Crossing the Line Page 5

  "I'm the boss of this entire town, you ungrateful bastard."

  Time to drop the bomb. "I'm going to Mexico to train."

  "For what? Bein' a loser? No," Paul drawls in his exaggerated Texas accent. "This is my house, and as long as you're livin' in it you do what I say."

  "I won't be living in it this summer," I tell him.

  "Ryan, stop pretending like boxing is going to get you somewhere. It's time to face reality."

  Boxing is the only thing I got, but telling him that won't do any good. "I need to do it, to see where it'll take me."

  Paul sneers. "It'll take you to the trailer park where you came from. Do you know where your father is, Ryan?" He braces both hands on the table and leans toward me. "He's in jail, Ryan. For life. You want to know what he's in for?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  "Well, I'm gonna tell you. He killed someone, shot him in a bar fight."

  I really didn't need to know that.

  "You're just like him," he spits out. "Your grades are shit and you won't get into college. You're gonna get some girl pregnant and leave her stranded like your dad did to your mother. Or you'll get married but get your head bashed in from boxing, leaving your wife and kids to take care of your ass."

  His words bring back memories of one of my mom's boyfriends who used me as his personal punching bag when I was little.

  My hands ball into fists and my entire body goes numb. Luckily the front door creaks open and I hear my mom's voice. She's home.

  I leave Paul standing in the kitchen and meet her at the door. "Mom," I say. "I can't do this anymore. Did you know Paul set up a job for me to shovel crap this summer?"

  She's clutching a brown bag with alcohol in it. "I have a pounding headache, Ryan." She groans. "Give me an hour, then we'll talk."

  "You don't have a headache, Mom. You've got a hangover."

  She tries to shoo me away with her hand. I'm used to it, so it doesn't affect me anymore. I remember when I was ten and came to her bed to tell her my stomach hurt and I felt sick. She told me I'd feel better if I went to school. I did, only to puke in the middle of Ms. Strasser's classroom. That just made me more of an outcast.

  "I'm going to live in Mexico this summer and train at a gym there," I blurt out.

  "Whatever," she says. "Do what you want."

  She walks into the kitchen, signaling our conversation is over. I rush to my room and quickly shove a bunch of clothes into a duffel along with every last dime I've saved over the years.

  This is my last hope in trying to prove that I'm not a loser like my father.

  Failure is not an option.

  Eight

  Dalila

  It's been a week since I've been back from Texas, officially dubbed the weirdest night of my life. Soona and Demi freaked out when they found out I was almost drugged and that Pablo's friend knocked the drink out of my hand. I loved the concert and the feeling of being reckless and free, but I wish I hadn't been so oblivious to Skyler's creepy motives. I should have been more observant so I didn't have to rely on some guy to save me.

  Now I'm back home in Mexico in my same, boring routine.

  The sweet smell of Mama's homemade chorizo wakes me up. I look at my cell and realize it's only six o'clock. With my pajamas still on, I stumble into the kitchen. Chorizo is cooking on the stove while Mama is rolling albondigas into little balls. A hefty amount of random ingredients on the kitchen counter is a clue that she'll be cooking all day.

  Mama likes to cook, but this is not normal.

  I sit at the kitchen island and take in the huge spread. "What's all this food for?"

  "Cooking for your familia is important, Dalila," Mama replies.

  "You don't cook like this every day. Something's going on."

  "When my husband's stomach is full," she says, "his stress goes down."

  "Stress?" I had woken up in the middle of the night and seen Papa's light on in his study, but I hadn't thought anything of it. He rarely talks about his work or his clients, so as usual I'm clueless. "Is everything okay?"

  "Everything is fine, mija." She expertly shreds some pollo for sopa and tosses it in a big pot. "He's taken on a new client and is preparing for a deposition."

  "New client?" I pick up some masa and water to help make tortillas. "Is it someone famous?"

  Mama closes the door to the kitchen and says in a low voice, "It's a high-profile case."

  "Who is it? Does it have to do with that heated discussion he had with Don Cruz?"

