On the Edge (11 page)

IT WAS AGONY.

I hardly slept for days. Didn't think of anything but him.

I was still reeling from the fact that my late-night visitor had been Ortiz. That Ortiz was the one whose touch was gentle, but whose lips, when pressed to mine, had blown my mind.

There was no peace in knowing who Lobo really was. Ortiz was the one guy I'd been drawn to in real life, but could never get close to. And that hadn't changed.

I had so much to ask him. Why the hell was he in charge of a gang? He didn't strike me as someone who got off on violence and drama. He was tough as nails, yeah—I'd seen it in the boxing ring—but he didn't seem reckless. And the Destinos targeting the Reyes was definitely reckless. What beef did the Destinos have with them?

The questions drove me crazy. I needed to talk to him to get some answers. And then I would leave him alone, let him do what he had to do.

Except . . .

In the darkness of my bedroom, I knew that it wasn't just answers I wanted.

It was him.

Sleep-deprived and fired up by my new knowledge, I felt like a robot, going through the motions. School, homework, newspaper, rinse, repeat.

Iz didn't speak to me all week. Didn't answer my calls or texts. She made a point of slamming her locker door whenever I was around. Everyone at school knew she was mad at me, but she never told anyone why. In her mind, she might think she was taking the high road, but it was the opposite. It just made people speculate about all the terrible things I could've done to her.

It didn't help that my article on Hector had hit a standstill. I'd done all the online research I could do, and had gotten a quote from Eloise, the homeless woman Hector used to spend so much time sitting with. But it wasn't enough. The best information was on Hector's sister's Facebook page, and I didn't feel right using it without permission. But I couldn't just ask her—Detective Gutierrez had warned me early on not to have any contact with Hector's family. I was stumped on what to do.

By Friday night, all I wanted was to go home after work, crawl under a rock, and sleep. But Manny wasn't having it. “Come and play pool with me, Diaz. I know you got nothing better to do.”

“Now
that
's below the belt,” I said, taking off my grease-stained apron. “You know I'm a pariah these days.”

Manny smiled. “Then welcome to the dark side.”

He was right; I had nothing better to do. Iz had booked Abby and Carmen days ago to go to the movies. Abby was apologetic—she hated being caught in the middle. As for Carmen, she hadn't been in touch all week. She'd obviously taken Iz's side.

I'd hung out with Julia last night, so I wasn't planning to call her tonight. I didn't want her to think I was going to be all clingy now that Iz had ditched me. According to Abby, Julia had actually approached Iz on her birthday to try to smooth things over between us. Julia had put all the blame on herself. Iz's response was to tell Julia to “stay the fuck out of it.” Julia had walked away, refusing to take the bait. Julia might have the Brooklyn in her, but she was too classy to fight with Iz.

Manny drove us to a pool hall in South Beach packed with stylish people and drunk tourists. I knew why Manny had chosen to avoid the pool halls in our neighborhood—so we wouldn't run into anyone we knew. For a break from the drama.

I flubbed my first shot, hitting the edge of the white ball and sending it off in the wrong direction.

“You could go pro with shots like that,” Manny said.

“Very funny.”

Manny sank a corner shot and leaned on the table. “Talk to me, Diaz. Tell me what's on your mind.”

“I'm sick of what's on my mind. What's on yours?”

“A hot girl whose pants I'm dying to get into.”

“Manny!”

He laughed. “I didn't mean you. I meant Black Dress over there. She's my type, don't you think?”

I smirked. If his type was tall, blond, and drop-dead gorgeous, then yes, she was his type.

“Hanging out with a beauty like you is upping my value, Diaz. She just looked over. Now laugh like you're having a good time.”

I laughed, and I didn't have to force it. “I
am
having a good time.”

“Good. Just like that.” He flashed a ridiculous, thousand-watt smile at the girl, and I laughed again.

“Okay, enough laughing. I want her to see I've got the looks to back up my sense of humor.” He leaned on the table, striking a
GQ
pose, stroking his goatee. “How do my pipes look when I do this?”

“Um, good, but you're flashing your underwear.”

