The gun skips across the floor when I tackle Richie to the ground, and we wrestle like alligators in a swamp. He kicks to get away from me, his hands reaching for the pistol, but I drag him back, punching and climbing over him to get to it first. We go at it, neither of us progressing as we roll across the hardwood floor. Finally, I pin him, but Richie claws at my face like a little bitch. Burning pain radiates from my left eye down to my cheek.
The fucker drew blood.
I block his attempts to scratch me again, and we begin some form of patty cake, slapping each other’s hands out of the way. It’s ridiculous. So I headbutt him, and for a moment, I see stars as the pain reverberates from the front of my skull toward the back. Richie’s arms fall away, his eyes blinking to keep himself conscious, allowing me to reach past his head to grab the gun. My fingers wrap the handle, and I'm on autopilot as I press the barrel to Richie’s forehead.
Bang.
The lights go out in his eyes, and I abandon him to get to Mindy. She’s bleeding out in Sammy’s arms, her eyes frantically searching the ceiling, and her breaths fast.
“Fuck.” My hands hover over her chest, where blood blooms across her blouse.
“I don’t…” Mindy swallows, tears streaming down the sides of her face. “I don’t want to die, Miguel.”
“You’re not. Hang in there.”
But Sammy stops me as I fish through my pocket for my phone. “You need to get the hell out of here. I’ll call the cops.”
“Fuck that! I’m not leaving her.”
He grabs my collar and shoves me. “You’re covered in Richie’s blood. You need to get out of here, Miguel!”
Blood sprinkles are all over me when I glance down at my shirt. I wipe my face and bring my fingers into view. They’re tainted in bright red. Fuck.
“He scratched me…” I say, thinking about how my DNA is all over Richie.
“I’ll take care of it!” Sammy barks. “But you need to get out of here. You’re too connected to everything. Go.”
“I can’t.”
He shoves me again as sirens wail in the distance. A neighbor must have called the cops. “Go, you stupid kid!”
This time, I stumble to my feet as I take one last look at Mindy, and the blood pooling around her, then run the hell out of there.
∆∆∆
It's been hours, and trying to sleep has been impossible as I wait for a call on Mindy’s status, and it doesn’t matter how many times I turn in bed. I can’t get comfortable. No matter how tightly I close my eyes, I can still see Mindy’s terrified face, the loss of color in her complexion, and the blood turning her blouse maroon. I thought it was scary when Angie was shot, and it was, but this was different. It was like I could see Mindy looking into the light that would take her away from this earth.
Sunlight creeps into the bedroom, and there is still no update. I'm exhausted, yet sleep has yet to claim me. However, Angie is snoozing in the spot next to me, and we’re both fully clothed. I never thought I’d see the day when we could share a bed and not fuck. She stirs, her eyes still closed, and her movements slow as she rotates onto her stomach with her cheek pressed into the pillow. But then, one eye opens from behind a curtain of curls falling into her face.
“Staring at me…” she mumbles.
“Morning.”
“Few mrah mrins.” Her eye closes, and her soft snoring continues.
A chuckle bubbles from my throat, so I slap my hand to my mouth to stifle the eruption of giggles. My entire body shakes with each laugh, and I don’t know why I’m laughing so hard. It wasn’t that funny. But then, on the next one, a sob releases, tears collect in my eyes, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting here, in the bed, hysterically crying. The tears keep coming, and Angie bolts upright, but she’s a blur of movement through my tears. Without a word, she engulfs me, bringing my head into her chest and wrapping me tightly. My hands trace her waist, pulling her onto my lap, and I cry harder.
“It’s ok,” she whispers, squeezing tighter, and she presses soft kisses against the top of my head. “It’s ok.”
“What if she’s dead, and I left her alone with someone she doesn’t know?”
“Just because we haven’t heard anything doesn’t mean she’s gone.”
“I’ve never seen so much blood,” I cry. “She looked so scared.”
“Mindy is resilient. If anyone can survive multiple gunshots, it’s her.”
