Rescuing Carmen, page 3
The stump needs to heal and develop a thick enough callous.
You need to take things slow.
One step at a time.
Turns out, she was right. Since then, I’ve been the perfect patient. It’s the rule follower in me. As a result, that stump is the picture of health; fully healed, thick callous, great blood flow, and more.
“We’ll check the fit after you run five miles.” She sets the tablet down and moves to the treadmill to adjust the settings. “I’m putting you on an incline to start.”
“Five?” My head tips back and a groan escapes me. “I wish I’d known that sooner. I wouldn’t have gone running with the guys.”
Since Booker’s gal, Izzy, got snatched by a Nicaraguan cartel, Brady’s been doing everything under the sun to keep Booker busy, his mind off his girl, and him out of trouble. It’s an impossible task, but we’re doing what we can to support our teammate while the technical team tracks Izzy down. Which means we practice as a team from sun up to sun down, keeping Booker too busy, and too worn out, to go crazy over Izzy’s kidnapping.
Technically, Izzy got re-snatched, rather than kidnapped.
The cartel that took her the first time, the Coralos cartel, isn’t the one that came after her when she flew home. It was the Laguta cartel. They tracked Izzy to her hometown in Laredo, Texas, where she, her four brothers, and her mother engaged in an old-fashioned shootout with the cartel.
It was bloody impressive. Unfortunately, we were literally minutes too slow. Booker watched as his woman’s kidnapper flew her away.
The whole thing is a colossal mess.
She’s been missing going on a week, and Booker is going out of his bloody mind. Brady’s attempt to physically exhaust Booker only goes so far.
As far as mounting a rescue attempt to get Izzy back, that’s in the hands of Mitzy and her genius technical team.
I feel for Booker, but I trust Mitzy’s team. They’re beyond compare, and they’ll figure out a way to track Izzy down. Once they do, it’s Game On. Bravo team will rain holy hellfire down on the cretins who dared to take one of our own.
Until then, we do what we can to help Booker.
“Stop whining and get on the treadmill.” Piper moves around me and ignores my grumbling to set up the video cameras used to record my gait from every angle. “Five miles is like a walk in the park for you.”
“Can we at least play something cool?” Five miles may be a walk in the park, but I get bored running on a stationary treadmill.
“Sure.” Perky and positive, Piper nods. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Something with a beat.”
Any song by Angel Fire will do, but I say nothing. Secretly, I’m a major fan of the mega rock band, but I don’t want to look like a dork in front of Piper.
“I can make that happen.”
A few taps on her tablet and Metallica blares through the speakers. Piper drifts back and gestures for me to begin.
Early in the morning, Bravo team went on a ten-mile team-building run. We ran with rucks the way we trained as SEALs, back in the day. I always look forward to running as a team. If not for the Guardians, I would miss the Navy and the grueling physical conditioning required of a SEAL.
After five boring miles, I’m more than happy to get off the treadmill, but Piper’s waiting for me.
“Let’s take a look. Jump up on the table.” Piper pulls up a stool.
On the therapy table, when she sits in front of me, she’s at eye level with my crotch. Normally, I’d make use of such a thing, crack a few snide remarks, but it’s Piper. After the year we’ve had, she’s family.
Annoying little sister comes to mind.
If that isn’t deterrent enough, her husband, Bent, is a big, burly, bear of a man who won’t think twice about going toe to toe with me. I can take the guy out. He’s just a rock star, but the fallout would be ginormous. Not to mention, Piper is professional as shit. The woman’s interested in only one thing; heal me.
“Pull up your sweats.” Piper props her hands on her hips and angles her head to look up at me. “Why the hell are you wearing sweats anyway?”
“‘Cause.”
“‘Cause?” She gives a dismissive snort. “You don’t have to hide it. Especially from me.”
“Not hiding it.”
“You sure about that?”
“Just do your thing, so I can get out of here.”
A text comes through my phone.
Brady wants the team to join him and Booker on the range. We’re supposed to go to Brady’s for a beer after work, but I have a feeling the trip to the range is on account of Booker needing his brothers around him.
Piper pushes my sweats past my knee.
I grasp the fabric and hold it mid-thigh, beyond the prosthetic, and out of the way.
“Don’t tickle my toes.” I fake-jump when she grabs my boot and places it on her thigh.
“A comedian, I see.”
“Just keeping it real.”
