Saint (Mercy Book 2) Page 5

  Quickly, I throw on clothes and shoes and slip out of the room to go downstairs. The kitchen is empty. I check the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty in the morning—where is everyone?

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit near the window, wondering what Esteban will have for me today. If I get some free time, I’ll run out and get what I need for Mercy so when she feels better, I can tell her all about my idea. I pull out my phone and make a list—canvases, paints, brushes, sketchbooks, pencils, and charcoal. I sip my coffee. I’ll probably have to go to Tijuana for the supplies.

  My mind cranks back to the drawing of an angel on Mercy’s wall in LA. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen her flipping through some coffee table books that I’m sure Maria placed around the house to make Esteban look cultured. They’re filled with famous paintings I’ve watched Mercy run her fingers across, mimicking brush strokes.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think to do this sooner,” I whisper and continue working on my list.

  At eleven fifteen, I wonder if I’m the only one on the property and decide to hunt down Maria. If Mercy is sick like I think she is, I need Maria to look after her while I’m out today.

  I swing open the front door and almost flatten a guy who is walking inside, just a few feet in front of Esteban.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask Esteban in Spanish.

  “I gave Maria the day off,” he answers and pushes past me. “We’re having some of the crew over tonight.” He continues toward his door under the stairs, yelling over his shoulder in Spanish, “I expect you to be there.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I can’t as the door slams closed. Shit. There’s no way I’ll expose Mercy to one of Esteban’s notorious house parties. I suppose it’s a good thing she’s not feeling well. That’ll keep her in our room all night. I contemplate how long it’ll take to put a lock on the door that I can engage from the outside to keep fuckers from wandering in. Niguel, who manages the property, might be able to do that for me.

  There’s a saying I learned in high school about the road to hell being paved in good intentions. Those words buzz in my head like an annoying mosquito, but I swat them away and jog to Niguel’s.

  AFTER RUNNING INTO town to grab some things for Mercy, I come back to find her sitting in the shade on the porch with Toro curled up to her side.

  I gather my bags from the El Camino and squeeze in next to her on the loveseat, earning a series of grunts from Toro. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

  She smiles, but it looks all wrong and her eyes are glassy. “I feel okay.”

  “I noticed you were sleeping. Are you sick?”

  She shakes her head, but her cheeks turn pink when she presses her palm to her stomach.

  “Ahh . . .” I nod in understanding. “Female problems.”

  She doesn’t confirm or deny, which isn’t a surprise. She’s always been very private about these things.

  “I picked up some stuff for you today.” I hold up the bags.

  Her expression lightens a bit as she studies my loot. “What is it?”

  “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you.” I hop up and take her hand, grateful when her smile becomes more animated and a little more genuine.

  At the top of the stairs, I spot the added lock on the door. Mercy doesn’t seem to notice. I told Niguel to put it in after she woke so he wouldn’t disturb her.

  I take her shoulders and sit her down on the bed. “I know you’ve been really bored here alone.” I reach into the bag and pull out a couple dozen different paints and paintbrushes, which I set on a table by the patio doors. “I have a bunch of canvases in the car. Every size you could possibly need. And an easel.”

  She squints at the table but seems happy.

  I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I should’ve asked her first. “Do you think you’d like to paint?”

  “Yes, I would, but I’ve never painted before.” She gets up from the bed and picks up and studies each tube of paint, holding them close to her eyes.

  I wait, watching as every new color she picks up seems to dissolve a little of the tension in her shoulders.

  “What do I do?”

  “I’ll show you.” I grab my keys from my pocket. “Let me go get the rest.”

  I jog downstairs and return with an armful of canvases and a small table easel. I set it up on the table facing the ocean, then I pull one of my white button-up shirts from the closet.

  “Put this on.”

  She pulls her shirt off over her head to reveal her pale torso in the dimming light. Her pink bra is simple cotton, but it’s thin and I can make out the perfect shape of her nipples. I snap myself out of studying her and slip the shirt up her arms. Her hands move to do the buttons.

