Joyride (24 page)

I swallow. I can't look him in the eyes when I say, “It's Sheriff Moss's son.”

Julio goes quiet. So quiet that I can't hear his breathing, even though his chest is heaving up and down like a bull focusing in on its next target. “Tell me. Tell me everything. Right now.”

So I do. From the beginning. All of it, no detail spared, except the extent of the kissing. That's mine to keep to myself and remember how I want. I don't want Julio's opinion tainting what were the best moments of my life.

I tell him about the faux robbery, how I met Arden. I tell him about Arden being the one who actually found me the job at Uppity Rooster. I don't know why I even bother to paint Arden in a positive light though.

Julio will hate him in about five minutes anyway—if he doesn't already—just for being the sheriff's son. And my boyfriend.

I tell him about our little prank spree (I say prank, because really, if we were caught for any of them—except for that last one—we'd get slapped with misdemeanors maybe) and that I secretly cut down on my shifts at the Breeze just for this purpose. And then I tell him about our stupid joyride. The one that ultimately led me to the truth about Sheriff Moss.

And I tell him about the deal I struck with the sheriff in the interrogation room of the county jail with the only camera in the room under repair.

And Julio says nothing. He says nothing for a long time. I stay quiet too. I'm giving his temper space to breathe. I feel the malevolence expand into the room and settle in. The furious energy in here could be picked up on thermal energy radar.

“Julio, we can't trust the sheriff.” I say it as gently as possible. Before my eyes, Julio has turned from a free spirit to a chained and shackled vassal again. And I'm the reason for it.

But these are things that need to be said. Sheriff Moss will find some way to screw us over. I know it. I've made a dark enemy out of that man. This won't end well for us. We are the ones who stand the most to lose, and lose we will.

“There is no other way, Carlotta,” Julio says finally, defeated.

“Maybe we could just keep sending Mama and Papi money. American dollars buys them a lot in Mexico. They should be living pretty well. Better than us, actually. We could just send them a monthly allowance or—”

Julio's eyes are wide, accusing. “They are our parents, Carlotta Jasmine Vega. They belong with us. We are a family.”

“Don't yell at me, Julio. I know you're mad. And I get why, and I'm sorry. So sorry. But there's got to be another way. We've got to remove
El Libertador
from the equation somehow.”

“We've already made the deal with
El Libertador
. We've already paid him. We've already put that trust in him.” He sits up straight then, and looks me in the eyes. “Which is a better place for my trust to be than with you, I see.”

Wow. That hurt worse than I was anticipating. And I didn't realize how badly this conversation was going to fail. He's not listening to me at all. Just accusing me and blaming me.
El Libertador
is still a saint, whose only misfortune was to have to deal with me. In Julio's eyes, I've shifted from hardworking little sister to the lowest scum on the earth. It's all over his face. I stand up from the couch and take a few steps back, toward my room. This is where the conversation needs to end, I'm sure of it.

“Julio, I can't do this anymore,” I say softly. “If
El Libertador
—Sheriff Moss—screws us over … I can't … I won't … I'm not helping out anymore.”

Julio's jaw clenches and unclenches. “You think I need
your
help? Look at the kind of ‘help' you've given me. Look at what you've done. And now you're saying you won't do what it takes to fix your mistakes?”

A tear slips down my cheek. “I shouldn't have done any of it to begin with. I shouldn't have worked myself to death. Mama and Papi had their chance, Julio, and they got caught. If they wanted to come back to the US, they should have found a way. We should not have been their meal ticket.” Everything about the way I was raised screams at me to shut up. Did I really just say these things out loud?

“Meal ticket? Is that what this Arden teaches you?”

No. That's all mine. But he has taught me how to have fun. That it's
important
to have fun. But I won't tell that to Julio. Mostly because he still doesn't see that we are the ones who've turned into the indentured servants. It's not like we can ever get back these years that we've lost working our butts off to get our parents here.

But is fun more important than family? Of course not. Have I been treating it like it is? I'm afraid of the answer. But having fun isn't wrong. Being with Arden isn't wrong.
Is it?

It's like I don't know who I am now. Like I've lost my identity in the mix of all this.

“It's Mama and Papi's fault they got deported,” I tell Julio. “They weren't being careful enough. It is their responsibility to take care of us, not the other way around.” These things are all true, but it feels wrong to say it.

Am I betraying my family or have they betrayed me?

Slowly he shakes his head. “You are not my sister. Get out. Get all of your things and get out. You no longer live here.”

I didn't see that coming. Not at all.

“Julio, please. Please just listen to me.”

“I've heard enough. More than enough. Be out by tonight.”

 

Twenty-Six

Arden adjusts the telescope in his room to look for Orion's belt. The night is clear and the luminaries are crisp, begging to be observed. Orion is one of his favorite constellations because it's the first one he found on his own, without Amber's help. He's almost got the lens in focus when his phone rings. By the ring tone, he knows it's Uncle Cletus.

“I'm coming bright and early in the morning, old man,” Arden says, tightening the knob for the lens. “I haven't forgotten about you.”

“I swear you came out of your mama's womb talking, didn't you, boy? That's not what I'm calling about. It's Carly.”

The name is like a physical blow to Arden's stomach. He'd been trying to forget that name, to somehow lift the mark it made on his heart. But his heart still jumps at the sound of it. “What about Carly? Is she okay?”

“She came clean with Julio about all she's been doing with you and about your little cop-car adventure. He kicked her out. She's staying with me now.”

Arden presses his forehead against the telescope. Julio kicked her out. That idiot. She's only sixteen. Still in school. Trying her hardest to do what's right. And he hauls off and kicks her out.
And whose fault is that?
he tells himself.
If it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened
. “If she stays with you, I can't come over anymore. I told you what Dad said. If he sees us even remotely near each other, Carly's family is screwed.”