“Tell me, how does the fit feel?”
Normally, I don’t like other people messing with my prosthetic, but with Piper, it’s different. She doesn’t make me feel like less of a man and only sees my potential, rather than what I lost.
Without her encouragement over the past year, I wouldn’t be where I am now. As of a month, or so, I’m back on active status after a year of rehabilitation. If not for Piper’s persistence, her perky positivity, and overall positive outlook on life, who knows where I’d be? Six feet under comes to mind.
How many times did the thought of quitting the Guardians cross my mind? How many times did I think they’d sack me and kick me out?
In addition to physical therapy, there are other therapists involved in my recovery; mental health professionals who walk me through the stages of grief following the loss of my leg.
I’m supposedly in mourning over the loss of my leg. Not sure if I agree with the shrinks, I do as I’m told and keep the therapy sessions, both mental and physical.
It was Piper, however, who pointed out how my run speeds increased after the prosthetic. Not enough that I’d chop off my other leg for a matched set—I’m not stupid—but she’s the reason I’m still here.
Still on Bravo team.
Still in the best physical condition of my life—if not better.
There are mental issues; psychiatric things associated with not feeling whole. I’m not comfortable in my own skin, but I’m confident that will all sort itself out somehow.
“The fit feels fantastic, but your fingers are ice cold,” I complain as her ice-cold fingers on my stump make me jump.
“Sorry.” Her fingers move quickly, releasing the straps that hold everything in place, pulling down the fabric sleeve that covers my stump. She calls it a sock for my nub, but a nub sock simply isn’t funny.
Today, she says nothing about my nub sock.
For the next few minutes, Piper exposes my stump to the air. She examines the skin and callous formation. Tests for sensation and overall health of what’s left of my leg.
“Since we fitted you with this new prosthetic, your leg is looking really good. I think we found the right fit. How’s it working for you?”
The new prosthetic is a couple of weeks old. It’s my tenth prosthetic and there will be more as the leg and the stump mature.
“Barely notice it’s not the real thing.”
“That’s good.” She leans back and her brows knit together. “You’re not being snarky with me, are you?”
“No. I’m being quite honest. I run well on it. Went to the climbing wall and it worked just fine.”
“Good. I’m concerned about things like that, but I’m curious about functionality in all situations. How about swimming? Have you been to the pool?”
“I don’t like the pool.”
“Why?” Piper slants her gaze upward. Concern lines her features, but there’s something else there as well. Sadness.
Do I tell the truth?
Honestly, most people have no idea my lower leg is fake. With shoes, or boots, as long as I wear pants, I look like any other dude. Needless to say, I don’t bother with shorts, let alone swim trunks. Don’t care how damn hot it is. I just don’t.
“Not interested.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass. You’re a frogman. You love the water.” She taps her lips, thinking. “At least that’s what I’m told.”
“Just not interested.”
“That’s not good enough, and we both know it’s a copout. You know how I feel about copouts.” Her attention returns to my stump, and she continues providing encouragement I don’t want, but sorely need. “People will see beyond what you no longer have. You lost your leg. There’s no going back. Suck it up and move on. With the technology we have available in composites and microprocessors, your new leg is an asset. Not a disability. Year after year, prosthetic technology evolves. The sensors are just the tip of the iceberg. We haven’t talked about osseointegration surgery…”
“I don’t want metal drilled into my leg.”
“It improves sensory feedback, increases your range of motion.”
“And makes me a bloody robot.”
“We’ll settle on not quite ready for the best of the best. We’ll save that for next week.” She leans back to stare.
“How about never?”
“That’s not good enough.” She points to her temple. “You know it up here, but you don’t feel it in here.” Her finger points to her heart. “Stop worrying about what others think about you. You’re a frogman. SEALs love water, and you have to be as confident in the water as out. I don’t need to tell you how important that is.”
“You sound like Doc Summers.”
“I should. Our job is to get you back into fighting shape. You’re doing the runs, the weights. You’re trying out the walls. Skye cleared you for duty and you have one successful mission with Bravo under your belt. It’s time to shuck the pants and hit the water. We need to know how it works when it gets wet.”
One of the few times she calls my prosthetic an it, the message isn’t lost on me. It isn’t a part of me. No matter how technologically advanced the leg is. At the end of the day, it’s not me.
It never will be.
