Forever Now (Forever - Book 1) (19 page)

“Oh, my,” I said before she more or less attacked me with her stash.

***

“You look—“ Cruz started and then shut his mouth when I finally came downstairs after Dana had finished with me.

I could have finished his sentence for him. I looked like a clown. I had an inch thick of makeup on. My lips looked twice as big as normal, and my eyes were hidden behind thick mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow. Where was my face? Gone. You could have seen more through a burqa. Meanwhile, my hair was greased back to look—I assumed—sophisticated, but I thought it made me look like I had had a bad accident with a deep fryer.

How did I look? Not like me.

“It wasn’t easy,” Dana told Cruz. “She needed an overhaul. You owe me. Big time.”

Dana walked past us and out the front door. Eric and the others were waiting in the driveway, standing around like a Vanity Fair Hot in Hollywood cover.

“Sorry,” Cruz mouthed to me and held the door open for me to walk out.

***

It was my first trip to Tijuana, my first time even out of San Diego. Beyond my dread of hanging out with the models, I felt a little tinge of excitement to be leaving the country.

Not that it was such a big deal. The border was only a twenty-minute drive from our house.

Cruz and I rode in his car while the others piled into Eric’s Mercedes. Unfortunately, Cruz’s car started right up on the first try and ran all the way to the Mexican border without breaking down.

Cruz didn’t say a word during the trip. He was probably still in shock over my face.

I couldn’t speak. I was too upset. I looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want to spend the evening covered in a pound of makeup.

Besides, my mother’s shoes were pinching my feet.

We followed the other car over the border and into the center of Tijuana. They planned on going to their usual haunts, several clubs in Tijuana they partied at for the past few months.

We parked in a parking lot and walked two blocks to the first club. By the time we got there, the backs of my shoes had dug into my ankles, making them bleed. I was in agony, and I didn’t have any Band Aids. I was too embarrassed to ask one of the models if they had one among their beauty supplies. None of them was hobbling around in their heels. They all walked like they were on the runway and like their four-inch heels were more comfortable than Uggs.

Uggs. I would have given my right arm for a pair of Uggs instead of my mother’s torture chamber shoes.

I made a mental note never to wear high heels again.

Never. Not even with a gun to my head, which I would have preferred over walking in the Abu Ghraib shoes.

It was a relief to finally sit down in the club. It was packed. The music was on full blast. We were seated at a large table by the dance floor, just the beautiful models and me.

Up until that point, nobody but Cruz had paid any attention to me. They had been busy talking amongst themselves about things I didn’t understand: modeling, fashion, and sex.

“Would you like a margarita?” Cruz asked me, while they were ordering drinks.

I’d never drunk alcohol before except the sip of champagne at Dahlia’s party. I was a little afraid of getting drunk.

“A margarita for the young lady,” Eric said to the waiter before I could respond.

Cruz leaned over and spoke in my ear. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, but I was way out of my depth and counting down until the night would be over. The rest of them, including Cruz, seemed to be having a great time. The drinks arrived, and they knocked them back. My margarita was delicious, just like a slushy. I drank half of it in one gulp. So refreshing. I was glad Eric ordered it for me.

“Time to speed things up,” Eric announced, and everyone finished off their drinks, me included.

Tiffany hopped up and twerked. “Let’s go boogie at Tijuana Charlie’s!”

They all seemed to like that idea and followed her out of the club. I stood up, too, but the room spun around, and I stumbled into another table.

“Whoa, are you all right?” Cruz asked me.

“I don’t know. Is the room supposed to spin around like that?”

“Make a note: one margarita is too much for Tess.”

I thought drunk people felt no pain, but in my case, the margarita didn’t help with my feet at all. The three-block walk to the next club almost killed me. The shoes had worked their way deep into my skin, practically cutting my feet off at the ankles. On the bright side, being in terrible pain and having the world spin around, took my mind off of being totally out of my element.

