Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 7

  “This is just the beginning,” I say, tapping the laptop with its much-mocked content. “I’m working on it. We have to build up to the big guns, Miel.”

  “Whatever,” she says, waving my explanations and assurances away. “Why do you have to use your real name, though? You know he’s looking for you. And more importantly, he knows that wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be, too.”

  “I’m not going to use some idiotic self-aggrandizing pseudonym meant to inspire fear or create some kind of mythos. I can inspire fear all on my own. And I don’t care if he hears of me. I want him to hear of me. Nobody knows about our connection to Selina, so he won’t know where to find us, but he knows that we’re still out here, just out of reach, and we’re not afraid.” I don’t owe her an explanation, but something deep inside me needs her to understand. As foolish as it may be to use my own name, anything else would be cowardly. To make an escape into the darkness might be enough for her. But I need the man who tried to break us to know that the monster he created will be his undoing. That’s the only way that a free life will be worth living. And if this shard of hubris ends up being my downfall, well, then I didn’t deserve my freedom to begin with. “Anything else, Miel, or can I get back to work?”

  Miel makes a face at me, but she does have one more question. “What about Selina? She’s not just some rich bitch, you know. If you just told her the plan, told her why we’re doing this and why we need her, I think she’d understand. She might even be on board. You don’t have to keep doing this the hard way, with these power plays and all the secrecy and threats.”

  “This is my plan, Miel,” I say, tone hardening. This is what I was afraid of. Miel is my friend, my oldest friend, but sometimes she gets too comfortable. “My job is to make these decisions. Your job is to do what you’re told. So go out and break some kneecaps, okay?”

  She purses her lips, a cloud of anger in her eyes, but she knows when she’s pushed too far. She stands to leave, but hesitates at the door. “I’m serious, Javi. She’s not who we thought she would be.”

  I say nothing, motioning for her to close the door as she leaves. What Miel doesn’t understand is that Selina is exactly who I knew her to be, and she can’t stay that way. I don’t need Selina’s pity, or her partnership. I need her fear, and her obedience. That kiss in the stables was a start, and her decision to kill the guards was more than I could have hoped for, but it’s not enough. I need to own her, control her, possess her in every way. Maybe that’s not the only way that our plan works, but it’s the only way mine does.

  Planning this year’s annual anti-violence fundraiser is a logistical nightmare. Vega drags his feet about me going to Mrs. Hunt’s estate, and I don’t exactly jump at the chance to bring the poor old woman into my new home of constant surveillance and lurking criminals. Predictably, I’m the one who ends up having to compromise. Is it still called compromise when you never stood a chance?

  I set up shop in the lounge, placing Mrs. Hunt’s seat strategically so that the camera won’t be in her line of sight. The irony of planning an anti-violence fundraiser in what has become a den of thieves doesn’t escape me, not to mention the violence I’ve been forced to commit myself. But there’s no time for that. Miel makes us tea, and we settle down for business.

  We’ve thrown this event so often that there aren’t many decisions left to make. Besides, Mrs. Hunt has a team of professional planners that handle all the real work. My physical involvement at all is a formality. I could just as easily write Mrs. Hunt a big check and chuck it in the mail, never having to even speak to the woman. But this is polite, and expected, so here we are.

  “So, we’ll be at The High, of course, third Saturday of September,” I say, reading through the notes I scrawled between making beds and making lunch. “I was thinking maybe we could change up the music this year? I know we usually get that string quartet from Marietta, but I heard this incredible jazz band at a friend’s party last spring.”

  “Jazz,” Mrs. Hunt repeats, as if the word is unfamiliar. “Is that quite the right fit for us, my dear?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I say, perking up when she doesn’t immediately shut me down. “It’s a tad more upbeat, sure, but still very classy. And I think it’s time to change it up a little, lest we get accused of laziness.”

  Mrs. Hunt purses her lips. I do this because I care deeply about the cause, perhaps now more than ever. She does this because everyone in her social circle throws these annual events, and outshining friends is what aging southern belles like her live for.

