Caged: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  He’s right about the latter, I have to give him that. Even before my mother’s parents moved to Georgia, their family had been flush with Colombian coffee cash for generations. Maybe some cocaine cash, too, if the rumors are true, but I refuse to believe that.

  “Rich people can’t cook?” I repeat, choosing to focus on the former part of Vega’s argument. “Tell that to Rachel Ray, Ina Garten, Gordon Ramsey—”

  “We get it, you watch HGTV,” Vega interrupts with an exaggerated eye roll, and even Brock snorts at that. I cut a glare in his direction. I thought we were supposed to be friends. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s best you stick to pastas and casseroles for now.”

  There’s a fuck you on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. I have a favor to ask, after all.

  “Listen, Vega,” I say after a moment of silence, turning my back to the stove. His name feels foreign in my mouth. I’m not sure I’ve ever addressed him directly like this. I glance at Brock quickly, but he’s back to playing invisible. “Um, you probably know this, but coming up this week is kind of an important day. Thursday is the anniversary of Max’s—my brother’s—death. Five years. I always go to his grave, take flowers. Is that… I mean, can I please go?”

  What I really want to say is, surely you won’t keep a poor grieving girl from visiting her dead brother’s grave on the anniversary of his murder, but I decide the passive-aggressive route isn’t worth the risk on this one.

  I can feel Brock tense beside me, and watch Vega’s brows twitch up. He’s not surprised by the information. He knows everything about me, after all. No, he’s either surprised that I felt I had to request this basic human right, or that I had the audacity to demand this privilege. I’m hoping it’s the former.

  There’s an endless silence as Vega contemplates me. Surely he’ll say yes. It would take a true monster to deny me this, and there must be at least a shred of humanity left in his ash-black soul.

  “That’s fine,” Vega says at last, and I exhale in relief. “Thursday? I’ll take you.”

  I was hoping for Miel’s company. Even after everything, she’s still the only one of my captors I could truly feel even halfway at peace around. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ll take what I can get.

  “Thank you,” I breathe, trying not to look too desperate. “I really appreciate that.”

  There’s nothing in Vega’s expression to bely any sort of emotion, as usual. Instead, he simply nods toward the stove behind me.

  “Your water is boiling over.”

  Miel still isn’t speaking to me. She’s putting up a good show around Selina and the guys, knowing that undermining me in front of the others will only make things worse. It doesn’t bother me. Money is still coming in steadily and that’s all that matters.

  Selina becomes more and more distant as Thursday approaches. After being snubbed by Miel a couple times, she keeps her distance from the other woman. My only concern now is the light camaraderie she seems to be developing with Brock. After walking in on them in the kitchen the other day, him holding the spoon to her lips in a show of intimacy that twisted my gut, I rolled back through hours of footage of the two of them, searching for clues of anything illicit between them. There was nothing, of course. Brock knows better than to risk his job—and life—by getting any ideas about our hostage. And I doubt Selina will be running her mouth anytime soon, not after how it went down with Miel. There’s nothing to worry about there. It takes a couple glasses of whiskey and a quick jerk-off session in the shower for the primal side of me to get the message, though. Our pretty little princesa awakens something dark and possessive in me, something I’ve never felt before. I tell myself that it’s only because she’s so important to my mission. She’s everything, in fact. Of course I’m protective of the woman—object—that represents my freedom.

  One more gulp of whiskey, and I almost believe it.

  I should be keeping my distance from her, I know it, but now Miel is in the doghouse and I don’t trust Brock and Hernando with such a prize. They’ve proven to be loyal hired help so far, sure, but they’re not family. They’ve lost enough to our common enemy that I can trust their commitment to our cause, but they’ll never be as close as Miel and I are. That kind of shared pain is the only tie that runs deeper than blood.

  Thursday morning I wake up and put on my new death-black suit, shave clean, and wrangle my hair into control. Perhaps it’s a bit much, but I know how important the day is to Selina. I saw the press photos from the first couple years. Eventually, the paparazzi lost interest, when she stopped running wild and what had once been an audacious scandal became simply sad. Respect of a grieving sister had nothing to do with it.

