Instead of sulking, I get on my phone and send a text.
The hallway outside grows quiet around ten in the morning. Most of the Saints have finally crashed somewhere in the building. Somewhere, a man snores loud enough to make the walls vibrate.
I wait ten minutes longer.
Carrying the travel cage, I open the door.
Dusty straightens instantly down the corridor, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
“Ma’am.”
“Don’t,” I say automatically.
I brush past him before he can finish whatever sentence he’s about to attempt. His boots shift. He takes one uncertain step like he’s considering stopping me.
“Don’t. I’ll scream,” I say, daring him.
He smirks. “Scream as loud as you want. I happen to like that.”
“You lay one finger on me, and I’ll tell Diablo you hurt me. That you broke in to the room and tried to fuck what’s his,” I threatened the thug.
He doesn’t move.
“I’ll tell all the Saints you have a little red dick like a dog,” I bark like I’m loca.
He freezes. He can’t grab me. Not without turning it into a scene.
“Prez said you’re supposed to stay,” he calls after me, voice cracking like he hates that he has to say it.
“Prez isn’t my father,” I throw back.
My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I keep walking. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Dusty hesitates. Then his voice follows again, more desperate.
“I gotta tell him you left.”
“Then tell him,” I say without looking back. “He doesn’t own me.”
That’s the line I feed myself like medicine.
I’m not sure I believe it.
Outside, Miami is already sweating.
The sun sits high, bright and merciless. Palm trees sway lazily above cracked sidewalks. Heat rises off the asphalt like the city is smoking. Somewhere down the block a car stereo blasts music so loud the bass shakes the air. A guy at a ventanita window laughs and orders cafecito like it’s the only religion he needs.
I inhale deeply.
Salt air.
Gasoline.
Freedom.
My phone buzzes before I even unlock the screen.
Lady.