“Oops!” He pulled up his pants. “Thanks, Diaz. You got my back.”

And Manny had mine. Instead of trying to talk to me about the Iz situation, the cartel rumors, or anything else, he kept me laughing all night. Even when he struck out with the blonde, he made a joke of it.

On the way home, above the thumping car radio, I asked him how school was going.

He shrugged. “It's going all right. Got a paper due next week. I hate writing papers. Who knew you'd have to write them for heating and cooling?”

“You could ask your instructor for help. Most of them like that.”

“Not this one. He judged me the first day I walked in there. Thinks I'm another dumbass ex-con who'll get locked up before I can finish the course. I'll show him.”

“It sucks that he's judging you. Well, I don't know anything about heating and cooling, but I can edit your paper if you like.”

“Thanks for offering, but don't worry about it.” Manny stopped at a light and glanced at me. Serious Manny was showing up, if only for a moment. “When people judge me, I think of it as penance. For the shit I've done, you know?”

Actually, I didn't know. And I wasn't sure I wanted to. I liked Manny for who he was now. I'd rather not know who he was before.

“We're all works in progress, Diaz. We're all broken and bleeding and trying to fix ourselves up into something human.”

“Wisdom 101 from Manny?”

“I'm not wise, but at least I'm alive. And that's more than I can say for a lot of the suckers I grew up with.”

DEX WAS MAKING IT HIS MISSION
not to let me sleep in. I'd shooed him into the hallway hours ago, but he kept coming back, panting outside my door, urging me to wake up.

I stared at the ceiling. I'd been up half the night, my mind in overdrive. I'd replayed what had happened at Sasso's a hundred times. The coolness of Ortiz's expression, the regret in his eyes, the hand squeeze.

The gesture might have only been to comfort me. But I was convinced that it was more. He'd been reaching out. He'd been telling me that the Lobo who had visited me at night, the Lobo who had kissed me, was real.

“
You're still better off on the outside
,” he had said.

But he was wrong. I wasn't better off on the outside. I was just miserable and alone.

A plan formed in my mind.

I sat up and texted Julia.

I didn't know if I was being brave or dumb. But I wasn't backing down.

That afternoon, while I was cooking burgers at McDonald's, Julia texted me back.

My breath caught.

“We need three more Big Macs here!” Tom yelled at the front.

“On it.”

Now there was nothing left to do but wait.

He would come tonight. I was sure of it. I just didn't know who would arrive—mysterious, protective Lobo or cool, closed-off Ortiz. If I was lucky, he might answer some of my questions. If I wasn't, he'd tell me to back the fuck off.

I braced myself for either.

The moment Mom went to bed, I unlocked the gate. No sense in making Ortiz climb the fence if he didn't have to. We both knew that I was expecting him.

When I heard the faint click of the gate, my heartbeat accelerated.

He was here.

Unlike last time, he didn't stick to the shadows or retreat into the shade of the swing. He just walked in, hand in one pocket, hair ruffled by the wind. In a white T-shirt and jeans, Ortiz was the same achingly cute Corner Store Guy my friends and I had crushed on.

It hit me that
this
was Lobo, the one who had watched over me. I wanted to run into his arms, but instead I stayed put in my lounge chair. Not Dex. He ran to him, bounding up and down.

“Hey, buddy,” Ortiz said, scruffing Dex's back. “You gave me away, didn't you?”

Dex's tail did a happy wag, then he returned to his bed in the grass.

“Are you angry about my message?” I asked, trying not to show how nervous I was. The porch lamp glowed behind him, making it hard to see his eyes.

“If I came here angry, don't you think Dex would've attacked?”

“I think you can make Dex believe anything you want, like you do with everyone else.”

“Well, then, I'm not mad.” He sat down next to me, on the same level as my chair. “But I was hoping you'd let it go.”

“It's just that I have some questions.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Of course. It's the price of looking out for a newspaper editor.”

“Why look out for me in the first place?”

He gazed down at his hands. Those hands had held mine, had stroked me and comforted me. I could tell that he was debating what to reveal. I held my breath and waited.