We fall silent as Angie rubs circles into my back, and I bury my face into her chest, breathing the light scent of her body sweat. I’m too frightened to look at the news. Yet, if I don’t hear something soon, I will lose it.
Fuck.
I already have.
My fingers accidentally slip underneath the t-shirt Angie borrowed from me, and her warm flesh is a comfort against my skin. Yet, as pressed together as we are, it doesn’t feel like enough. My hands slide up her stomach, searching for more traces of warmth.
“Miguel…”
But I ignore Angie as my fingers smooth over the curvature of her braless breasts. Her chest expands with a deep breath, and her hands fall from me.
“We shouldn’t—” she stutters when my thumbs trace over her nipples, causing them to harden, followed by me sucking them into my mouth through her t-shirt. She swallows hard. “Bad idea.”
No. It’s a horrendous idea. I know this, but sexual connection is the only way I can feel better right now. I need to feel love. Closeness.
“Please, Angie,” I beg, my voice rough and desperate. “I need to feel you.”
She shakes her head. “Not like this. You’re emotional. If we have sex again, I don’t want it to be us using each other's bodies to regulate our moods.”
Clarity hits me like a splash of ice water, and I glance up, blinking. “Where did you learn that?”
Angie’s gaze shifts down as she shrugs and whispers. “Gwen.”
“You’ve been talking to her?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs again. “She’s alright.”
I bury my head in her chest, my arms squeezing her tight as I release a half groan, half sigh of relief that sounds more like some animal in the woods.
Angie laughs. “What the hell was that?”
“Nothing. I think there’s hope for us both.”
Exhaling a long breath, my entire body relaxes. I like this moment we just shared. Angie balanced my irrational thoughts with rational ones, allowing me to release the anxiety about Mindy without letting my dick do the thinking.
However, somewhere out in the living room, the front door creeks open, and my head jerks up.
“Miguellllll…” My mom practically sings. “I brought you pan dulce.”
Angie’s eyes widen, and she scrambles off my lap as I fling the blanket aside. My bare feet slap the hardwood floor when I jump out of bed and skid into the hallway.
“Ma. What are you doing here?”
“I thought it would be nice to have some cafesito together,” she says, walking the pink box of sweet bread to the small dining table, then stops dead in her tracks. “What happened to your face?”
“Ma, you seriously need to knock. You can’t just barge in.”
“I didn’t barge in. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you in your chonies before.”
I clench my jaw, hands on the waistband of my boxer briefs. “You forget I’m a grown man. What if I was having sex?”
“Were you?” My mom finally sets the pink box down.
“No, but that’s not the point!”
She shakes her head, her brows furrowed. “You still haven’t said what happened to your face. And another thing, I really wish you would save sex for marriage.”
“Seriously? It’s twenty-twenty-three, not the eighteen hundreds.”
“Maybe if you wait for marriage, you’ll find a nice girl. Not these slutty ones who sleep with you on the first date," she sighs, rubbing her forehead.
I snort a laugh. “Maybe I like slutty.”
“What kind of son did I raise?”
Right on cue, Angie saunters into the living room. My shirt looks like a nightgown on her, and a pair of my loose boxers are bunched up underneath it. They make her butt look bigger. My mom’s attention goes from me to her, her mouth parting as she sizes up Angie.
“You move fast,” she scoffs. “Did you scratch his face?”
“Ma, this is Angie.”
My mom continues to scrutinize her from head to toe. “I remember.”
“Holla, Señora,” Angie greets.
“She’s staying here for a while,” I explain. “Her ex-husband bugged her apartment. It’s not safe there.”
My mom’s head recoils with a shake as she holds up her hand. “Why is everything always a Telenovela with you?”
“Ma, don’t be rude,” I say, but she wags her finger.
“And neither of you has answered my question. What happened to your face?”
However, someone pounds on the door before I can reply, startling all of us. My mom whirls around, takes a few steps, look through the peephole, then peers over her shoulder at me.
