_______
Penny Toxiquita
Damn that was intense.
Alma
Bitch you’re telling me!
Penny Toxiquita
Who did you think of when you were beating the shit out of Mr. Rogers?
Alma
Omg please don’t call him Mr. Rogers
Penny sends a gif of thee Mr. Roger’s fromMr. Roger’s Neighborhood, pulling a clown mask over his face, and I bust up laughing. I regret never taking the time to get to know her prior to our forever-tied-to-each-other experience with La Madrina. We spent several hours together beating men of the highest status and watching La Madrina peg them after.
I’d say that’s the kind of bonding that leads to lifetime friendship. I laugh again, thinking of a distant future in which Penny and I send each other Christmas cards with religious phrases like “Oh Come All Ye’ Faithful” and family pictures where our husband and three kids are throwing leaves or some shit.
Penny Toxiquita
Is it weird I was slightly turned on?
I read over her response, but I’m not sure how to answer her. I’m still trying to understand the answer to that questionmyself. I’ve spent time in between packing, googling some of the things I’d witnessed inEl Purgatorio.
Like most women, I have my share of fantasies. More common ones that I’ve read about in books, like chasing, consensual non-consent, choking—but I had no idea the thrill behind being a dominatrix.
The release.
The power.
It was the truest form of dark feminine rage, and every time I envision myself in that role, I get aroused.
But right now is not the time for arousal. I have to finish packing my room by the end of the night. Thankfully, the penthouse comes furnished, so I don’t have to worry about furniture or appliances. All my belongings have been condensed into four large boxes.
And the one shoe box that goes with meeverywhere.
Reaching to the back of the closet, I feel for it. My hands brush against the front of it, but it’s too far back. I stand on my tiptoes and swat the box forward. I barely tug it when the weight shifts too quickly.
“Fuck!”
I lose my balance and the box drops to the floor next to where I’ve stumbled to my ass. Pictures, letters, and trinkets fall from the box. Panicking, I grab what I can and throw it back in. My eyes catch on a broken CD in the far corner of the room. It was Missy’s favorite. The Fleetwood Mac one.
I’m too intuitive to believe in a coincidence, and I’ll never deny a ghost’s existence. I sink to my knees, brushing past broken plastic. That’s when I see it. Lying on the ground is the open CD booklet, pink paper sticking out from inside.
The writing is barely legible, the ink smudged and warped by old water damage, but I can make out the name, Curtis Anderson. For reasons beyond me, I cross myself. A weird catholic ritual I did anytime the dead were mentioned. Underhis name are fading numbers, an address with a 77019 area code. Somewhere here in Houston. I stare at it for a long time, like the letters might rearrange themselves into something else, before I shove the paper into my pocket and throw the broken CD back into the box.
It’s a little past midnight when I get to the hotel. Accepting the new opportunity, with Don Cheetos in one arm and my duffle bag slung around me, I take the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Using the key Mireya gave me, I fumble with the lock.
“Fuck,” I mumble, and Don Cheetos meows.
I set him down and check the key fob again. The handle turns on it’s own, and when it opens, I’m met with dark brown eyes. Fear and fury mix and flash before me. My hand snaps forward, sharp and fast, striking Efren across the face.
Chapter 11
Efren