“I don’t mind the new leg…” Total lie. “I’m just not interested in sharing the fact I have one with the rest of the world.” My answer is punctuated with a shrug. “People look at me differently when they realize I’m disabled.”
“But you’re not disabled.” If she were standing, Piper would stomp her foot on the floor. “You’re fully functional, better than most able-bodied men. You’ve got a bionic leg. Use that as your pickup line and see how it goes with the ladies.”
Bionic leg?
“You’re not serious?”
“Chicks dig scars. They love heroes even more. The more damaged the better.”
“That’s all well and good until this thing comes off.”
“Is that where this is stemming from?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your insecurity.”
“Not insecure.”
“Whatever…” She flaps her hand, dismissing my comment. Then Piper leans forward and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Whoever said you had to remove your prosthetic while having sex?”
“What?” Okay, she wins this round. I’m speechless. My eyes must bug out because Piper laughs.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“We’re supposed to focus on my leg, not my sex life.”
Or lack thereof.
“Rafe, do you need me to give you permission to have sex with your prosthetic on?” Her left brow quirks up, mocking me. “Dude, if it bothers you, you don’t have to do it in bed. You’re a strong man in the prime of your life. Pick her up. Slam her against the wall. Use those hips to…”
“Stop right there.” I hold up a hand, praying she’ll stop. Damn, if Piper doesn’t make me blush.
She’s pretty frank when talking about sex.
The real shame is she’s one hundred percent correct. If I take the bed out of the equation, and shimmy my pants down over my hips, there’s no reason my pants ever need to come off. No reason to send chicks screaming when they see the leg.
It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman; a year too long. After hitting the range with the guys, I’m going out. Brady and Booker won’t go. Brady’s got Angie and Booker’s all torn up about Izzy.
Zeb, Alec, and Hayes will hit the bars, happy to take me. They ask all the time. The few times I’ve gone with them, however, the only one who went home alone was me.
Time for that to change.
Three
Carmen
For many, homecoming is a blessing. Mine? Not so much.
This is because Juan doesn’t take me home after we land in Managua.
“Where are we going?” I look to Juan, demanding an answer.
“Your father asked that we stop at Señor Gonzales’s residence first.”
“First?”
“Yes, Señorita.”
“Why?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“Not for you to say, but you know.”
The bastard knows but is too chickenshit to tell me, or he’s under orders from Father to say nothing.
Figures.
The way Juan presses his lips together is my answer. He’s commanded to silence.
When the driver pulls up to an opulent estate, paid for by the sweat of impoverished peasants and the blood of innocents, I cross my arms and refuse to budge.
Juan exits the vehicle and comes around to help me out. The door of the black SUV opens.
“Señorita, Señor Gonzales and his mother are waiting.” Hand extended, he’s confused when I don’t take it.
“His mother?” Acid burns in the back of my throat.
Father’s not wasting time. I expected something like this, but this soon? With great difficulty, I tamp down the anger rising within me.
“Yes.” Juan tugs at the collar of his shirt.
There’s only one reason Artemus Gonzales, a filthy rich, forty-five-year-old political powermonger would have his mother in attendance for a visit from me. He wants what Father can provide, and my father needs Artemus’s wealth to secure the capital for what he wants.
“No.” I bite my tongue and swallow a long line of curse words trying to rip their way free from my throat. “I’m not getting out.”
“You must.” Juan shifts back and forth. Perspiration beads his brow.
That dark suit of his is not well suited to the oppressive heat of Nicaragua. The air smells sweet from tropical plants that grow like weeds, but there’s no escape from the humidity or Juan’s stench.
“No.” I refuse to step a single foot out of this car. “Take me home.”
While Juan sweats, the front door of the house slowly opens. Artemus’s mother, a shrunken woman, pushing her late eighties, creeps out of the house. Behind her, Artemus pulls the front door closed, then steps beside his mother, offering his arm. Her bony fingers dig into his flesh and the two of them shuffle down the long walkway.
He gently covers her hand with his, a doting son taking care of his mother. Her bony fingers cling to the crook of his arm, stabilizing her teetering frame.
All that money Artemus commands? It comes from that tottering woman. She’s a prominent force within Nicaragua’s political climate; a woman who manages to sway the minds of the men she touches, and she rules the men in her family with an iron fist. In the US, she’d be called an old battle axe, matriarch of a powerful family. Here, she’s a silent threat to my happiness.