  “I heard Mrs. Gunnar had Shawn Mendes at the children’s cancer concert last week,” I mention slyly, pretending to be distracted by my notes.

  “Yes, I couldn’t make it, but I could hear the racket all the way from across town,” Mrs. Hunt grumbles, but I know I’ve won. Mrs. Gunnar raised a couple million for the Ronald McDonald House, all because she had the luck of her daughter having dated the superstar for a week or two back in the day. “Fine, we’ll go with the jazz. Have your assistant send Marjorie the information about that band. What’s next? The menu?”

  After a few more passive-aggressive arguments the menu is settled, and I’ve convinced Mrs. Hunt that the del Reys’ financial contribution will be well worth the scene Isla may or may not cause. She’s a firecracker, that so-called friend of mine, but her pockets run nearly as deep as her need to be praised for her philanthropy. Finally, we wrap up and I walk the older woman out to the waiting towncar, waving her off with a pasted-on smile that drops as soon as I turn back to the house.

  Vega is waiting for me inside. I try to push past him, heading to my room to change, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “This event sounds extremely public,” he says, thick brows furrowed. “There were photos from the gala in the press last year.”

  “And all the years before that, too,” I add somewhat pridefully, pulling myself out of his grip and crossing both arms across my chest. “That’s exactly why I have to do it. The whole city expects me to.”

  “Didn’t you finish planning everything just now?” Vega asks. “Your contribution is done, aside from that absurdly large check, anyway. Call in sick the night of the gala.”

  I laugh at the thought. “Call in sick? I can’t do that. Two years ago, Hattie Neadle was shaking hands at her save-the-whales ball until her appendix literally burst. Even then her husband practically had to drag her to the ambulance. If you want me to ‘call in sick,’ you better kill me first, or Mrs. Hunt will.”

  Vega sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He seems stressed. More stressed than usual, anyway “Fine. Miel and I will accompany you, but we can’t be in any photos. Got it?”

  “I’m not asking for a fucking selfie,” I snap. “If you don’t want to be in photos, don’t be in them. And if what you’re doing really isn’t that bad, like you’re always telling me, why are you so afraid of getting caught?”

  Vega sets his jaw, giving me a warning look, but he has no response to that. I can’t fight a victorious smirk, and he rolls his shoulders, a low, threatening growl in the back of his throat.

  “Get back to work, Selina. And watch your damn mouth.”

  “You should be thrilled about this thing,” Miel says when I update her about the gala the next day. “I know I am. Expensive food, expensive wine, and a chance to finally find some big names to get in our pockets? Vega, this is great.”

  “Did you miss the part about the press being there?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic is an unsolvable knot, as always. “Press means photographers, photographers mean trouble.”

  “I thought you weren’t scared of him,” Miel reminds me, popping a stick of bubblegum into her mouth and offering me one. I decline.

  “I said we would be fine as long as he doesn’t know we’re involved with Selina,” I say, easing my foot off the brake as we inch forward. “I don’t want proof that ties us to her in any way.”

  Miel blows a
bubble and pops it. “Hey, you’re the guy in charge, remember? You figure this out, and then tell me what to do about it.”

  “Bitch,” I growl as she throws my own words back at me. She laughs and sits up straighter as we pass the accident causing the slowdown and pick up speed again. When we get back home, she’ll be just as worried as I am, probably try to give me shit for getting us into this mess to start with. For now she’s on an adrenaline high, all but bouncing in her seat as we take the exit and merge onto 78, nearing the promise of violence. Miel becomes a different person with a gun in her hand. I could psychoanalyze my friend, trace her comfort commanding violence back to the years she was on the receiving end of such interactions, but it doesn’t matter. It makes her an excellent asset, and the one person on my team I could never live without.

  “There,” Miel says, pointing at a small apartment building with a faded pink paint job rapidly peeling off. “2B. He’ll be home.”