  You’re one to speak of respect, I can practically hear Miel sneer. She’s both the angel and the devil on my shoulder. I hope she gets over herself soon and comes back to me. I would never admit it, but I’m beginning to miss her.

  I straighten my tie and examine my reflection. I hardly recognize myself like this. I didn’t even wear a suit to my own parents’ funerals. It’s not like nine-year-old Javier even owned one. I rip the tie off and fling it back onto the unmade bed, undoing the top couple of shirt buttons. Much better. I’m not going to the goddamn prom.

  Downstairs, Miel and the boys give each other sidelong glances at the sight of me all dressed up but are wise enough to keep their mouths shut. Breakfast is laid out as usual, coffee piping hot, but Selina isn’t here. She must still be getting ready.

  I grab a muffin, a banana, and some coffee, then chit chat with the guys as they munch on their own meals. After a while they have to go, and Selina still isn’t here. I go out into the foyer and pace for a few minutes, checking my watch at least a dozen times. Eventually I give up on punctuality and sit on the bottom step, checking emails on my phone while I wait.

  A clicking of heels above gets my attention and I twist to look up at the newcomer. From down here, Selina is all legs, demure black stilettos clicking on the marble stairs, their blood-red soles the only color on her. Her dress is plain but perfectly fitted, curving gently at her hips and cutting off just above the knee, sleeves covering her slim upper-arms and flaring ever so slightly at the elbows. The square neckline shows off her clavicle, currently decorated with a single strand of creamy pearls. Her hair is loose, and I realize I haven’t seen her dolled up like this since the garden party. She’s gorgeous without makeup, of course, and it’s not like she’s wearing that much right now. But her lashes look a mile long, and her lips seem plumper, a discreet peachy shine on them.

  My life would be so much easier if she wasn’t so damn beautiful. I can feel an unwelcome stirring in my groin and quickly stand, marching toward the door.

  “You’re late,” I snap, way too harshly. There’s no need to be an asshole. I grimace to myself, but don’t apologize, and she doesn’t either.

  We walk in silence out to my Hummer, her heels muffled clicks against the stone driveway. The car radio loudly begins blaring NPR, some story about a hurricane in the Caribbean. I figure that’s not the right mood, and flip through stations until some inoffensive pop music begins to play. I wonder what Selina used to listen to on long drives, and then I wonder why I would ever care about that.

  “Macedonia Cemetery, right?” I ask, and Selina nods mutely, eyes fixed blankly ahead. I clear my throat. I should just drive her there and back. I don’t owe her any more than that. She’s lucky I’m even giving her this much. “Do you want to get anything on the way? Flowers?”

  She nods again. “Yes, please. There’s a place on the way, on Medlock. I usually go there.”

  I type the directions into my maps app and affix the phone to the dashboard. We drive in silence, the chipper pop music barely loud enough to be heard over the engine. I could turn it up, but I don’t.

  At the florist, Selina picks an arrangement of pale pink flowers and fresh greenery that feathers out of a vase like a peacock’s tail. I had no idea flowers could be so expensive, but I ha
nd over the black card without complaint. Back in the car, the bouquet all but dwarfs my companion, but she holds it in her lap for the rest of the drive, refusing to leave it unattended in the trunk.

  We get to Macedonia around ten. There are a few other cars in the parking lot, but the place seems mostly vacant. It’s a bright, sunny day, not exactly mourning weather.

  I let Selina lead, trying not to look at her ass as she marches with purpose down the pathway. Of all days… A few rows down, just after a big oak tree, she turns into the grass. Just like at the garden party, the lush turf doesn’t stop her, or even slow her down in those ridiculous stilettos. We pause at a big marble tombstone, simpler than I would have expected. It only bears a name in block letters, Maximiliano Palacios, and the full span of his life in two numbers. In a year, Selina will be older than her brother ever was.

  She sets the giant bouquet down on the trim grass in front of the marker, brushing non-existant dust off the stone.

  “Do you mind?” she asks, turning back to me with a single raised brow, and I step back, smiling politely at a few passing strangers.

