Love, Like Water (9 page)

His legs must have been asleep, because he staggered a little; he put his free hand out to touch Eli’s shoulder for balance. They stood close a moment, one of Joshua’s hands in Eli’s, the other burning a patch on his shoulder, as if they were about to dance.

Joshua went very still. Startled, Eli met his eyes. They went dark and hooded a moment, and Joshua’s breath was warm and sweet on Eli’s cheek. Then the black lashes went down, shy as any girl’s, but he didn’t draw away.

Curling his fingers around Joshua’s, Eli said raggedly, “Josh….”

The boy started as if he were just waking up, took a step back, jerked his hand loose from Eli’s, and bolted. Eli spent a moment calming the horse, then went in search of Joshua.

Chapter 7

J
OSHUA
forced himself to keep to a brisk walk crossing the yard to the house, instead of running like he wanted to. Thank God Uncle Tucker wasn’t around; if it were near suppertime as Elian had said, he was probably inside getting washed up. The rest of the hands, too—the yard was deserted, and that was good. Good.

He slipped into the house and skated past Sarafina, who was busy with something on the stove. Once in his room, he crossed to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower. Setting it as hot as he could possibly stand, he stripped off his clothes and got in, crumpling to the floor and caving in on himself, shaking. God. God. This was not good. This was so not good. He’d nearly blown it, nearly lost control. Nearly opened wounds he’d never be able to bear.

But Eli had been so gentle, so calm. So kind. It had seemed natural to reach out to touch him, to let the foreman balance him, to reach out for his steadiness and steel. To let someone else take point, for just a moment. To rely on someone else. To rely on
Eli
. Joshua dragged in a broken breath.

And for that one terrifyingly wonderful moment, to
see
Eli. To let Eli see
him
.

Oh, God
…. But that was no prayer—he’d stopped believing in God a long time ago. He wished he still believed. Wished there was some higher power he could pray to. Then he wouldn’t feel this need to lean on anyone else. It had been bad enough, in the rehab center, knowing he depended on those people for his sanity, and they were professionals, paid for their service, the best the Bureau could afford. He wouldn’t dare ask anyone else to help him, especially not someone like Eli, who had a job, who had a life, who didn’t need a parasite like Joshua Chastain dragging him down.

He’d looked so startled when Joshua had touched him—of course he had. Men didn’t grab hold of men the way Joshua had. Even though no skin had made contact—Eli had had on his battered gloves, and Joshua had only caught at the man’s shirt-covered shoulder—Joshua had felt the sharp sting of attraction. To a cowboy, no less. To his uncle’s ranch foreman. The only thing that could have been worse would have been if Joshua had been attracted to ’Chete Montenegro. He let out a short, hysterical bark of laughter. A ranch was every bit as macho an environment as the People or the Folks or any of the gangs that made up those two West Side nations. He was sure they had ways of dealing with interlopers every bit as brutal as the “violations” he’d witnessed and participated in and suffered in the gang.

He had no place here. He couldn’t stay.

Dragging in a breath in a sob, he turned his face up to the scalding water. He had nothing. He had nowhere to go. He’d spent three years somewhere he didn’t belong; he couldn’t bear another moment of that feeling.

He thought of the long bus ride from Albuquerque. Thought about the long drive from the little hick town where the bus had dropped him.

Thought about the empty desert stretching out as far as the eye could see.

Thought about the desert inside him, equally empty. Emptier.

The water went cold and he dragged himself out of the tub. Sitting on the edge, he rubbed his face dry with a sodden towel—apparently the steam from the shower had made everything wet. It certainly had steamed up the mirror, but that was okay. The one thing Joshua didn’t want to look at was himself.

“D
ID
you find Joshua?” Tucker asked as Eli came into the kitchen.

“Did, but he took off. Thought he came in the house.”

“I ain’t seen him. Sara? Josh been through here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been fixing dinner,” she said. “I did not hear him, but he is very quiet. Check his room.”

Tuck nodded and went down the hall. Josh’s door was open, but the bathroom’s was closed and he could hear the shower running. He returned to the kitchen and said, “Guess he’s there taking a shower. Why’d he bolt?”

“Hell if I know,” Eli said, shrugging. “He was sitting in the straw in the loose box sleepin’. He woke up, we talked, I pulled him to his feet and he bolted. And before you ask, no, I didn’t put any gay moves on him.”

“Wasn’t gonna ask,” Tuck said mildly. “Boy’s got his own way of thinkin’.”

“Maybe you need to talk to him. Find out what’s wrong. I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I believe you. I’ll talk to him after supper.” He was about to say more, but the door banged open and several of the hands came in, talking about the movie they were going to watch in the bunkhouse that night, so he left it at that.

Josh didn’t come in for supper, but there was nothing unusual about that—having all the guys around seemed to bother him. After the rest of them cleared out, Sarafina made up a tray and handed it to Tucker with a Look; he nodded and carried it down the hall to Josh’s room.

The door was closed. He knocked lightly with his free hand, and at Josh’s subdued “come in,” he pushed the door open and brought the tray in.

His nephew was sitting on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling between. Tucker set the tray on the desk. “Sarafina made chicken tonight. It’d be a crime for you to miss it.”

“Thanks,” Joshua said but made no move to get up and take it.

“Y’oughta eat.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Tucker sighed and dropped down onto the bed beside Josh. “You want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About whatever got you so upset? Did Eli say something to rile you? ’Cause he probably didn’t mean it. He’s a good guy, Eli. He don’t mean nothin’.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Did he do anything?”

That got a response. Joshua looked up at him, his expression blank. “Do what?”