I find her beyond intimidating, and before this moment, I’ve never been the subject of her attention.
“Señorita, I must insist you exit the car.” Juan’s unease escalates. His tone sharpens.
“I’m not doing it.” Pouting like a schoolgirl, this is an argument I won’t win, but I do it anyway. I need to allow myself this bit of defiance.
“You must.”
“For the love of G…” No matter how upset I am, I won’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I swallow what I was going to say and restate, “For all that’s holy, you would really force me out of this car?”
“Your father’s wishes are clear.” Juan will never answer such a question with a ‘yes,’ but there’s no need.
“And what are those wishes?” I gesture toward the ponderous procession headed toward me.
“Please.” Juan clasps his hands and semi-bows at me. “Your father…” Those hands shake and his fingers tremble with fear.
Failure to do as Father commands comes with significant repercussions. Not that Father will kill Juan for failing to deliver me to my presumed new fiancé, but it will not go well for Juan if he fails. Maximus Angelo doesn’t tolerate failure, and as much as I despise Juan, his death isn’t something I’ll have weighing on my conscience.
I take Juan’s hand and exit the vehicle under protest. To my surprise, he stands by my side rather than abandon me to my fate.
But how to get out of this?
Nothing like facing a problem head-on.
Father lured me into a trap—the kind that comes with a life sentence—but I will find a way out.
How?
How do I escape this? Good question.
Father’s condemned me to a life without parole attached to Artemus Gonzales. My jailor is a man twice my age, known not only for his philandering ways but his inability to keep his previous two wives alive and kicking. My warden is none other than his mother.
Artemus draws close. Releasing his mother’s hand, he spreads his arms out wide.
“Carmen, it is such a pleasure to see you. Congratulations on your graduation.”
Empty words; his tone is far too informal. Señorita Angelo is how I should be addressed, but he already slips to the informality of family, even though we’re not married.
Not yet.
I plan to make this as painful as possible without making him lose face.
“Señor Gonzales, it is nice to see you.” There’s no way to avoid the hug or the kisses to both my cheeks, but in addressing him formally, I send a clear message.
Hands off!
As the younger woman, I approach his mother and kiss her on both cheeks. “Señora Gonzales, you are looking well.” Brief. Perfunctory. I check all the boxes.
You need to take things slow.
One step at a time.
Turns out, she was right. Since then, I’ve been the perfect patient. It’s the rule follower in me. As a result, that stump is the picture of health; fully healed, thick callous, great blood flow, and more.
“We’ll check the fit after you run five miles.” She sets the tablet down and moves to the treadmill to adjust the settings. “I’m putting you on an incline to start.”
“Five?” My head tips back and a groan escapes me. “I wish I’d known that sooner. I wouldn’t have gone running with the guys.”
Since Booker’s gal, Izzy, got snatched by a Nicaraguan cartel, Brady’s been doing everything under the sun to keep Booker busy, his mind off his girl, and him out of trouble. It’s an impossible task, but we’re doing what we can to support our teammate while the technical team tracks Izzy down. Which means we practice as a team from sun up to sun down, keeping Booker too busy, and too worn out, to go crazy over Izzy’s kidnapping.
Technically, Izzy got re-snatched, rather than kidnapped.
The cartel that took her the first time, the Coralos cartel, isn’t the one that came after her when she flew home. It was the Laguta cartel. They tracked Izzy to her hometown in Laredo, Texas, where she, her four brothers, and her mother engaged in an old-fashioned shootout with the cartel.
It was bloody impressive. Unfortunately, we were literally minutes too slow. Booker watched as his woman’s kidnapper flew her away.
The whole thing is a colossal mess.
She’s been missing going on a week, and Booker is going out of his bloody mind. Brady’s attempt to physically exhaust Booker only goes so far.
As far as mounting a rescue attempt to get Izzy back, that’s in the hands of Mitzy and her genius technical team.
I feel for Booker, but I trust Mitzy’s team. They’re beyond compare, and they’ll figure out a way to track Izzy down. Once they do, it’s Game On. Bravo team will rain holy hellfire down on the cretins who dared to take one of our own.
Until then, we do what we can to help Booker.
“Stop whining and get on the treadmill.” Piper moves around me and ignores my grumbling to set up the video cameras used to record my gait from every angle. “Five miles is like a walk in the park for you.”
“Can we at least play something cool?” Five miles may be a walk in the park, but I get bored running on a stationary treadmill.
