Against the Wall (21 page)

He seems baffled by my response, and I can't explain the beef with Eastside. I feel like everything is falling apart. I'm losing my grip on going straight. Anthony is disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in
myself
. I should have anticipated this complication. Instead I got wrapped up in the project and forgot about the price on my head.

It's ironic as fuck. This is the first
legal
street art I've ever done, and I can't take credit for it.

I watch from a distance as Eric grabs his backpack and walks away from the crowd.

He looks upset, as if the adulation of strangers is unbearable. His shoulders are taut with tension, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn't seem to mind the attention of the girls at the slut walk, but it's clear he's bothered now.

I turn around, pretending not to notice his abrupt departure. It's almost dusk and the light is fading. The excitement over the mural will die down soon. April and Jenny are focused on the artwork, but Noah is watching me from a distance.

Of course. He never misses anything.

Noah still hasn't interrogated me about Eric. Maybe he wants hard evidence before he makes any accusations. Or maybe he's decided that it's none of his business. A girl can hope. “Do you know who they are?” I ask my brother, gesturing to the couple.

He glances at the warrior and the princess. “I don't know their names.”

“Popo and Izta,” April says.

He inclines his head, not attempting to repeat her.

“But you know the story?”

“Sure. It's famous.”

Noah studied Spanish in college. He must have learned about the culture, as well as the language. He probably picked up some stuff from April, too. He has a lot of respect for the people he serves and protects.

I feel bad for assuming the warrior was about to throw the woman into the volcano like a barbarian. But the image is still tragic, even though it depicts an act of devotion, not violence. I've never understood why people consider death romantic. As if it's not true love unless something awful happens and everyone dies young.

“Do you want to have dinner with us?” Noah asks. “There's a good restaurant a few blocks down.”

“I'll have to ask Eric what his plans are.”

“Where did he go?” April asks.

“I'm not sure,” I say, scanning the crowd.

Noah's eyes narrow at my white lie. He definitely saw Eric leave. Although he doesn't call me out, I know he's not happy about us spending time together. Eric can paint a dozen murals and say a hundred prayers, but he won't earn my brother's approval unless he stays on the right track. For months, maybe even years.

I hug Jenny goodbye and walk the same direction Eric went, toward the YMCA. It doesn't take a detective to find him. He's waiting by my car, silent.

“Are you having an anxiety attack or what?”

He shrugs, adjusting his backpack. “I don't like crowds.”

“Since when?”

“Since prison.”

My chest tightens at the thought of him getting harassed or beaten by other criminals. I imagine it was nerve-racking. Even so, he hasn't reacted this way to danger before, and the people looking at the mural are mostly families, not intimidating groups of men. There's something going on with him besides prison flashbacks.

“Noah invited us to dinner,” I say.

“Go ahead. I'll take the bus.”

I don't want to separate. I feel like I'm losing him. Every day he's slipping further away. “You're not going to say goodbye to the teens? They look up to you.”

He drags his hand down his face, weary. His shirt is covered with a fine dusting of paint. So are his tattooed forearms and every other inch of exposed skin. It must be exhausting to stand on a ladder for eight hours, working furiously, realizing your artistic vision. I've never been prouder of him or more confused by his actions.

He's so talented, so passionate…so self-destructive.

I dig my keys out of my purse and approach the driver's side. If he wants to be rude and abandon his own party, I can't stop him. Maybe no one will care. Artists are supposed to be eccentric, especially street artists. They cultivate mystery and break laws, like political activists. I've googled it.

As I unlock my door, a lowrider cruises down the street, music loud, hydraulics jumping. It's not an unusual sight in any neighborhood in Chula Vista, but Eric reacts as if it's an enemy tank and we're in a war zone.

He shoves me into the front seat, shielding me with his body. After the car passes by, he straightens. “Sorry. I thought that was someone else.”

“Who?”

He doesn't answer.

I clutch a hand over my heart, which is thumping with panic. “We need to talk.”