  Selina doesn’t sit before the grave, or even crouch down a bit. She stands, stoically facing the cold marble, hands knotted tightly at her waist. I can see her long lashes fluttering closed, see the wobble in her bottom lip as she draws in a deep breath. For a moment, I can’t look at her. My eyes cut away to the two gravestones just to the left of Max’s, set close beside each other. These are a bit smaller, but with more ornate carvings, the stone slightly more worn by weather.

  Diego Palacios.

  Cristina Palacios.

  I look back to Selina, still standing perfectly poised. She’s beginning to speak, keeping her voice low, trying not to let me hear. I should let her have her privacy. For one day only, I should let her have this. But I can’t. Some deep pit of myself yearns to know her, even this dark, private part of her. It’s for the job, I tell myself, in case I need more leverage. I can’t convince even myself of that.

  “I miss you,” she’s whispering, and I can hear the tiny hitch in her voice even as she struggles to maintain her composure. “I know you’re not here. I know all I’m standing on is bones and that tux you always hated. But I miss you, Maxy. I’d come here every day if I could. Oh my god, I still can’t believe you’re not with me. Everything is so bad without you. I’m so sorry, Max, I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself…”

  She’s crying now, despite her brave attempts, voice cracking over a sob that wracks her whole body. I take a few more steps back, feeling like the dirty voyeur that I am. I can’t bear to leave her, and I can’t bear to listen. I keep my head low but watch her through my lashes as her legs give out beneath her and she delicately collapses into a ladylike crouch in front of the gravestone.

  My gut twists as I watch my pretty captive cry, unable to help. I can’t comfort her, can’t let her think her fragile emotions lend her any power in this situation. And even if I did, it’s not like she would ever want such sympathy coming from me, the man who ruined her life.

  So I just watch, nails digging into my palms as her shoulders shake.

  The walk back to the car is silent. Blessedly, Vega has nothing to say to me for once. I hop into the passenger’s seat and pull the sun shade down, checking my reflection in the tiny mirror and dabbing a tissue at the dark streaks under my eyes. I don’t know why I bother wearing mascara when I come here. Five years later and it’s still gone in an instant.

  Vega leaves the radio on low as we make our way back to Johns Creek. At the last minute he makes a left onto 85, toward the city.

  “Where are we going?” I frown, my heart rate picking up a notch. Even after months of captivity, the unexpected still sends me into a panic. What more could he possibly do to me? Kill me? No, at least that’s one option off the table. He needs my money.

  “I’m hungry,” Vega says simply, merging into the already thick lunch hour traffic. “Aren’t you?”

  “Um, sure,” I say, my stomach twisting nervously. “But I can make us something at home. There’s some leftover pork from last night.”

  Why am I trying to talk myself out of what might be my first taste of freedom in weeks? I mentally kick myself, but Vega seems unbothered.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really feeling that right now,” he says, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel as we inch forward. He gives me a small smile, a sight so unfamiliar it makes my own mouth turn into a nervous twist. “It’s time we got you some fun stuff.”

  It takes me a second to place the quote from the conversation in the kitchen days ago. Again, the fact that he even remembered my request, let alone is going out of his way to satisfy it, makes my insides turn to butterflies. No, butterflies are too lighthearted, too romantic. Moths, panicked moths, batting their wings manically against the light that will be their ultimate downfall.

  “Are you making me eat gross street tacos?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at the memory of his antagonistic descriptions of such a meal.

  He laughs. Have I ever heard him genuinely chuckle before? It’s a low, hearty sound. I don’t hate it. “No. Not today, anyway. I have something else in mind.”

  As we idle in traffic, he takes his phone and types an address into the maps app. When he places it on the dashboard, I playfully grab at it, trying to get a glimpse of our destination’s name. He laughs at my efforts, the sound just as enrapturing as the first time, and moves to take the phone back. The instant our hands brush, I let go, flesh on fire. Still chuckling, Vega tucks the phone in his lap for safekeeping. Yeah, I’m not grabbing at anything there. My face heats, and I’m glad my complexion won’t reveal my blush. What the hell is wrong with me?