“Sure.” Perky and positive, Piper nods. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Something with a beat.”
Any song by Angel Fire will do, but I say nothing. Secretly, I’m a major fan of the mega rock band, but I don’t want to look like a dork in front of Piper.
“I can make that happen.”
A few taps on her tablet and Metallica blares through the speakers. Piper drifts back and gestures for me to begin.
Early in the morning, Bravo team went on a ten-mile team-building run. We ran with rucks the way we trained as SEALs, back in the day. I always look forward to running as a team. If not for the Guardians, I would miss the Navy and the grueling physical conditioning required of a SEAL.
After five boring miles, I’m more than happy to get off the treadmill, but Piper’s waiting for me.
“Let’s take a look. Jump up on the table.” Piper pulls up a stool.
On the therapy table, when she sits in front of me, she’s at eye level with my crotch. Normally, I’d make use of such a thing, crack a few snide remarks, but it’s Piper. After the year we’ve had, she’s family.
Annoying little sister comes to mind.
If that isn’t deterrent enough, her husband, Bent, is a big, burly, bear of a man who won’t think twice about going toe to toe with me. I can take the guy out. He’s just a rock star, but the fallout would be ginormous. Not to mention, Piper is professional as shit. The woman’s interested in only one thing; heal me.
“Pull up your sweats.” Piper props her hands on her hips and angles her head to look up at me. “Why the hell are you wearing sweats anyway?”
“‘Cause.”
“‘Cause?” She gives a dismissive snort. “You don’t have to hide it. Especially from me.”
“Not hiding it.”
“You sure about that?”
“Just do your thing, so I can get out of here.”
A text comes through my phone.
Brady wants the team to join him and Booker on the range. We’re supposed to go to Brady’s for a beer after work, but I have a feeling the trip to the range is on account of Booker needing his brothers around him.
Piper pushes my sweats past my knee.
I grasp the fabric and hold it mid-thigh, beyond the prosthetic, and out of the way.
“Don’t tickle my toes.” I fake-jump when she grabs my boot and places it on her thigh.
“A comedian, I see.”
“Just keeping it real.”
“Tell me, how does the fit feel?”
Normally, I don’t like other people messing with my prosthetic, but with Piper, it’s different. She doesn’t make me feel like less of a man and only sees my potential, rather than what I lost.
Without her encouragement over the past year, I wouldn’t be where I am now. As of a month, or so, I’m back on active status after a year of rehabilitation. If not for Piper’s persistence, her perky positivity, and overall positive outlook on life, who knows where I’d be? Six feet under comes to mind.
How many times did the thought of quitting the Guardians cross my mind? How many times did I think they’d sack me and kick me out?
In addition to physical therapy, there are other therapists involved in my recovery; mental health professionals who walk me through the stages of grief following the loss of my leg.
I’m supposedly in mourning over the loss of my leg. Not sure if I agree with the shrinks, I do as I’m told and keep the therapy sessions, both mental and physical.
It was Piper, however, who pointed out how my run speeds increased after the prosthetic. Not enough that I’d chop off my other leg for a matched set—I’m not stupid—but she’s the reason I’m still here.
Still on Bravo team.
Still in the best physical condition of my life—if not better.
There are mental issues; psychiatric things associated with not feeling whole. I’m not comfortable in my own skin, but I’m confident that will all sort itself out somehow.
“The fit feels fantastic, but your fingers are ice cold,” I complain as her ice-cold fingers on my stump make me jump.
“Sorry.” Her fingers move quickly, releasing the straps that hold everything in place, pulling down the fabric sleeve that covers my stump. She calls it a sock for my nub, but a nub sock simply isn’t funny.
Today, she says nothing about my nub sock.
For the next few minutes, Piper exposes my stump to the air. She examines the skin and callous formation. Tests for sensation and overall health of what’s left of my leg.
“Since we fitted you with this new prosthetic, your leg is looking really good. I think we found the right fit. How’s it working for you?”
The new prosthetic is a couple of weeks old. It’s my tenth prosthetic and there will be more as the leg and the stump mature.
“Barely notice it’s not the real thing.”
“That’s good.” She leans back and her brows knit together. “You’re not being snarky with me, are you?”
“No. I’m being quite honest. I run well on it. Went to the climbing wall and it worked just fine.”
