I blink and remind myself I’m here for a reason.
“I’m going to take that shower.” I spin quickly, hoping he doesn’t see the flush creeping along my chest and spreading up my neck and across the apples of my cheeks.
I’m not a girl who blushes, and yet I am.The bathroom is painted a relaxing pale green. The shower is a rainfall shower head, glass doors, and even a bench, like I’m at some spa. I strip and catch my reflection in the large mirror. The haunting image is like a sad song about heartache. Skinny limbs, a patchwork of needle bruises hiding in the crook of each arm, among other places like between my fingers and toes. My ribs poke out beneath the screen print of an old sports bra that I should have discarded long ago. I don’t bother to comb my fingers through my tangled locks. Hollowed out and bloodshot, the color of my eyes is dull. My skin is lifeless. I look like a photo negative of my old self. The little girl Momma used to say had ‘hopeful eyes.’ Before she left me behind.
I can’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror on purpose.
I’ve never been what most would call pretty.
It takes a few tries to puzzle out how to make the hot water work, but when I slip behind the glass and let the scalding water pour over me. I let out a sob and find myself clutching the white tile as tears blur my vision.
Steam fills the room, and I can’t bring myself to move as dirt and grime swirls down the drain. I did it. I got out. I’m really out.
I smile for the first time in forever.
A true smile.
Not one that’s been forced.
I squirt some of Lunatic’s shampoo that smells all musky like a man into the palm of my hand and work it into a lather in my hair. I scrub and scrub, wishing I could shed my skin like a snake. The water is hotter than anything I’ve felt in ages, and I soak it up, letting it scald away the leftover feeling of Hector’s touch, the dust from the road, and the sick rot left over from this morning’s dope. I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself I got out as if the reminder will work some strange magic on my busted-up soul.
It won’t.
But I’m used to faking it till I make it.
When I finally get out, steam ghosts from my skin and the mirror’s all fogged up. I wipe a circle with my palm and stare at the washed-out girl staring back at me. My cheeks are red from the heat, my hair wild and darker when wet, eyes a little less hollow. Still not what you’d call ‘pretty,’ but less like I crawled out from some dump. I dry off and slip on Lunatic’s tee. It falls to my mid-thighs. There’s a faded-out logo for some bar or restaurant on the left side that is missing some letters from the name.
When I exit the bathroom, he’s lying on a pallet of blankets on the floor, and the blanket on the bed is turned down. He’s shirtless with a sheet pulled up to his naked waist. The lights are off save a lamp.
“Bathroom is all yours,” I tell him.
He doesn’t say anything but darts inside and closes the door.
I glance around the room, wondering how often he stays here and if he’s got a woman waiting for him at home. There’s no evidence to suggest one sleeps here.
There weren’t any girly products in the bathroom. But I did find a new toothbrush in one of the drawers.
I flop down on his big bed and listen. There’s the dull sound of a movie or show playing somewhere in the distance, but it’s mostly quiet. A little too quiet.
My body goes tense, half expecting armed men to show up and drag me out by my hair to question me. I’ll never forget my first day waking up in Mexico.
Angry men were shouting at me in Spanish. They stripped me down to my underwear and checked over my body, making note of every bump or scar. Then they put a tattoo on the back of my neck. A brand. I run my finger over the base of my skull and feel the raised skin. I know exactly what it looks like, even without a mirror. The Juarez brothers’ own little hallmark. Their fucking property stamp.
The needle blazed across my skin like a hot poker, spelling the letters that make up their name, Juarez. No matter where life takes me, I’ll always wear their mark on my skin.
Lunatic comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips. Water beads on his tan shoulders, and tattoos crawl up his arms and across his chest. The ink is so black it seems to suck the light from the room. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but my gaze runs along the line of his neck and the defined V of his hipbones.
I swallow, my mouth and throat feeling oddly dry at the sight of this biker I hardly know. I should be afraid of the unknowns but I don’t think he plans to hurt me.
He stalks toward me but goes to the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. He fishes in the drawer and brings out a small knife. “Where’s your tracker? Don’t try to lie and tell me there’s not one.”
He’s right. I do have one implanted in my hand.
“It’s here,” I say. “Left hand. Between the bones where the thumb meets the index finger, just under the meat.” I hold it out, palm up, not shaking even though my heart is pounding out a tap dance in my ear. I’ve done worse things to myself than cut out a tracker. I’m not scared. I just don’t want to scream.
I don’t want to appear weak or be vulnerable.
He stares at my hand for a long moment. “You sure?” His voice is softer, almost gentle. And though his soothing tone should be comforting, it cuts deeper than if he were to be cruel. I hate gentleness. It makes me want to cry. Makes me want to believe in things that are just fairytales for little girls who believe in happy endings.