“Because you stood up for Hector. He wasn't everything he seemed, you know.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He helped me out with information.”

I was speechless. For two or three seconds, anyway. “He was
working
for you?”

“Yeah. Hector had an amazing memory. He could recap a whole conversation, almost word for word. It's incredible what people would say in front of him.”

“My God. Is that why they killed him?”

“No. That night he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And so were you. Not a lot of people would've spoken up for Hector. I figured it made sense to have my guys keep an eye on you.”

“I tried to convince myself that the Reyes wouldn't come after me. I heard Ramon and Diego were small-time.”

“It's true. They're stupid fucks whose names Salazar probably doesn't even know. He wouldn't have authorized them coming after you. It would just spell more trouble for the Reyes.” I saw his hands tighten into fists, felt the tension coil in his body. There was more to Ortiz than the cute guy at the corner store. He was a gang leader. He exuded power.

“I'm surprised you didn't just tell me I was in danger. I would've let the cops know.”

He glanced at me, eyes narrowed. “This isn't the first grade. Officer Friendly doesn't come to anybody's rescue. I'm sure you know that by now. The cops aren't your friends.”

“But the Destinos are?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Seems that way, doesn't it?”

I straightened. “No more talking in questions. No more vague answers. I want to understand the Destinos—what their purpose is.”

“You don't stop, do you?” He dropped his eyes. “Maybe that's why I can't get you out of my head.”

The admission melted me. If he thought of me half as much as I thought of him, then he must be going crazy too. I was tempted to reach for him. But I cautioned myself to stay in check, to keep my distance.

Ortiz met my gaze. “If you really want to know about us, I'll show you. But the truth is ugly.”

“I don't care.”

“Then will you come with me, Madeleina?” He reached out his hand.

A strange feeling came over me. If I took his hand, my life would change forever.

I grasped it. “I'm in.”

WE DIDN'T TALK IN THE CAR.
He was in his thoughts, and I was in mine.

Wherever he was taking me, it was north of the city. He drove along the coast, the ocean a streak of blackness against the horizon.

The moonroof was open and the scent of the night was all around us, the rush of air in our ears. I saw a sign saying, “Fort Lauderdale, The Venice of America,” and I wondered why a city would want to associate itself with Venice when everybody knew that it was sinking.

All I knew about Fort Lauderdale was that old people and spring breakers flocked there like geese. It wasn't a place you'd expect someone like Ortiz to know well, but he navigated the streets easily, making plenty of twists and turns. I wondered if he was deliberately making things confusing so I wouldn't remember where the place was.

“In case we're being followed,” he explained.

“You think someone is tailing us?”

“No. It's just protocol.”

He pulled into the driveway of a ranch-style bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood. He parked in the back, got out of the car, and came around to open my door before I'd even gotten my seat belt off. As we walked toward the house, he took my hand. His touch sent a shiver up and down my arm, even though I knew he wasn't being romantic. It was to guide me.

He led me in the back door. The house was cheerful inside, but dated, with yellow wallpaper and flowery curtains, old-fashioned furniture, and knickknacks everywhere. The walls held pictures of a family over several generations—white, mostly blond, with big teeth.

Off the kitchen were a couple of steps leading to a basement door. Ortiz did a rhythmic knock.

Seconds later, the door opened.

Standing there was a built, blue-eyed guy dressed entirely in black. A flash of memory came to me. He was the one who'd carried me from the scene.

The guy seemed just as startled to see me. “You brought her?”

“I did,” Ortiz said in a
don't even bother
tone.

The guy's jaw flexed, but he didn't argue. He stepped aside.

Down a flight of stairs was a basement apartment. It had several connecting rooms off the main living area. A blonde with long, tanned legs was watching a small TV. She turned our way, scrutinizing me like I was a weird bug. “Who's that?”

“Maddie,” Ortiz said.

“Ah.” Smug smile. “Witness girl, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ortiz said. “How's Taylor?”

“Sick. Very sick.”

“How much longer?”

She shrugged. “Two days. Maybe three.”

“We have a day and a half, that's it. Methadone?”