“Good. I’m concerned about things like that, but I’m curious about functionality in all situations. How about swimming? Have you been to the pool?”
“I don’t like the pool.”
“Why?” Piper slants her gaze upward. Concern lines her features, but there’s something else there as well. Sadness.
Do I tell the truth?
Honestly, most people have no idea my lower leg is fake. With shoes, or boots, as long as I wear pants, I look like any other dude. Needless to say, I don’t bother with shorts, let alone swim trunks. Don’t care how damn hot it is. I just don’t.
“Not interested.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass. You’re a frogman. You love the water.” She taps her lips, thinking. “At least that’s what I’m told.”
“Just not interested.”
“That’s not good enough, and we both know it’s a copout. You know how I feel about copouts.” Her attention returns to my stump, and she continues providing encouragement I don’t want, but sorely need. “People will see beyond what you no longer have. You lost your leg. There’s no going back. Suck it up and move on. With the technology we have available in composites and microprocessors, your new leg is an asset. Not a disability. Year after year, prosthetic technology evolves. The sensors are just the tip of the iceberg. We haven’t talked about osseointegration surgery…”
“I don’t want metal drilled into my leg.”
“It improves sensory feedback, increases your range of motion.”
“And makes me a bloody robot.”
“We’ll settle on not quite ready for the best of the best. We’ll save that for next week.” She leans back to stare.
“How about never?”
“That’s not good enough.” She points to her temple. “You know it up here, but you don’t feel it in here.” Her finger points to her heart. “Stop worrying about what others think about you. You’re a frogman. SEALs love water, and you have to be as confident in the water as out. I don’t need to tell you how important that is.”
“You sound like Doc Summers.”
“I should. Our job is to get you back into fighting shape. You’re doing the runs, the weights. You’re trying out the walls. Skye cleared you for duty and you have one successful mission with Bravo under your belt. It’s time to shuck the pants and hit the water. We need to know how it works when it gets wet.”
One of the few times she calls my prosthetic an it, the message isn’t lost on me. It isn’t a part of me. No matter how technologically advanced the leg is. At the end of the day, it’s not me.
It never will be.
“I don’t mind the new leg…” Total lie. “I’m just not interested in sharing the fact I have one with the rest of the world.” My answer is punctuated with a shrug. “People look at me differently when they realize I’m disabled.”
“But you’re not disabled.” If she were standing, Piper would stomp her foot on the floor. “You’re fully functional, better than most able-bodied men. You’ve got a bionic leg. Use that as your pickup line and see how it goes with the ladies.”
Bionic leg?
“You’re not serious?”
“Chicks dig scars. They love heroes even more. The more damaged the better.”
“That’s all well and good until this thing comes off.”
“Is that where this is stemming from?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your insecurity.”
“Not insecure.”
“Whatever…” She flaps her hand, dismissing my comment. Then Piper leans forward and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Whoever said you had to remove your prosthetic while having sex?”
“What?” Okay, she wins this round. I’m speechless. My eyes must bug out because Piper laughs.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“We’re supposed to focus on my leg, not my sex life.”
Or lack thereof.
“Rafe, do you need me to give you permission to have sex with your prosthetic on?” Her left brow quirks up, mocking me. “Dude, if it bothers you, you don’t have to do it in bed. You’re a strong man in the prime of your life. Pick her up. Slam her against the wall. Use those hips to…”
“Stop right there.” I hold up a hand, praying she’ll stop. Damn, if Piper doesn’t make me blush.
She’s pretty frank when talking about sex.
The real shame is she’s one hundred percent correct. If I take the bed out of the equation, and shimmy my pants down over my hips, there’s no reason my pants ever need to come off. No reason to send chicks screaming when they see the leg.
It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman; a year too long. After hitting the range with the guys, I’m going out. Brady and Booker won’t go. Brady’s got Angie and Booker’s all torn up about Izzy.
Zeb, Alec, and Hayes will hit the bars, happy to take me. They ask all the time. The few times I’ve gone with them, however, the only one who went home alone was me.
Time for that to change.
Three
Carmen
For many, homecoming is a blessing. Mine? Not so much.
This is because Juan doesn’t take me home after we land in Managua.
“Where are we going?” I look to Juan, demanding an answer.
“Your father asked that we stop at Señor Gonzales’s residence first.”
“First?”
“Yes, Señorita.”
“Why?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“Not for you to say, but you know.”
