rubbing his cheek with a scowl with his good hand. “You will not talk to a young lady that way in my home, Diego. No matter how much you’re hurting inside, you have no right to lash out at her. She’s a good girl, and she doesn’t deserve such abuse.”
“You’re right; she is a good girl.” He sat up and met my gaze, ignoring Juanita while she treated his hand with stuff from a First Aid kit at her feet. “Which is why you need to run, Joy. Run as fast and as hard away from here as you can and never look back, before it’s too late. Ramón, this whole family, is going to chew you up and spit you out. We bring death to the innocent, hurt those we love. Just ask Leo. He broke his little doll, and now she hates him, but there’s no escape for her.”
“Diego,” Judith snapped. “Take Joy to the bathroom so she can wash up. Now.”
Diego did as she commanded, hustling me out of the room so fast, I almost fell twice. I looked over my shoulder as Juanita stared at Judith while she said something to Fernando too low for me to hear, her face filled with grief. I tugged at my hand, trying to slow Diego down, but he pulled me after him like I was some reticent child.
Looking like death warmed over, Fernando lurched to his feet then yelled as Diego hurried me away, “Run, little sheep, run!”
Chapter 8
I was beat, beyond exhausted, and my whole body ached as I took the stairs up to my parents’ house just after sunset. It had been a long, long fucking day. My wet hair clung to the back of my fresh t-shirt, and I looked down at my hands as I neared the front door, checking for traces of blood from my torn up knuckles. Earlier today, after the bullshit with Joy had gone down, I’d had to dispense old-fashioned justice on one of the Santiago cartel’s men who’d attempted to kidnap the sixteen-year-old daughter of one of our madams. He claimed that they weren’t going to do anything with her, that he was only going to keep her for a little bit as a warning, but the big duffle bag full of torture tools and his video camera told a different story.