The second club was wilder than the first. Half of our group went out onto the dance floor as soon as we entered and were swept up by admirers who ground against them while the music blared. The rest of us sat at a table with a half-moon booth. But they didn’t sit for long. A woman asked Eric to dance, and he agreed, and Dana asked Cruz to dance, and he went with her after asking me if it was all right.

That’s how I wound up alone at the table in the club in Tijuana. It seemed like the entire place was having fun. Everyone found a partner.

Except for me.

I counted in my head. One minute, two minutes. At least five minutes went by, alone at the table when an older man approached me.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked me.

I didn’t want to dance. Certainly not with him and not in general. He looked like he was in his forties, and he leaned over the table like he was going to lie down on it.

“Come on, nobody else is dancing with you. Let’s dance. I’ll show you my moves,” he insisted, tugging my hand.

My skin crawled. He creeped me out. I really didn’t want him near me, let alone to dance with him.

I looked past him and saw Cruz on the dance floor, dancing with three girls at once. His pelvis was grinding against one and another was grinding against his butt.

“Okay,” I told the old guy and let him take me out to the dance floor. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close, dancing with me like he wanted me to have his baby.

I didn’t want to have his baby.

And I didn’t know how to dance.

Oh, damn. I forgot I didn’t know how to dance.

I stood like a lump of clay and let him move me around. I closed my eyes and prayed the song would be over fast, but the songs never seemed to end. The DJ made them run into each other, one fluid mix. Did I mention that my feet hurt?

My feet hurt.

And the old guy was grossing me out.

And there was something in his pants, and I didn’t think it was a pistol. Yikes. Enough was enough. I pushed him away, thanked him for the dance, and started to walk back to the table. But he didn’t like that idea and yanked me back.

Now in addition to being dizzy, miserable, and in pain, I was scared.

“The lady doesn’t want to dance anymore,” a familiar voice said behind me. It was Cruz.

“The dance isn’t over,” the man said to him.

Cruz got in between us. “She’s done.” There was a moment between the two men where they didn’t blink and a crackle of aggression passed through them. I was afraid that they were going to fight, but it lasted just a moment. The other man backed down, and Cruz took my hand and led me off the dance floor.

“I’m done, Cruz,” I said. “I want to go home.”

“I’ll take you right now,” he said.

Finally. It was like music to my ears.

He said goodbye to Eric, which was like saying goodbye to the rest of them, and we walked outside. The fresh air felt wonderful. Even my feet didn’t hurt as much.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“Are you disappointed we didn’t make it to midnight?” It was eleven at night. We had only been in Tijuana for an hour, but it seemed like days.

“How about we pretend we did. Happy new year.”

Cruz laughed. “Okay. Okay. I get the picture. Let’s go.”

I hobbled to the car, biting my lower lip and sending prayers to the heavens to ease the pain. We finally got to the parking lot, and I was never so glad to see an ugly, broken down car as I was that night.

I sat down and peeled the shoes off my wounded feet. “Oh my God,” I moaned. “I didn’t think I would make it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My shoes. I earned a Purple Heart tonight. Look.”

I showed him my bloody heels and the torn skin. He gasped, which made me feel better somehow.

“Yep. It’s like
Saw
but scarier.”

“I’m so sorry, Tess. I didn’t know.”

“Why did you think I was hobbling around like I was?”

“I thought you didn’t know how to walk in heels.”

He was right. I didn’t know how to walk in heels, but that was beside the point.

“I was hobbling because I was being murdered,” I said.

Cruz managed to start the car on the second try. “I’m sorry, Tess. How about I buy donuts on the way home?”

“That might make my feet feel better,” I said, charitably.

We drove through the night. I was happy to be heading toward home. I was looking forward to a big dose of relaxation with no makeup or uncomfortable shoes. I was not a party girl. That was proven once and for all. What was the attraction of going to a loud club to be pawed by gross men and get drunk? I would much rather read a good book in my quiet bedroom.

Or riding in a car alone with Cruz. That was pretty awesome.