  “Please, let me?”

  Her expression warms and she nods. I take my time buttoning the shirt and brush my knuckles against the swells of her breasts, making her giggle.

  “There—wait!” I run to grab one of Mercy’s hair ties from the bathroom and come up behind her, gathering her long, white hair into a bunch and securing it at the back of her neck. “Now you’re ready.”

  After a quick explanation on how to use the acrylic colors and how to clean the brushes, I have her sit in front of a blank canvas.

  “You can try to recreate some of the paintings in the books you like downstairs.”

  Her cheeks grow pink, but she continues to inspect the canvas.

  “Or you can paint what you see here.” I motion to the room, the ocean, the flowering vines that grow around our balcony. “Or what you see in here.” I kiss her forehead.

  “I’m nervous.” She’s smiling. That’s a great sign.

  “Take your time. There’s no wrong answer when it comes to this stuff.”

  A few minutes pass before she finally picks up a brush and a blue paint tube. I sit back on the bed and fold my hands behind my head. Her strokes are tentative at first and become more confident with each passing minute.

  Niguel pops his head into the room. “I have the key to the lock,” he says in Spanish, his eyes darting to Mercy then back to me with a hint of judgment in his gaze.

  He has no fucking idea why I’m forced to lock her away.

  I don’t thank him, and I palm the keys before closing the door, eager to go back to watching Mercy paint. I can’t make out the form of what she’s painting yet, but it doesn’t matter. She’s enjoying herself, hopefully enough that I can go downstairs for an hour or so, however long it takes to show my effort before I can get the fuck out of there.

  I freshen up in the bathroom, throw on a clean shirt, and holster my nine just in case. I pull my shirt over my belt to make sure the gun is hidden from Mercy before I snag the key to the new lock and come out to find her in the same spot, painting and content.

  “It’s a wave.” I come up behind her and rub her shoulders.

  “You can tell?” She tilts her head, her nose scrunched up adorably with a swipe of blue paint across her cheek.

  “Of course. You’re a natural.” I kiss the top of her head and linger a few seconds in order to soak her in. “Listen, I need to run downstairs for an hour, but I want you to—I think you should stay up here.”

  She tilts her head back to look at me. “Why?”

  I try to act casual about the fact that there’s likely already a dozen cartel pendejos and an equal amount of hookers downstairs. “A work meeting and Maria has the night off. I’d just feel better if you stayed here. I won’t be long. I’ll bring dinner when I come back.”

  She seems to notice for the first time the music and commotion faintly wafting through the solid wood door. Her eyebrows pinch together. “Sounds like a party.” There’s a hint of accusation in her voice.

  “Don’t look at me, Güera. I just go where I’m told, and tonight I’ve been instructed to pop in. You’ll be okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Afraid she’ll ask another question, I cover her lips with mine, tasting the sweetness of her tongue. “I gotta go.”


  “I’ll see you later.” She picks up her brush and continues to work on her painting.

  I close the door behind me and lock it as quietly as I can. I follow the sound of murmured voices and music until I’m standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by strangers who all look at me as though they know me. I’m respectful but not friendly and spot Esteban in a conversation with some guy who looks like a Mexican George Clooney, suit and all. Their body language would make it seem as though they were deep in business discussions if it weren’t for the woman wearing nothing but a bra, skin-tight skirt, and high heels who has her hand down Esteban’s pants.

  I check the time on my phone.

  Three minutes down.

  Only fifty-seven minutes to go.

  Mercy

  THE MUSIC AND murmured voices outside my door gets louder as the sky outside my window gets darker. My brush on the canvas has gone from gentle flowing strokes to angry slashes as my nerves prick with irritation. I attempt to smooth the lines of the picture but end up setting down the brush with a frustrated growl.

  Nope. That sound came from my stomach.