“I know that, boy. That's why I'm calling you and telling you that I no longer need your services on the weekends. Carly's going to help me out around the house while she's here. But you don't step foot on my property, Arden. Not until Carly gets on her feet and finds her own place. You two don't need any unexpected run-ins with your pa. You know that's what's best, don't you?”

Arden nods into the phone. It's what's best, but it's the complete opposite of what he wants. He wants to drop everything and speed over there and enfold her in his arms and apologize for ruining her life and beg her forgiveness and kiss her until she does. Walking past her in the halls at school is like walking past his own happiness in human form.

“Tell her … Tell her…”

“There's not much to tell her, son,” Cletus says gently. “I suspect telling her anything would just torture you both, don't you reckon?”

Arden sighs. “Yeah.”

“Listen, she won't want for nothing while she's here. She tried to give me rent money but I wouldn't take it. She's saving up to get her own place, and a car. I'm letting her borrow my truck to take to work. I never did like her riding her bike all alone at night anyways.” A pause. “She wants to cook me breakfast in the mornings, and do my laundry and such. Earn her keep. It don't feel right, if you ask me. That little girl's been through so much already.”

“Better let her, though,” Arden says. “She hates feeling like a charity case.”

“That's what I figured. Pride sticks to that girl like a skinny tick.”

“You're a good old man, Cletus. No matter what the rumors say.”

“And you're still my favorite pain in the neck. I just got a few things going on right now. You'll call me if you need anything, won't you, boy?”

What I need is staying at your house, washing your flannel shirts, and frying you up some eggs and bacon every morning
. “Of course.”

Arden can hear his dad stomping up the stairs. “I've got to go. The emperor is home.”

“Alright, son. Talk at you later.”

Arden hangs up just in time for the sheriff to swing open the bedroom door. He paces the room, inspecting the closet, and looking under the bed for potential hiding spots. Not many places for someone to hide in here, but the sheriff is thorough.

“Did you misplace your sense again, Sheriff?” Arden drawls, twisting a knob on his telescope. “You could try the hamper.”

His father eases up to where Arden sits in the recliner. “Who were you talking to on the phone just then?”

“Uncle Cletus.”

The sheriff extends his hand out. “Give it to me.”

Arden gives it to him without a fight. He's got nothing to hide.

His father scrolls through the numbers. “What'd you talk to Cletus about?”

Arden shrugs. “He doesn't need my help tomorrow. Calling to tell me so.”

“Good. Because from now on, you have football practice on Saturdays. I talked to Coach Nelson today. You're back on the team. Quarterback. It's like you never left.”

Arden stands so fast the recliner rocks violently behind his legs. “I said I would go to him when I was ready.”

“I've decided that you're ready. See how easy it is for me to get things done, Arden? One phone call, and you're back on the team. One phone call, and that girl's parents are—”

“Fine,” Arden says, crossing his arms. “It's fine. Put me back on the team. Anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

His father nods, grins a little. “Yep. We're going shopping this weekend, you and I. Get you some decent, family-oriented clothes for election-year public appearances. Starting with a graveside memorial on the anniversary of Amber's death.”

“You—”

The sheriff makes a
tsk
ing sound with his tongue. “People mourn in different ways, son. Always remember that.”

“Really? That's your explanation?”

His dad crosses his massive arms. “You think I don't miss Amber?”

“I think you've been relieved since the day she died.” Arden's voice is full of venom. He knows it's dangerous, to get his dad riled up about Amber. But poison like this festers inside you for so long, and then foams up until you have no way to contain it sometimes. And this is one of those times. “She was your daughter and her illness was a cancer to your campaign. You grieve more over your team losing a football game than you grieved over Amber's death. It was all about you, never about her. You killed her, same as if you gave her the pills yourself.”

Strong fingers lace around Arden's neck. “Shut your mouth, son. Have you forgotten how many times I've saved your ass from juvie? And what about your girlfriend? You want her going to prison for her little stunt while I deport her family? Then. Shut. Your. Mouth.”

Arden manages to wriggle out of his father's grasp—it's a move Glass taught him—and stands eye to eye with him. He's as tall as the sheriff, and his shoulders are just as wide. “One of these days you won't have a quick fix,” Arden says in a low voice. “One of these days your house of cards will come crashing down on you, and the edges will be razor sharp and they'll make their marks on you. One of these days you'll suffer like you've made everyone else suffer. And I hope to God I'm there to see it.”

The sheriff flinches, taking a step back. His face softens even though he's scowling. “Do you remember when I was a deputy like Glass? And every night, I'd come home and turn on the flashing lights for you and Amber. And every night, you told me, you wanted to be just like me when you grew up. Do you remember?”

It was a lifetime ago, but Arden remembers. “I was five years old. Everyone wants to be like their dad when they're five.”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Remember in sixth grade—that would have put you at right around eleven or twelve years old—you asked me to come to the school for Bring Your Father to Work Day. You still respected me then.” He rocks back on his heels, tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “I'm trying to figure out at what point I lost you, son. Was it Amber? Do you truly blame me for her death? Or was it before that?”

Arden feels his eyes brimming with tears. “Get out. Now.”

“If you need someone to blame for Amber's death, I'll be that person for you, Arden. I will. I only ever want what's best for you. Always will.”

“I said GET OUT NOW!”

His dad backs away then until he reaches the threshold of the door. “Your sister had a lot of friends who want to remember her, grieve her loss. I can't deny them that on the anniversary of her death.”

Amber hardly had any friends, because their father whisked her away from society. From curious glances and busy tongues and aggressive rumor mills. He couldn't risk letting anyone witness a meltdown, not in his house. Not in his county. Not on his term. This graveside memorial is strictly for the sake of sympathetic voters.