  She doesn't answer. "Dalila, you just worry about being a role model to your sisters. Did you hear back from the university yet? You know you must score high on tests in order to get into medical school. If you slip even a little, your chances won't be good."

  The stress of my parents' high expectations makes my stomach tie in knots. "I know. I'll make you proud."

  She looks satisfied as she hands me a cup of water. "Of course you will."

  I wash my hands in our large sink and the blue dishwashing liquid reminds me of Ryan's eyes.

  Ugh, I don't want to think of him.

  Ever since I came back, little memories of that night in Texas flash through my brain. I can't seem to shake the image of us kissing as I fall asleep each night. What was I thinking, making him kiss me so intimately? It was an impulse and I regret it.

  Mama hands me a tray of chorizo con huevos. "Bring this to your father. Maybe you can get him to eat."

  "Yes, Mama."

  I find Papa in his office talking on the phone to someone. His dark hair is graying and his wrinkles are more deeply set than I can remember. As soon as I step into the room, he tells the person on the other end of the line that he'll call them back.

  I place the tray on his desk. "Mama said you need to eat. She's worried about you."

  He smiles warmly. "No need to be worried, carino. Everything is perfecto."

  "I seem to remember you telling me that nothing in life is perfect, Papa." I sit on the edge of his desk and glance at the name on the file in front of him. Santiago Vega. My body stiffens. I read online that Santiago Vega, a businessman with suspected ties to the cartels, was arrested. My brain has a hard time wrapping around the fact that Papa has a file with his name on it. "Please tell me you're not representing Santiago Vega."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why would you work to help a criminal connected to Las Calaveras cartel?"

  "You know I can't discuss my clients, mija." He takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead as if this conversation is giving him a headache. "I understand you're going to some boxing gym with Rico Cruz. You sure you want to go? I can call and cancel for you."

  I know he changed the subject on purpose, but it doesn't make me feel any better.

  "Of course I want to go with Rico, Papa. It'll be fun. Don't worry about me."

  He kisses the top of my head. "I worry about all of my girls."

  "I know. And we love you for it." I kiss him on his cheek and leave him to his work, not expressing the fact that I worry about him, too. Especially if he's going to represent a guy like Santiago Vega.

  In the hallway ten minutes later, out of the corner of my eye I see Coco tiptoeing around the main corridor. My little twin sisters are mischievous and when Lola isn't watching they can definitely get themselves into a heap of trouble.

  "Coco, what are you doing?" I call out.

  She tries to hide her face. "Nada."

  I grab her hand and lead her into my bedroom when I notice her face looks like it's been painted on. "Why are you wearing makeup?"

  "To look pretty."

  I kneel down and take her hand in mine. "Coco, you don't need makeup. You're naturally pretty with your big brown eyes and that sweet, bright smile. Where did you find makeup?"

  She swings her arms back and forth. "It's a secret."

  I raise a brow. "Where's Galena?"

  Coco bats her mascara-clumped eyelashes. "She might be in our bedroom."

  "Mama won't be
happy if you took her makeup without her permission."

  "Umm . . . it might be your makeup, Dalila." Her big eyes go wide while her chubby little hands tug at her skirt. "But I didn't do it."

  "Uh-huh. I'll give you and Galena sixty seconds to bring it all back."

  She runs out of the room as I start counting. The patter of her bare feet on the ceramic tile echoes through the house.

  While I wait for my sisters to come back with their stolen stash, my cell buzzes. It's Rico, informing me that he's five minutes away from my house. He's taking me to the gym to show off his fighting skills, but to be honest it's a way for me to just let some steam off.

  I need to get out more. Even though we live on a huge estate, I feel claustrophobic here.

  As I get dressed in shorts and a tank, Galena sets an armload of my makeup on my dresser. "This was in our room."

  "Really?" I ask. "How did it get there?"

  She shrugs. Her little accomplice, who's standing beside her, also shrugs.

  I urge the girls to sit on the edge of my bed and I squat down so we're face-to-face. "I don't mind you playing with my makeup, but next time you need to ask. Or let me do it and we can have a makeup party." I reach out and ruffle the hair on top of their heads. "I won't tell Mama about this," I say and relief floods their eyes. "But no more sneaking into my room and taking my things. You got it?"