  The clock says it’s nine forty-five. What time did Milo leave?

  I stretch the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back and decide it must’ve been longer than an hour since Milo left. Now that I’m up and moving, my stomach kicks angrily to be fed. Milo told me he’d feel better if I stay in our room, but he didn’t forbid me from going down to look for him. Besides, I’m really hungry.

  A woman’s squeal comes from the other side of my door, followed by a man’s laughter and heavy footsteps. My pulse races with a sense of déjà vu, maybe a memory. My palms sweat, and the need to find Milo is overpowering.

  Despite the warm temperatures, I slip on one of Milo’s sweatshirts and pull the hood over my head, then I slide on my flip-flops. I grab the doorknob and pull—the door doesn’t move. I twist and pull again, this time harder. Locked.

  My throat swells and my pulse rages in my ears.

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry.

  I use both hands and yank.

  “No.” I twist, push, flip the locks back and forth, and still the door is stuck. “Locked inside.” My stomach rolls over on itself and I beat my fists on the door. “Milo!”

  My vision blurs, and I’m dizzy as panic floods my veins. Visions flicker behind my eyes.

  The room.

  The walls.

  The door, always locked from the outside.

  I slam my palms against the door. “Milo!” I press my forehead against the wood until it hurts. “Let me out! Milo!”

  My throat hurts and tears stream down my cheeks. There are voices outside the door, but they’re speaking Spanish and I can’t really hear them over my crying.

  My legs give out and I slide down the door to dissolve into a pool on the floor as I’m racked with soul-crushing sobs. “Why!”

  The door clicks and I scurry backward, expecting Papa to barge in with a punishing hand.

  “Mercy . . .” Milo’s expression is twisted in anguish as he drops to his knees in front of me. He reaches out, and I flinch away from his touch. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Mi alma, I’m so sorry.”

  His eyes move over me in a frantic search for something, and mine do the same to him as my mind tries to convince me that he’s not Papa and that I’m safe.

  “Please, let me . . .” He tugs me by the sweatshirt, and I fall forward into his arms.

  “You said you’d come back.”

  “I know, I tried. It was impossible to get away and Esteban—”

  My tears pick up in coughing sobs.

  “Dammit. I fucked up. I tried. I should’ve tried harder.”

  “You . . .” I suck in a stuttered breath. “Locked me in.”

  “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to keep you safe.” The words come from his lips so quickly I have a hard time following, but he repeats himself over and over until I feel the tension from my body fall away. “I didn’t do it to keep you in. I did it to keep people out. I wasn’t thinking. Fuck, I wasn’t fucking thinking. Forgive me, please. I’m so sorry.”

  “I can’t . . .” My lungs squeeze tighter. “Breathe . . . I can’t—”

  “Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you.” His lips press to the top of my head. “I’m here. I messed up. I’ll never do it again. Please, forgive me.”

  I grasp at him for comfort, hating the fact that I need him as much as I do.

  Mercy

  SOMETHING BROKE INSIDE me after Milo locked me in our room. I can’t explain what it is, but I’ve lost my will to do more than simply exist. The things that once held my attention—meals, Toro, time with Milo—everything seems insignificant. As each day passes, I lose a little more of my faith in humanity, and in doing so, I lose a little faith in myself.

  “Hey.” Milo’s warm hand slides through my hair to tuck it behind my ear. “I brought you some dinner.”

  I’m not hungry. The words are on my lips, but when I gaze into Milo’s eyes that grow wearier every day, I can’t force myself to say them. “Thank you.”

  When I make no move to sit up, he scoops his hands under me and lifts me onto his lap perched at the edge of the bed. He’s pulled the table in our room close, and on it is a steaming bowl of some kind of soup. His long, powerful fingers grip the spoon he dips into the dark broth, pulling up pieces of meat and balls of white hominy. He blows on it then brings the bite to my lips with a tenderness that melts my heart. I open my mouth and allow him to feed me. The burst of flavor hits my tongue—rich, salty, and a mild spice that makes my throat warm.