“We're almost out.”

“Shit,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “We'll get more. Gimme a day.”

I knew what methadone was. It was a drug used to help people detox from other, harder drugs.

“Come with me.” Ortiz led me down a hall and knocked on the first door.

“Yeah,” croaked a female voice on the other side.

My grip tightened on Ortiz's hand. This was the ugly he'd been talking about.
This
, what we were about to see.

He opened the door, and I was hit by the smell of sickness.

The ugly, it turned out, was a pretty girl. Or had been once. She was too thin. Sallow skin, limp hair, dead eyes.

“This is my friend, Madeleina,” Ortiz said. He spoke gently, like a doctor. “How bad today, Taylor?”

“Ten.”

“Yesterday was a ten. How about a nine?”

“Yesterday was a fucking eleven.”

“Don't worry,” he said. I knew that warm, comforting voice—it was Lobo's voice. “Tomorrow will be better.”

She snorted, and lit a cigarette. “I wanna go for a walk.”

“Not now. But you can go watch a movie with Kelsey.”

“Are you deaf? I said I need a walk. Some fresh air.”

It seemed like a reasonable request, considering the size and stink of this room. But Ortiz shook his head. “Not yet. I'm sorry.”

“Not yet. Right.” I could feel the cold fury in her. She pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and for a second, I thought she might throw it at him. Instead, she said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

We left the room. Ortiz closed the door behind us.

In the low-ceilinged, cramped hallway, we stood against each other. His eyes were inches above mine.

“Can't you let her go for a walk? She seems so miserable.”

“No. She might run. We can't risk it.” He searched my eyes. “We're trying to save her life.”

“I can see that. So this is what you do—you bring drug addicts here to detox. To get clean.”

“The drugs are only part of the picture. They're a tool the Reyes use to control the girls. So they can make money off them.” He watched me carefully. “Do you see?”

I did. And it was worse, so much worse, than I'd thought.

“This is what the Destinos do, Madeleina. Salazar traffics these girls. We try to find them, get them out.”

I nodded, holding back tears.

Ortiz's eyes were hard, glittering. “You wanted to know why, Madeleina. This is why. This is why Salazar has to go down.”

Ortiz didn't take me home after that. He wanted to eat, so we stopped at a diner. My stomach was one big knot, but I ordered food so he wouldn't have to eat alone.

“What will happen to Taylor?” I asked quietly.

“She's lucky. Her brother's coming for her from California. She's from a good home.”

“But most aren't—from a good home, I mean.” I knew it from the research I'd done last year. Most of the girls who got caught in sex trafficking were runaways. It was incredible to think that they'd left troubled homes only to become prey to traffickers.

“Some girls are from the projects—others from behind a white picket fence,” Ortiz said. “What they've got in common is, they're all running from something.”

“And they end up in a far worse situation than they started out in.”

He nodded. “Then there are the other girls, the foreign ones. Brought here with false promises of jobs. Salazar has recruiters in several countries and he posts ads on the internet. This is big business for him—bigger than the drugs or the gun-running.”

“What happens to those girls, the foreign ones, after you rescue them?”

He sighed. “Some of the embassies help. Others are so corrupt we won't even drop them off there. We try to get in touch with their families. Try to find any way possible to get them home.”

Something occurred to me. “Those girls in the newspaper. From Honduras. Were you behind that?”

He nodded grimly. “We couldn't find a way to get them out, and one of the girls was very sick. So we tipped off the cops as a last resort. They're at the Honduran embassy now. I hear they're talking. That's good. Some girls are too afraid to talk.”

We went quiet as the waitress refilled his coffee. When she left, he looked up at me. “I hope I didn't make a mistake showing you this.”

“You didn't.”

“I wanted you to understand.” He looked away for a second, as if wondering whether he should say more. “I lied to you, Madeleina, when I said I was hoping you'd let it go. I wanted to let you in.”

Reaching across the table, I put my hand over his.

“I want to help. Any way I can.”

“You don't have to do anything. But maybe
this
.” He glanced down at our hands. “Maybe . . . you and me.”