“I don’t know!” Tucker threw his hands up. “But he musta done something for you to get all riled with him!”

“I’m not riled with him. It’s nothing, Uncle Tuck. It’s just…. I’m just tired.” Joshua’s head dropped lower as he went back to staring at the floor. “I’ll be okay. I’m just tired.”

Tucker put a hand on his shoulder and said gently, “Well, that’s why you’re here, to get your strength back. Eat your supper, and go to bed early. Things’ll look better when the sun rises—allus does.”

Joshua nodded. Tucker gave his shoulder a squeeze and then went back to the kitchen. Eli and Sarafina were waiting. “He says he’s just tired. Guess we just leave him be. Maybe in the morning we can start him supervising the feeding in the small barn, get him used to being out there and working.”

Eli looked troubled, but he nodded. “I wish I knew what shook him up like that.”

“Who knows.” Tucker rubbed his hair with both hands. “I reckon there’ll be plenty of times we can’t figure out what he’s thinking. Might as well get used to it.”

T
HE
same dream, the same riverside warehouse, the same stink of oil and fear. This time, however, Joshua didn’t wake at the sound of the shot. The coppery stench of blood filled his nose as he gazed down at the dead girl, watching the blood, dark as oil, creep in tendrils across the stained concrete.

“That is done,” ’Chete said, but the tone of his voice was distinctly less than approving. “Though, José, I think you maybe question me?”

“No, boss,” Joshua said steadily, not taking his eyes off the dead girl. “I don’t question you. You’re the boss.”

“I think maybe you do. That does not make me happy. You are a good fighter, and you are the son of my good friend Berto Rosales, God rest his soul, and you follow orders
most
of the time. But you are right. I am the boss, and I don’t think I can let this go.”

Joshua sweated in the dream. He knew what would happen next. The “violation”—the punishment for gang members who didn’t follow orders or who screwed up, but not bad enough to die for it. It took only a nod of ’Chete’s head to the wall in the corner. Joshua swallowed and walked to the wall, facing it with his palms on the corrugated steel just above his head. Three of ’Chete’s bruisers followed him.

The first blow slammed his head against the corrugated steel, and he had a moment to think “at least it’s not concrete” before the beating started in earnest. He’d witnessed a “V” before, participated in them. They usually stopped just before the transgressor passed out, but sometimes they didn’t.

They didn’t this time.

The dream took him to the cramped, damp room where he’d woken, on a bare, stained mattress, handcuffed to a steel bed frame. He could only open one eye, and his vision was blurry. “So,” ’Chete’s voice said from somewhere—he couldn’t tell where—“you wake up finally. I did not think you were such a
pendejo
, a pussy, to pass out from a little beating like that. But hey, this generation is weaker than ours. Weaker in the body, weaker in the soul. Weaker in the heart.”

Josh didn’t understand. He felt like he was floating—he knew he’d been beaten, but he didn’t hurt, not the way he should have after being pounded unconscious. There was dizziness, which he had expected, but also numbness, which he hadn’t.

And then he heard the click of glass, and memory colored the pieces of the dream that the dreaming had left out. ’Chete said, “It is only because I love you and love the memory of the man your father was that I am giving you this opportunity. I do not wish to kill you, as I should, but you must be made an example of. There are many in the community that think that only weaklings take the drugs we sell, but I have found something very interesting. Would you like to hear about it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but went on. “I have found that the same thing that keeps our whores in line works very well with certain men. Men who have the same weakness in the lack of loyalty that whores do. Whores have their functions, and men have theirs, and it is a waste to kill someone for minor transgressions when I can buy their loyalty in such a simple way. Of course, you will lose status—no one respects a hype, do they?”

Joshua’s breath sucked in at the word. A hype—a heroin addict, the lowest form of life in the Latin gangs. The walking dead. ’Chete had three lieutenants like that, that Joshua knew of. He was the only gang leader Josh knew who allowed it—no, reveled in it. He knew that they were loyal, fanatically loyal to the man who controlled the flow of the drug on the West Side, if only because he supplied what they needed. Despised by the regular gang members, they were feared, because they had nothing to lose—except access to the drug.

“But because I love you,” ’Chete said softly, “because Los Peligros are family, I will not let it be generally known. My lieutenants will know, of course, but we will keep it quiet. Be faithful, be loyal, and I will keep it quiet, and keep you happy.” He stroked Joshua’s cheek in what might have been a caress. “Because you are worthless without me. You are a cheat and a parasite. You have some value in your strong arm and in your willingness to do my orders, but just because you were sweet on that
puta
, you dared to question me. That I cannot permit to go unanswered.”

The location of ’Chete’s voice didn’t change, but Joshua felt hands on the opposite arm, felt something tighten around his bicep, felt the prick of the needle and a warm rush of liquid into his vein. “You will learn to love the feeling,” ’Chete whispered in his ear, “and you will learn to love and obey me. This is the only way for you. You have no value, no worth, nothing if it is not with me. You are mine, José Rosales, son of my beloved Berto, and I love you for your father’s sake. Because
you
are worthless. Because
you
are
nothing
.”

Joshua woke with a start, his eyes opening on darkness and his breath coming hard. The window was open, and the dusty scent of the piñon pines wafted in on the breeze, washing away the remembered scent of ’Chete’s breath. It didn’t wash away the sound of his voice, echoing in Joshua’s head:
You are nothing
….

Nothing. Worthless.

The dinner his uncle had brought in sat on the little desk, its red and green chile sauce congealing around the chicken. The sight of it made him sick, but he ignored the tray and opened the little center drawer. An old notepad, turning brown around the edges. A blunt pencil. Good enough. Joshua took them out and started to write.

Chapter 8