Page 48

“Yo, homie,” he called out to Alex as he stepped over the parking lot stone and onto the curb. “Private gathering.”

“For fucking what?” said Alex incredulously. The Garras never did exclusive gatherings, even for birthdays, so this had to be some bullshit excuse.

“None of your business,” the man growled. He shooed Alex away like he was a stray dog. “This scene ain’t for gringos like you. So you better head on back.”

Alex’s jaw dropped, a laugh building in his chest. People have been making assumptions about his looks since the moment he was born, but right now, he was in no mood to discuss his heritage. He chewed the inside of his cheek, grasping the metal bar he got from Kana in his hoodie pocket. “Where’s Juan?”

The man raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. With a sneering smile plastered on his face, he turned and roared, “Yo, Juan! You order a pink gringo boy toy?!”

Alex snorted into his elbow. He had been called many names, but he always found this one more amusing than offensive.

A short, stocky man, sporting an oversized Dodgers jersey and blue cap, marched up behind the bouncer. He stopped in his tracks, brown eyes widening. “Augs?”

Alex flashed a crooked grin. “What’s good, primo?”

Juan’s silver-capped grin stretched wide as he shoved past the bouncer and pulled Alex into a dap. “Ese! You finally back?”

Alex couldn’t help but smile at Juan’s enthusiasm. “Nah man, I’m just here to talk to Rafael. He here?”

Juan nodded, a concerning look pinching his bushy eyebrows. “Ye.” He pointed behind him with a thick thumb. “Upstairs with Eddie.”

Alex wasn’t expecting an audience, but if there was anyone as trustworthy as Rafael, it would be Eddie.

As Juan gestured to Alex to follow him, the bouncer grabbed Juan’s shoulder. “Yo, Juan.” His eyes darted between them. “Who the fuck is he?”

Juan shrugged off his hand. “Shut your mouth. You better show some respect in front of Aguila’s boy,” he threatened him in Spanish and walked off.

The bouncer’s eyes widened and jaw dropped. He sputtered, “You’re that fucking Gangster Barbie everyone keeps talking about?”

Alex sucked in an awkward laugh. The fact that they were still calling him that behind his back meant his high school rep hadn’t died. God knows what they told the Hatchlings. “If ya ask nicely, I can do you after Juan,” he teased him.

The bouncer grimaced.

Alex made an obscene gesture that left nothing to the imagination. The bouncer’s face went scarlet. Alex howled all the way to the door and stepped inside.

The heat hit him first. Bodies were packed wall to wall. The air thick and damp. Then the smoke. The sweet haze of hookah and weed curled into his lungs, and something old stirred in his chest—a want he thought he’d buried.

To his left, a group lounged on wrecked leather sofas, puffing smoke rings from a cloudy hookah. To his right, men crowded a makeshift bar, fists pounding the counter at whatever play just happened on the wall-mounted TV. Same shit, different Friday.

“Yo ese!” Juan clapped him on the shoulder, silvery grin catching the disco ball’s light. “I gotta tend the bar for a bit, but you good?” He gestured his head towards the dark metal staircase behind the bar.

Alex nodded. “Yeah fo’sure!” he said over the thumping commotion. He gave him a slight wave just before he lost him in the crowd. He threw his hood over his head, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone else who may notice him.

He took the metal stairs two at a time. As he climbed, the smoke thinned, and the air got lighter. The party noise muffled more with each step, replaced by the tinny brass of banda music drifting from down the hall. Following the sound of a passionate tenor and the buzzing hum, Alex came to the second half-closed door down the hallway.

He gently pushed the door wider. The smell of rubbing alcohol and fresh ink hit him. He leaned against the threshold, squinting his eyes to adjust to the dimness—the only light came from the station’s ring light. Beyond its circle, the rest of the old office disappeared into shadow. There was no one else, Alex was sure, just the three of them and the passionate mariachi music drifting from Eddie’s radio.

In the center of the room, a masked Eddie bent over his client. Rafael lay chest-down on the ink bed, arms folded under his chin, jaw tight against the needle’s bite. He looked up, locked eyes with Alex, and his expression flattened.

“You’re actually back?” Rafael breathed.

“Hell no.” Alex crossed his arms.

Rafael clenched his jaw, the muscle in his cheek twitching—the only tell that the needle was still doing its work. “Then what you here for, boy?”

Eddie killed the machine and pulled down his mask, the skull tattoo along his jawline catching the light.

“If you’re here to scrub that talon off ya, it ain’t happening.” He rubbed his eyes with his arm, pushing away the fringes of his blond toupee undercut. “We don’t do that here.”