  We pull into the parking lot, our shiny black Hummer obnoxiously out of place. There’s a little boy driving rusty Hot Wheels along the sidewalk, and his jaw drops at the sight of the big car. I smile at him, remembering a time when just the sight of such a vehicle would entice the same reaction from me. His mother sees us and quickly pulls the boy inside, giving us a big-eyed stare over her shoulder before slamming the door shut behind them. I smile at that, too.

  Miel is already running up the stairs, and I follow her at a more leisurely pace. At the balcony, I pause and look out over the neighborhood as my partner beats on the apartment door. Decatur Heights is far enough from our old running grounds that there’s no need to worry about seeing anyone we don’t want to, but still the kind of place where we won’t have to be on the lookout for cops or nosey neighbors. Unfortunately, that also means the clientele out here can’t sustain us for long. Maybe Miel is right. Maybe the gala will be the perfect opportunity to hook some bigger fish, if we play it right.

  The door opens and Kevin Hopkins peers out. His eyes squint in the bright daylight, but Miel is shouldering her way in before he has a chance to recognize us and try to shut the door. I follow, closing the door quietly behind us and planting myself in front of it. Kevin casts me a panicked look, but it’s Miel he should be afraid of. I’m just here to look threatening and watch the show.

  “Your payment was due last week, Kevin,” Miel says, popping that gum and crossing her arms. The motion pushes the hem of her jacket up, revealing the Glock tucked into her waistband. “What’s the hold up?”

  “I was sick last month, had to drop a couple shifts,” Kevin stammers, wiping at his pink nose. With that greasy mop of hair and stained t-shirt, I’m not surprised this redneck lives alone. “I’ll work overtime this week and have it for you by Friday, I swear.”

  Miel smacks her gum again. A bit cliché, but she makes it look good. “That’s not going to work for us, Kevin.”

  “Please, Mr. Vega,” the man says, turning his pleading eyes to me. “I’m not a gambler, or in legal trouble, or anything like the people you probably are used to dealing with. It’s my daughter. She’s in nursing school and she just lost her scholarship. I can’t let her drop out, not when she’s about to graduate in a year. She’ll be the first in our family with a degree.”

  “Don’t care,” Miel snaps, pulling the gun out and pressing the barrel to Kevin’s chin, gently but forcefully redirecting his gaze back to her. The safety is still on, but judging from the quake in his knees, Mr. Hopkins doesn’t know that. “Pay us today, or you’ll owe us double tomorrow, and double every day after that. You can do that math without a college degree.”

  “I have the money, technically, but my rent is due, and I need to eat, and pay bills,” Kevin goes on, although I don’t know why he’d think this play for sympathy would work after the last one failed so spectacularly. “Please, just give me ‘til Friday—”

  “All I heard is you have the money,” Miel says, pulling the gun away and shoving it into her back pocket. “We’re not leaving without it.”

  Kevin glances between the two of us a few times but finds no give in our stone faces. After another moment of hesitation, his shoulders sag and he retreats to the other room with Miel close behind. When they return, Miel is waving a stack of dirty bills.

  “Thanks, Kevin,” she sing-songs, handing me the cash. “We’ll be back in a couple weeks. Give your little girl our best, ‘kay?”

  I shut the apartment door behind us and follow Miel as she practically skips back to the Hummer. This’ll keep her happy and off my case for at least the rest of the day. In the car, she flips through radio stations until she finds something she can sing along to, and I silently start the drive back to Johns Creek.

  Exploiting desperate people like Kevin doesn’t trigger the apprehension in me it probably should. After all, in the world we grew up in, we’re all hungry, but only the strongest come out with a full stomach. Sure, Kevin is in a bad spot, but so are we. It’s not our fault that he made himself a stepping stone while we made ourselves the steppers. Despite my self-assurance, I think of Selina, and Miel’s conviction that the young heiress would understand our business, even be on board with it. She’s probably right, in a sense, though not in the ways she thinks. Miel doesn’t truly know Selina, after all. Hell, even Selina herself doesn’t know what she’s truly capable of. Not like I do. And although the darkest crevices of myself crave the sharp edges I see in her, that’s not what I need, not really. We need the soft and pliable side of her, the one that would disapprove of what we do and the people we use. That’s the way it has to be.