  Coco nods wildly.

  "We got it," Galena agrees.

  "We're sorry, Dalila," Coco chimes in.

  "One more thing. You two are both unique and beautiful. You don't need makeup to feel pretty. Now go wash off your faces before Mama or Lola sees you and makes you take another shower."

  With that, they slink out of my room as if they're on a secret mission to hide from anyone who's going to make them shower again.

  Rushing downstairs, I dash into the kitchen. Lola is frying the fresh tortillas I started to make this morning. The smell makes my mouth water. "Where's Mama?"

  "On the backyard balcony," she says.

  I step onto the balcony and find her looking across at the fields behind our house. Her brow is furrowed and she looks worried. "Mama, I'm going out with Rico."

  She nods. "Your father told me."

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Of course. Just . . . be careful."

  "I will."

  I don't know why she's acting so distant, but since Lucas died there are times she retreats into herself. Sometimes it lasts for weeks and Papa says it's best to leave her alone instead of trying to comfort her.

  "I'm here if you need me," I say softly.

  "I know."

  Back inside, I check myself in the hallway mirror. I don't have any makeup on and my hair is up in a ponytail. It's not like I have to dress up to hang out with an old friend to go boxing.

  A few minutes later I find Rico sitting on one of the benches in the foyer waiting for me. "You ready?" he asks as he eyes me appreciatively.

  He's wearing tight jeans and a button-down designer shirt, and his hair is perfectly spiked up as if he's going to a modeling photo shoot. He looks totally unprepared to be working out in a boxing ring, but that's typical Rico. Fashion before practicality.

  "Umm . . . did you bring workout clothes?" I ask him. "We are going to a boxing club, aren't we?"

  The side of his mouth quirks up. "Of course. I always dress like this when I go out."

  I could never seriously date a guy who cares more about his appearance than I do. While I just threw something on, Rico probably planned out exactly what he'd wear the minute we made plans to do this.

  In the car Rico turns on the radio and stares straight ahead. When we reach the main road and leave La Joya de Sandoval behind us, he rests his arm on the back of my headrest. The gesture is a bit too cozy and I wonder if he's still dating that girl he was seeing last year. I'm almost afraid to ask because he'll think I'm hitting on him.

  "I've got to make a stop in Nuevo Laredo to drop something off at my cousin's place," he says as if it's no big deal. "It'll be a nice drive. His place is empty, so we can hang there before I take you to Sevilla."

  At first I think he's playing a joke on me, but no. He's completely serious. "Rico, I'm not going with you to Nuevo Laredo."

  He looks at me sideways. "Don't tell me you're not up for a little adventure."

  What have I gotten myself into? "The only adventure I want is a boxing lesson in Sevilla, Rico." I hold my cell phone in my lap, knowing that I can call Papa to come get me if I need to ditch Rico. "I thought we were going straight to the gym."

  "Plans changed. Don't worry your pretty little head, chica. It's just a quick side trip."

  He turns off the main road, heading for the highway leading to Nuevo Laredo.

  "Rico, take me to the gym," I say. "I'm not comfortable going to Nuevo Laredo."

  "I'll protect you," he says, opening the middle console and revealing a pistol as if that's all the protection we need. "Believe me, nobody will mess with us."

  What happened to the guy I once knew? We used to play card games and hide in the fields in the back of my house. Now Rico's into showing off his money and guns. I gesture to the pistol. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

  He chuckles. "Kind of. What, having an hombre fight for you isn't your idea of a good date?"

  His words remind me of Ryan, who didn't need a gun. He had his fists.

  "I hate guns." I shake my head, hoping that he'll get the hint that I'm serious. "If you want to go to Nuevo Laredo, take me home."

  He sighs loudly, then turns the car around and heads back to the main road. "Okay, you win. You used to be more adventurous."

  "I'm adventurous."

  A flash of humor crosses his face. "What was the last crazy thing you did?"

  "I . . . crossed the border and went to a punk concert. My parents had no clue I went. Is that crazy enough for you?"