Eric walks around to the passenger door and climbs in. I send a quick text message to Noah to let him know I'm taking Eric home. My brother's been extra-paranoid since the latest vandalism incident. Between Noah and Eric, I don't know who's more overprotective. They're both acting like there's a killer around every corner.

Instead of driving straight home, I wind through the hills of Telegraph Canyon and pull over at a lookout point. Eric doesn't object to the detour. He also doesn't volunteer any information.

I turn off the engine and study him. “Did someone find out you slept with that gang member's ex-girlfriend?”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. Direct hit.

“Should I be worried?”

“I'm going to take care of it.”

I don't like the sound of that. “How?”

He exits the vehicle, but he can't escape my questions. I follow him outside. It's almost dark now, with no other cars around. City lights sparkle in the distance. I wonder if this is a popular make-out spot for teenagers.

“Are you avoiding me because you're in trouble?”

“I'm avoiding you because I can't keep my hands off you.”

“I don't want you to.”

“Your brother does, and it's his house.”

“He doesn't have to know.”

“He'll find out. He's a cop.”

“We can be discreet.”

“Like we were in the garage? Jenny almost walked in on us.”

I flush at the memory. I've considered moving out, but I don't have anywhere else to go. My job as a waitress won't pay for an apartment in this area. Eric's in no position to leave right now, either. Even if he could afford it, he's on parole. That probably doesn't look good on rental applications.

“I'll wait for you,” I say, slipping my arm around his waist. He tenses as if my touch pains him. He's wearing faded jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I can smell April's laundry detergent, along with the harsh chemical odor of spray paint, and a hint of clean male sweat.

“Wait for me to what?”

“To save money and find another place. A safe place, like Noah's house.”

He pushes my hands aside and steps toward the edge of the overlook. It's a long way down to the valley below. “I'll never be safe.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of elaborating, he just shrugs.

“You can't escape your fate, is that what you're saying?”

“Maybe.”

“That's bullshit, Eric. Fatalistic bullshit.”

“Tell me all about it, college girl. But use smaller words so I can understand.”

“Don't play dumb.”

“I'm not playing dumb,” he says in a clipped tone. “I'm playing the hand I've been dealt. If anyone's playing dumb, it's you, for pretending I've had the same choices as your rich boyfriend and your white-knight brother. That's
idealistic
bullshit.”

I frown at him in annoyance. “I know things are different for you.”

“You only think you know.”

“You're never going to convince me that you're a thug. I'll never believe you're a bad person who deserves to be locked up.”

“Believe whatever you want. I'm a former gang member and a convicted killer. In this country, that makes me a thug.”

He killed a man in self-defense and should have been acquitted, in my opinion. But the law isn't soft on gang members in these kinds of situations. “You can let the past drag you down, or you can rise above it.”

“I can rise above it? Like Jesus?”

Now he's
really
pissing me off. I might have abandoned my religious beliefs but Eric's faith has never wavered. He prayed with me the other day. He's wearing his cross as we speak. “You're Catholic.”

“I'm a criminal.”

My palm itches to slap his face. “What do they want from you?”

“Who?”

“The gang. Whoever's after you.”

He stares out at the city lights. “My car.”

“Your car?”

“My Chevelle.”

I sputter in disbelief. “You can't be serious. It's worthless.”

“Not anymore. I'm fixing it up.”

“If you give it to them, they'll leave you alone?”

“I won't give it up.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've given up enough,” he yells, startling me with his vehemence. “I've given up three years of my life, and that car is the only thing I've ever owned. I'm not going to hand it over like a fucking pussy. I might as well hand over my balls.”

“You'll die for a car?”

“It's not just a car. It's my blood and sweat and tears.”

“They won't take anything else?”

“I don't have anything else.”

I fist my hands in my hair and make a strangled sound of frustration. “Noah was right about you. You're not going to change. You're making the same bad choices, and you'll end up in the same bad place. Or worse.”