“Mijo, you better tell me right now what’s going on."
But I ignore her and utter that everything is fine while walking toward the door. Maybe it’s Sammy with news about Mindy? I swing it open, and it’s not an old Italian man with grey hair wearing a fedora and a leather jacket.
“Miguel Gomez?” A police officer flashes her badge.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Shapiro, and this is Detective Archibald. Mind if we come inside and ask a few questions?”
My mom burrows her way into my side and smiles. “Do you have a warrant?”
“We’re just here to ask a few questions, ma’am.”
“Do I need to call a lawyer?”
Detective Shapiro glances at her partner with a smirk, then says, “Is there a reason you think he needs one?”
“No. I just know how you people are these days.”
This coaxes a scoff from the detective as she places her hands on her hips. “If your son has nothing to hide, then a few questions shouldn’t be an issue.”
My mom is about to say something else, but I interject. “Ma, it’s fine. They can come inside.”
With a huff, she steps aside, and I gesture for the detectives to enter the apartment. Like the movies, they walk in like they own the place by taking up the room with an air of authority while their gazes sweep the apartment.
But I’ve got nothing to hide.
I burned all the clothes I wore during recent shenanigans, along with things that could lead back to me, like receipts from the gas stations during our road trip to the desert.
Detective Shapiro motions to her face. “Nasty scratch. How’d it happen?”
“I—”
“We got a little rough in the bedroom,” Angie cuts me off with a wink, and my mom’s disapproval clucks off her tongue with the flick of a glare.
“So you did do that to him! You little hija de—”
“Ma,” I warn.
“It was an accident,” Angie says sheepishly, her gaze darting to the floor in an Oscar-worthy performance. “Just a little kink gone too far.”
My mother gasps, a hand going to her chest, and I can't tell if she's genuinely appalled or playing along. “This is the kind of woman you allow into your bed, Miguel?”
“Alright, alright.” Detective Shapiro waves her arms. “Cool it. We’re not here for a family feud. Where were you yesterday evening, Miguel?”
“I met with a friend for drinks at the Beach Chalet Brewery, but then she had to leave early.”
“Was this friend Jesminda Reddy?”
“Yes, but Mindy doesn’t go by her married name anymore. She goes by Arora. Why?”
“Around what time were you there?”
“Um…” I scratch my head and teeter my hand. “Around six-ish? Mind telling me what this is about?”
“Where did you go after having drinks?”
“I came home.”
“To me,” Angie adds and links her arm through mine. “And he’s been here ever since. In bed. With me.”
“That’s nice,” Detective Shapiro says sarcastically.
“Are you going to tell us what this is about?” I ask, my gaze going to Detective Archibald, who is nosily browsing through my bookshelf, grabbing a book, flipping through the pages, then shoving it back onto the shelf, but not in its original spot. I hate it.
“Jesminda Arora was shot three times in her husband’s home last night.”
My mom and Angie gasp, but my heart is racing too fast to indulge in the theatrics. I hope I don’t start sweating. Swallowing my nerves, I ask the question I've been longing to hear the answer to. “Is… Is she alright?”
“They spent all night trying to save her in the ICU.” Detective Shapiro shuffles through her notes, and my heart sinks to my stomach, but I brace myself by squeezing Angie’s hand. “Last I heard, she was rushed into emergency surgery with a very low chance of survival.”
“Dios mio…” my mom says.
“Her friend Nadia said that Jesminda visited her husband, Richie Reddy, last night to persuade him to sign divorce papers. Did she happen to tell you about it before the two of you parted ways?”
“Ex-husband,” I correct.
“We’re not here to discuss semantics.”
“Is he the one who shot her?” Angie asks.
“Yes, we believe so, but the part that doesn’t make sense is that Richie was found with the gun in his hand as if he killed himself afterward.”
“Makes sense to me.” I shrug. “Everything Mindy has ever said about him in group therapy points to him being an obsessed psycho.”