Then the awesome stopped. We were on a dark road, about halfway to the border crossing when we were pulled over by the Mexican police.

A police car with a siren and flashing lights rode our tail until Cruz parked the car on the side of the road and turned off the motor. “Whatever happens, don’t say anything,” he told me.

“What do you mean?”

Cruz rolled down his window. Two plainclothes cops approached on both sides of the car and looked inside. The one on my side smiled at me and made a kissing noise. The other one said something in Spanish to Cruz, and he got out of the car, closing the door behind him.

Fear crawled up my spine and made me shiver. The police didn’t look like they took the motto “protect and serve” to heart. Even through the language barrier, I understood they had more nefarious plans than just a ticket.

The two policemen crowded Cruz, demanding something from him, but I didn’t know what. Cruz spoke in Spanish back to them. It sounded like he was trying to reason with them, but they were getting angry. I didn’t understand what they were saying, and I couldn’t imagine what they were angry about. I didn’t think we had been speeding, and Cruz had had only one drink, and that was over an hour ago.

I squinted into the darkness to better make them out. One of the police pushed Cruz, and he stumbled back. He said something and took his wallet out of his pocket. The cop took it, rifled through it, and threw it back at Cruz.

It went fast after that. The talking turned to shouting and pushing and then one of the police pulled a gun from his back and pointed it at Cruz.

“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.”

--Emily Dickinson

I screamed and jumped out of the car.

The other cop took his gun out and pointed it at Cruz too, who was talking very fast in Spanish, seeming to try to smooth the situation, but it wasn’t working. The police continued to shout and wave their guns.

“Get back in the car!” Cruz yelled at me.

I turned back, and in that instant a gunshot rang out in the night. I turned around to see Cruz punching one of the cops and pushing the other. He grabbed hold of one of the guns and threw it. “Hurry!” he shouted at me. I fumbled with the car door, trying to open it. The police were on the ground, shouting and looking for the thrown gun.

I finally got in the car and closed my door. Cruz ran back and tried to start the car, but it wheezed and coughed and wouldn’t turn over.

Have you ever had a near death experience? Maybe flying in an airplane through a thunderstorm? Perhaps narrowly getting hit by a car? Did you think you were really going to die?

Sitting in the car that refused to start with the two crooked cops nearby more than happy to shoot us, I was certain I was going to die. My life flashed in front of my eyes, just like they describe in books. I saw the lunch ladies at school, my empty cookie tin, and Cruz telling me I was his best friend over fifty-cent tacos at Jack in the Box. Then with the short movie of my life over, I wondered a second about death, if it would hurt, and if I would get a second chance at life like the Buddhists believe.

But Cruz had other ideas. “We’re not going to die,” he said, reading my mind and pulling on the car’s choke. Suddenly, miraculously, the car started just as the police righted themselves, retrieved their guns, and were running back to our car.

Cruz’s broken down car that he had gotten for free clack clack clacked down the dark road as fast as it could go. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of police sirens and gunfire. Cruz drove, never taking his eyes off the rearview mirror. His hands held onto the steering wheel in a death grip. Neither of us said a word until we saw the bright lights of the border crossing ahead of us and the safety it represented.

When we finally got on the other side of the border, Cruz’s hands started to shake. I touched his arm, caressing it lightly.

“How about those donuts?” I asked, quietly. I thought sugar and caffeine would help calm our nerves, and they did. We drove to the donut shop near the house, and by the time each of us ate four donuts and drank a cup of coffee, we had stopped shaking and could talk again.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“They almost killed you.”

“They wanted money. I gave them my wallet, but they thought I had more and was hiding it.”

I took a sip of coffee. “More money? Didn’t they see your car?”

The fluorescent lights crackled and pinged and made everything in the shop dingier than it already was. The floor was covered in linoleum that used to be white years ago. It had been left to crack and peel, a lot like the shop’s metal chairs with ripped red vinyl upholstery, which rocked unsteady with their uneven legs.