  We wind up in Marietta, on a backstreet just off the train tracks. I instinctively grab my purse tighter as we exit the car. I’ve never been anywhere like this before, not really. Vega doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, laying his hand lightly but possessively on the small of my back and guiding me down the sidewalk. We pause at a faded green awning with the word Kiosco printed on it. Inside, the restaurant is tiny and dimly lit even with the midday sun glaring outdoors, but the smell of grilled meat is remarkable. Most of the small tables are already crowded, the room buzzing with a dozen conversations. Vega nods at the guy behind the small bar in the corner, who nods back, jerking his head toward an empty table on the western wall. I can feel the heat of Vega’s big palm through my dress as he steers me in that direction.

  We take our seats, and someone drops off glasses of cold water and a couple laminated menus. I gulp down the water gratefully, dehydrated from the hot day, not to mention my little tear-fest earlier. Then I pick up the menu. A taste of Colombia, the subtitle reads, and I look up at my companion with surprised eyes.

  “I’ve never been here before,” he admits pleasantly, eying his own menu. “But I’m told the bandeja paisa is to die for. Oh, and if we don’t have the sangria here, we might as well have never come at all.”

  I gulp and skim down the list of lunch entrees. Nothing looks familiar. I glance around the small dining room. The crowd is a fair mix of people who look like us, and those who don’t. Vega and I are definitely overdressed, but there are a lot of other people in work attire, probably on their lunch breaks from some corporate job downtown.

  “Have you ever been to Colombia?” Vega is asking. I shake my head. Mom always wanted to take us, but then she died before we ever got around to it. We did go on vacation to Mexico once, the summer before I went into the second grade. We didn’t meet any of Dad’s family, or anything like that. We stayed at a resort on the beach the whole time. I still remember how hot the black sand felt under our feet.

  The waiter is back, with a close-mouthed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He must be stressed. This place is slammed, and dodging between the tight tables seems like a nightmare.

  “Are you ready to order?” he asks, and I hear the accent on his tongue when he hits the rs.

  “Yes
,” Vega says confidently, not even looking at me. “We’ll get a pitcher of sangria, and I’ll have the bandeja paisa. Selina?”

  “Um, I’ll have the same,” I say, matching the waiter’s tight-lipped smile. Everything about this situation has me on edge—the setting, the day, the company.

  “Oh, and some empanadas to start,” Vega adds, handing over our menus.

  “Carne o pollo?” the waiter asks, jotting down our order.

  Vega raises an eyebrow at me. I shake my head and shrug simultaneously. He turns back to the waiter. “Can we get some of both?”

  The waiter nods. “Got it. I’ll be right out with your sangria, and your appetizers won’t be too long.”

  “Thanks,” Vega says, turning back to me. I shift nervously on the hard wooden seat. None of the furniture in this place matches, and the paintings on the yellow walls vary from delicate still-lifes to chaotic abstracts. It’s quaint, I suppose, but not exactly in my taste.

  Vega and I sit in awkward silence for a minute, but as promised, the waiter is already back with the sangria. I let Vega pour me a glass and take an eager sip. He was right, this is to die for. Although honestly I haven’t had booze in so long I’d be grateful for wine out of a box at this point.

  “I’m sorry about today,” Vega says, and his voice is gentle, but the hardness never leaves his eyes. I wonder if it’s there even when he sleeps.

  I wonder if it would be there if he leaned over and kissed me again.

  I don’t know what his apology is supposed to mean. Is he sorry my brother is dead? Is he sorry for eavesdropping at the cemetery? Is he sorry for being in my life at all?

  “Tell me about Max,” he instructs, and again, there’s that edge to everything he says. “What was he like?”

  This line of questioning is somehow more perturbing than anything else he’s said to me. There’s no way he actually cares. Why is he trying to be polite? Why is he trying to be nice? Our appetizers arrive and Vega takes an empanada and motions for me to grab one as well. Squeezed into the corner at this table for two, just me and my warden, a worse thought occurs to me.