  He nods. "That's on the low end of crazy. I can take you to some wild places if you're ever up for it."

  "The Panche festival is coming up. I'm going with a couple of friends who can definitely get adventurous. You should meet up with us."

  He nods. "Sounds like a plan."

  I peer out the window at the bright sun dancing on the ceramic rooftops of the small houses we're passing. They remind me of the house my abuela lives in. It's small but feels so cozy. At least from what I remember. I haven't seen her in years.

  The car is quiet when I decide to bring up what's been on my mind since his parents were at my house. "Do you know anything about Santiago Vega?"

  He stills. "No," he answers tentatively. "Why?"

  "I don't know. I was watching the news and saw that he'd been arrested. I think my dad might be representing him and I thought maybe you'd know something about him."

  He shrugs. "I don't know anything."

  But I get the feeling he does and he just won't share it with me.

  Ten minutes later we reach the gym. It's situated in Sevilla, a small town in the mountains hidden from civilization. We pass one small mercado on the way, the only store for miles. The town is small and a few people are mingling outside, but it's mostly barren. Rico seems like a guy who's not afraid of anything. Or a guy who thinks a gun can solve all conflicts. I think he suffers from too much confidence.

  "You sure it's safe here?" I ask Rico.

  He shoves the pistol into a gym bag. "Si."

  "Then why do you have a gun?"

  "Because I don't want to leave it in the car for it to get stolen. It's all good. Come on." He leads me across the dirt parking lot to a big warehouse. "Hey, carino. Are you ready to prove to me how tough you are?"

  "Definitely. And if you call me carino again, I'm gonna knock you out."

  "Ha." He wags his brows. "If I go down, you're going down with me."

  Nine

  Ryan

  Crossing the border into Mexico in my rusty old Mustang was easy. The border patrol dude at the checkpoint asked for my passport but hardly
glanced at it. As usual, the border cops let people out of the US without much of a problem. I better not lose my passport while I'm in Mexico, though, because entering the US is another issue altogether.

  I drive my car through Mexico feeling like I've abandoned everything I've ever known. I've never driven this far into the country before. At first the buildings and roads look just like what we have back in Texas.

  As I drive farther, things start to change.

  I look out the window and see people with carts selling eggs and buckets of fruit on the side of the road. One guy wearing overalls and a cowboy hat is selling avocados as big as a grapefruit. I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering that Mexico is the avocado capital of the world.

  The weather is the same as in Texas. Heat permeates through my windshield from the brutally hot sun, a stinging reminder that my air conditioning has been out since I bought the thing. I suddenly long for the cold Chicago winters. It's too damn hot here and I feel like I'm gonna melt. Staring out the window, I watch in fascination at the lone tumbleweeds rolling over the land like little runaway straw bowling balls.

  I follow the detailed directions Mateo gave me and end up at a bar called Mamacita's. I look down at the directions, then at the bar. Yep, this is the place.

  Stepping out into the hot sun, I take in the town. It's got everything, from small grocery stores to taquerias and shops.

  As I cross the threshold into Mamacita's, all eyes turn to me. My entire body is on alert as I scan the clientele. The place resembles an old-time saloon you'd see in the movies, complete with rugged guys playing cards and others getting plastered at the bar. It doesn't escape my attention that a handful of them are wearing pistols, but I've gotten used to that since I moved to Texas. In Chicago, you don't see guns unless it's on a cop or you're unfortunate enough to find yourself smack-dab in the middle of a shoot-out.

  "Hey, Ryan. Come over here!" Mateo calls out from the corner of the bar. He's sitting with a few other guys who are glaring at me as if I'm some narc. "Glad you came." He checks his watch. "You're early. I like that."

  "Where's Camacho?" I ask him.

  "Whoa, slow down." Mateo waves over a female bartender. "What do you want to drink, Ryan?"

  "I'm good."

  "Sit down," he says with a grin. "Relax awhile."

  "Listen, man. I'm not here to relax; I'm here to train." I gesture to the half-empty bottle of beer in front of him. "If you want to give me directions to the gym, I'll go myself."