  Still, as I ease back into the traffic on 285, I decide that we’ll be attending Selina’s gala after all, and we’ll be using that opportunity to get ourselves some truly despicable, powerful clients.

  I curve my spine into up-dog, releasing my breath in a loud exhale. Even with my eyes closed I can feel Miel raise her brow in my direction. I try to shake the feeling of her stare on me and push back into down-dog, moving with my breath. This time, Miel snorts out loud.

  “Okay, that’s not yoga, that’s just face down, booty up,” the girl says, mockery in her voice.

  “Do you mind,” I say, no question mark in my reproach. “I’m trying to focus here. Clear my head.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Miel asks, and I give up, falling to my knees and flipping into savasana. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Can’t you just leave me alone for ten minutes?” I ask her, keeping my eyes shut and doing my best to relax my muscles. “Watching me do this can’t possibly be that entertaining.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” my friend-slash-warden says, and I can hear her adjusting her position on the loveseat across the room. “Are you good at this? I really can’t tell.”

  “I’m great at this,” I snap, losing whatever semblance of peace I’d been clutching onto. Inhale, exhale. “I can show you, if you want. Do you own any pants that aren’t leather?”

  “Very funny,” she says, and I yelp as something soft hits my belly. I open my eyes and see a wadded candy wrapper beside me. “I mean, I can do face down, booty up already. And I can definitely just lie on the floor like that. Is this part of it or are you just chilling?”

  It’s supposed to be both, but right now it’s neither. I sit up and turn to face Miel, pulling my legs into a criss-cross sukhasana beneath me. “I’m serious. It’s super calming. Well, when someone isn’t providing a running commentary and throwing shit at you. I imagine there must be some amount of stress in your line of work, whatever that is. Yoga could totally help you relieve that stress and center yourself after a busy day of running around, holding girls hostage in their own homes.”

  Miel ignores the dig and twists her lips to one side, considering my proposal. Then she shakes her head. “Nah. I’ve got my own ways of relieving stress.”

  I quirk a suggestive eyebrow at her and she snorts again, throwing another candy wrapper my way. It’s truly baffling, her ability to sustain h
erself on a diet of 50% refined sugar and still keep up what I’m pretty sure is a six-pack under those threadbare tanks. Whatever she’s doing, maybe it is better than yoga, at least for aesthetics.

  “Why are you so into this, anyway?” Miel asks as I stand and return to my practice, shifting into Warrior I. “Like, the yoga, the meditation, all that anti-violence publicity shit?”

  “You know why,” I say, struggling to focus on my breath as my heart begins to pick up speed at this line of questioning. My history in this area has been well-publicized, and I’m not used to being asked to revisit it.

  “I mean, I know your brother was killed in some gang-related shooting,” Miel confirms the knowledge, more casually than anyone has ever broached the topic with me before. “But I know a lot of people who lost someone that way and none of them ended up like you.”

  “I guess I’m the only one on that list who could afford the therapy that got me here,” I half-joke, balance wobbling at the memory. I get so caught up in the day-to-day of my new life, sometimes I forget how it all began. I have to lower from Warrior III before my count is up, focus lost. I force myself to stay in Warrior I still, if only so I don’t have to face Miel.

  “So what really went down?” Miel asks, more soberly than she’s ever addressed me. “I mean, I guess you don’t really have to tell me.”

  Back to Warrior II. She’s right. She has no business asking me this, and I don’t owe her my story, but something inside me wants to tell her. Maybe it’s because I’ve been Stockholm Syndromed into thinking that Miel is actually my friend instead of just a friendly prison guard, or because it’s been so long since I’ve gotten to talk about this that the pressure of holding it in is bursting to escape. It makes me feel a little stronger to pretend it’s the Stockholm Syndrome, though.

  “No, you should know,” I say, lifting my leg and bending slowly into Warrior III.