The bastard knows but is too chickenshit to tell me, or he’s under orders from Father to say nothing.
Figures.
The way Juan presses his lips together is my answer. He’s commanded to silence.
When the driver pulls up to an opulent estate, paid for by the sweat of impoverished peasants and the blood of innocents, I cross my arms and refuse to budge.
Juan exits the vehicle and comes around to help me out. The door of the black SUV opens.
“Señorita, Señor Gonzales and his mother are waiting.” Hand extended, he’s confused when I don’t take it.
“His mother?” Acid burns in the back of my throat.
Father’s not wasting time. I expected something like this, but this soon? With great difficulty, I tamp down the anger rising within me.
“Yes.” Juan tugs at the collar of his shirt.
There’s only one reason Artemus Gonzales, a filthy rich, forty-five-year-old political powermonger would have his mother in attendance for a visit from me. He wants what Father can provide, and my father needs Artemus’s wealth to secure the capital for what he wants.
“No.” I bite my tongue and swallow a long line of curse words trying to rip their way free from my throat. “I’m not getting out.”
“You must.” Juan shifts back and forth. Perspiration beads his brow.
That dark suit of his is not well suited to the oppressive heat of Nicaragua. The air smells sweet from tropical plants that grow like weeds, but there’s no escape from the humidity or Juan’s stench.
“No.” I refuse to step a single foot out of this car. “Take me home.”
While Juan sweats, the front door of the house slowly opens. Artemus’s mother, a shrunken woman, pushing her late eighties, creeps out of the house. Behind her, Artemus pulls the front door closed, then steps beside his mother, offering his arm. Her bony fingers dig into his flesh and the two of them shuffle down the long walkway.
He gently covers her hand with his, a doting son taking care of his mother. Her bony fingers cling to the crook of his arm, stabilizing her teetering frame.
All that money Artemus commands? It comes from that tottering woman. She’s a prominent force within Nicaragua’s political climate; a woman who manages to sway the minds of the men she touches, and she rules the men in her family with an iron fist. In the US, she’d be called an old battle axe, matriarch of a powerful family. Here, she’s a silent threat to my happiness.
I find her beyond intimidating, and before this moment, I’ve never been the subject of her attention.
“Señorita, I must insist you exit the car.” Juan’s unease escalates. His tone sharpens.
“I’m not doing it.” Pouting like a schoolgirl, this is an argument I won’t win, but I do it anyway. I need to allow myself this bit of defiance.
“You must.”
“For the love of G…” No matter how upset I am, I won’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I swallow what I was going to say and restate, “For all that’s holy, you would really force me out of this car?”
“Your father’s wishes are clear.” Juan will never answer such a question with a ‘yes,’ but there’s no need.
“And what are those wishes?” I gesture toward the ponderous procession headed toward me.
“Please.” Juan clasps his hands and semi-bows at me. “Your father…” Those hands shake and his fingers tremble with fear.
Failure to do as Father commands comes with significant repercussions. Not that Father will kill Juan for failing to deliver me to my presumed new fiancé, but it will not go well for Juan if he fails. Maximus Angelo doesn’t tolerate failure, and as much as I despise Juan, his death isn’t something I’ll have weighing on my conscience.
I take Juan’s hand and exit the vehicle under protest. To my surprise, he stands by my side rather than abandon me to my fate.
But how to get out of this?
Nothing like facing a problem head-on.
Father lured me into a trap—the kind that comes with a life sentence—but I will find a way out.
How?
How do I escape this? Good question.
Father’s condemned me to a life without parole attached to Artemus Gonzales. My jailor is a man twice my age, known not only for his philandering ways but his inability to keep his previous two wives alive and kicking. My warden is none other than his mother.
Artemus draws close. Releasing his mother’s hand, he spreads his arms out wide.
“Carmen, it is such a pleasure to see you. Congratulations on your graduation.”
Empty words; his tone is far too informal. Señorita Angelo is how I should be addressed, but he already slips to the informality of family, even though we’re not married.
Not yet.
I plan to make this as painful as possible without making him lose face.
“Señor Gonzales, it is nice to see you.” There’s no way to avoid the hug or the kisses to both my cheeks, but in addressing him formally, I send a clear message.
Hands off!
As the younger woman, I approach his mother and kiss her on both cheeks. “Señora Gonzales, you are looking well.” Brief. Perfunctory. I check all the boxes.