“Ah, but see, this is where things don’t make sense.” Detective Shapiro taps her chin. “When people kill themselves with a gun, they usually press the barrel to their temple, not their forehead.”
“Richie isn’t your typical guy, I guess.”
“Right.” She nods but leans in as if we’re friends. “I’ve got a feeling the forensics team won’t find gunpowder residue on his hand. Want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe Richie killed himself. I think someone killed them both, and if Jesminda makes it out alive, you better pray she doesn’t name you as the shooter.”
“Excuse me?” my mom and I say in unison.
“I find it very interesting that you’re part of a therapy group with so many people connected to each other. You and Jesminda dated briefly, according to her friend Nadia, and you once had an altercation with Richie Reddy at Penthouse.”
I toss my head back with a laugh, “I’d hardly count that as an altercation. I’m a bouncer at that club, and I kicked him out because he was being rough with Mindy.”
“Yes, and according to Jesminda’s friend Nadia, Richie threatened to kill you that night. He’s a very jealous man and despised you. Some might say that gives you motive.” She flashes a condescending smile, and the blood rushes to my feet. This detective is going to be trouble. “Another interesting thing is that Richie was involved with the Hellions biker gang, and some of them were murdered recently during what we suspect was a drug Cartel raid. What a coincidence that your friend Alma Espinoza showed up at the hospital, claiming she escaped the Hellions human trafficking ring discovered at that same Cartel raid.”
“And we’re glad she’s safe,” Angie says.
Detective Shapiro’s gaze shifts to her, and she smiles. “Here is where it gets juicy. Richie is related to Rohan Reddy, who happens to be a client of your ex-husband. And now here you are, wearing Miguel’s clothes as pajamas.”
“It’s a small world.” Angie shrugs. “And Miguel is a good fuck.”
“I bet,” Detective Shapiro laughs. “Does Augusta Abramovitz feel the same way?”
“What?” I say.
“We've been following the Abramovitz and the Cartel for a while, and Augusta had at least two meetings with you at Penthouse, and on one occasions, Emilio Suarez was there—a known Cartel leader. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Not to mention that Jesminda is the event planner for the Abramovitz’s annual party.”
“So?” I say. “None of this proves anything. We all attend the same therapy group and know the same people. Big deal.”
“You’re right.” Detective Shapiro teeters her head in thought. “But something stinks, and I don’t like you. So if I've made it this far as to knock on your doorstep, I'm close to solving the bigger picture."
"And what's that?"
"Do you think I'd reveal my cards so easily? But something in my gut says you’re the puzzle piece, so I'll be back.”
“Are we done?” I motion toward my mom and Angie. “As you can see, I have company.”
“Yeah.” Detective Shapiro tucks her notepad into her pocket. “We’re done. For now.” She turns to head for the door but pauses. “By the way, where were you three nights ago?”
“In Reno. With me,” my mom says, and I swear the color drains from my cheeks. I don’t need her to lie, especially not without receipts. She whips out her phone, taps a few buttons then holds it out. “See? This is us at the Harrah’s casino.”
Detective Shapiro crosses over and squints at the screen. I do, too, because I swear this is an old photo, but it’s not. My mom is smiling at the camera with a cheesy grin and wearing a blouse she specifically bought for her girl’s trip.
How the fuck did I end up in that picture?
“Does that answer your question?” My mom tucks the phone back into her pocket, and the detective looks at me.
“I still don’t like you. You’re hiding something, and I will find out what.”
On that note, the detectives leave, and I couldn’t be more relieved to close the door behind them. I exhale a long breath, my back against the door, and I narrow my eyes at my mom. However, she has already moved into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
“Ma…”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t.” She begins filling the coffee machine with water.
“The selfies!” I march toward her, and she glances back at me with a nonchalant shrug and a proud grin.
“Oh, that.”
“How the fuck—”
“Photoshop.” She pats my cheek. “I always know when you’re up to no good, and I always protect you. Don’t I?”
Yes, she does.