His mouth twists at the criticism. “There's no other choice to make.”

“I can't stand to watch you throw your life away again. All you care about is that shitty car and your stupid balls!”

“You wouldn't like me without them.”

“I hate you with them!”

He grabs my upper arms and pins me against the passenger door. His nostrils are flared, eyes glittering with anger. “You liked me well enough the other night. You know that thug you insist isn't in me? He's the one who fucked you. And you loved it.”

I'm aware of his strong grip, holding me prisoner, and his heart beating like a jackhammer against mine. There are paint flecks in his short black hair and on his brown skin. He's got his gangster bandanna around his throat like a cowboy outlaw. He still has that hungry-wolf look. He's lean and hard and dusty, his throat corded with muscle.

I know I should tell him to go to hell, but I don't. His touch electrifies me and his gaze makes my knees weak. I like his aggression, his intensity. I can't deny that it gets me wet. Maybe I'm amped up from the argument, or on edge from a week of sleepless nights.

Maybe I'm just a fool for him. I always have been.

When his mouth crushes over mine, I don't resist. I'm not passive, either. I kiss him back like a starving woman, tangling my tongue with his. I struggle against his hold—but only because I want my hands free to touch him. He releases me—but only to lift me up onto the hood. Then he changes the angle of the kiss and continues to ravage me. I twist my fingers through his hair and moan into his mouth, giving as good as I get.

His hands are all over me, roving up my splayed thighs and groping my bottom through my leggings. He moves underneath the fabric to trace my thong panties. Then he yanks down both layers, making me gasp. The hood of the car is cool against my bare skin. We're outdoors, in a semi-public place. Anyone could catch us.

I've never been more turned on in my life.

He breaks the kiss to peel off my leggings and panties in a desperate rush. My flip-flops fall to the ground. I unbutton the front of his shirt with clumsy fingers, pushing it off his shoulders. He yanks my T-shirt over my head. He can't seem to find my bra clasp, which is in the front. With a low growl, he tugs down the lacy cups to expose my nipples. His mouth follows, sucking both tips.

Oh God.

I'm sitting on the hood of my car, no panties, tits out. I can't believe we're doing this. When he drops to his knees, I hold my breath in anticipation. It's clear that he enjoys going down on me. He does it every chance he gets. If anything, he's overeager, kissing my pussy the same way he kissed my mouth. Hungry and frantic, with no finesse. Instead of getting me off with his tongue, he stands up and unbuttons his pants.

He's inside me before I can catch my breath. His mouth covers mine, sharing my taste. It's too much, too fast, but I'm too excited to object. He feels so good, so thick and hard and hot. I wrap my legs around him and dig my fingernails into his flexing buttocks. Every thrust is slicker, deeper, fuller. I cry out in pleasure, watching him piston in and out of me.

My eyes roll back in my head.

Then he curses in Spanish and buries himself to the hilt, shuddering against me. Panting against my neck. He's already finished.

Oh shit.

Warning bells go off inside my head. This doesn't feel right. He just came
inside me
. “You didn't use a condom.”

“Fuck,” he says, breathing heavily.

I shove him backward. “Why didn't you pull out?”

He seems at a loss for words as he buttons his pants. “I…you felt…” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”

“I'm not on birth control.”

He bends down to pick up my panties. “I wasn't thinking.”

“I have to take Plan B,” I say, fixing my clothes.

“What's that?”

I'm not surprised by his ignorance. Guys don't need to worry about these things. Most of them don't even care. “It's the morning-after pill.”

He frowns with resignation, rather than disapproval. “Where do we get it?”

“I can buy it at the drugstore.”

“I'll pay.”

“Fine,” I say, climbing behind the wheel again. Silence stretches between us as I drive to the nearest pharmacy. I'm angry with him, disappointed in myself. I've never had unprotected sex before. There's no excuse for it. We're adults, not teenagers.

“Did you use condoms with other girls?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“What about in jail?”