  When I open my mouth for the second bite, the tension in his muscles dissolves and he smiles. “It’s pozole. Do you like it?”

  “It tastes good.” I take another of his offered bites.

  “Yeah? Good. I wasn’t sure I remembered the right ratios.”

  “You made it?”

  He spoons another bite into my mouth and nods. “It’s my mom’s recipe. I went easy on the spice.”

  “I can feed myself.” I move to get off his lap, but he holds me tighter.

  “No.” His eyebrows drop low, and he kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’ve been worried about you. I uh . . .” He spoons another bite between my lips. “I need this.”

  I understand what he means. I probably need it more than he does, so I settle in and continue to take every offered bite.

  “This is my fault,” he mumbles, guilt darkening his expression.

  We share a moment, our gazes locked together and a million unspoken words pass between us.

  “I’ll be okay.” That’s a lie. I’ve been sleeping most days, and when I’m awake, I stay in our room and stare out at the ocean, feeling half dead.

  “Let me help you.” He places the spoon into the bowl and presses a kiss to the side of my head. “I’ll do anything.” He talks against my hair.

  “Get me out of here.” I hear my voice say those five words without having permission to do so and cringe as I await his disapproval.

  His lips move against my hair. “Okay, let’s do it.” I try to pull back to see his eyes, but he holds me close and dips his lips to my ear. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long. You were right. We need to get away for a couple days alone together.”

  This is a dream. It has to be.

  I lean back, and this time, he lets me go. There’s sadness in his eyes but a small smile on his lips. “Are you playing a joke on me?”

  He grins, but it’s shy and a little sad. “No. Pack a bag for two nights. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.” He presses a kiss to my stunned, open mouth, then he sets me aside and heads to the bathroom.

  Even after the bathroom door closes, I can’t convince myself to move and do what he’s asked. My mind blanks and I stare helplessly at the door as I attempt to piece together what just happened.

  We’re leaving.

  Off the compound grounds.

  And just like that, my entire
body fills with energy. I jump up and scurry to the closet with the rusty sound of my own laughter ringing in my ears.

  Milo

  I STARE AT my reflection, listening to Mercy’s laughter from the other side of the door, and watch my smile bleed into a frown.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I brace my weight on the counter and stare blindly into the sink, seeing nothing but the hurt in her eyes. I fucked up. Huge. She’s losing her fight because of what I did and I need to fix it.

  I thought I’d lost her. So I gave her the one thing she’s been begging for. Exposure to the outside world.

  “What was I thinking?”

  I’m stupid to take Mercy away from the single place I know she’ll be safe. If I thought she’d stand out in Los Angeles, she’s sure as shit going to stand out here in Mexico.

  I can tell her something came up, explain that I have to—I groan and shake my head. She’ll never forgive me for taking this away from her. I’ll just have to take every precaution to keep us as secluded as possible. A little time away should give Mercy the break she needs while giving me time to fix what I broke inside her. Then I’ll get her to agree to stick things out here with me a little longer.

  “I can do this,” I mumble as I pull out my toothbrush and toothpaste.

  I’m a fucking drug-smuggling gangster, the blood heir to the Latino Saints. I’m an enforcer who demands past-due payments with punishment. Surely I can keep her safe for forty-eight hours. Alone. Yeah, this will be great. I’ll just have to stay alert.

  I brush my teeth and strip down to hop into the shower, grateful for a chance to bring my Mercy back into herself. The warm water hits my head, and I pretend it’s washing me clean of all the lies and criminal activity. For one weekend, I want to pretend LS business hasn’t touched me. I want to spend the night with Mercy and hold her while feeling worthy rather than guilt-ridden. I want to bring that lightness, the one that gave me hope for our future, back into her eyes. I want to sink into her body with her wrapped in my arms and feel, for once, as though I’m able to give her everything she needs.