“The depths of your concern make me feel all tingly,” Ricky deadpanned.
Garra shot him a parting glare and ambled out of the room.
Martin returned to his chair and switched back to English. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say—”
“Garra has no friends?”
“He’s not going to tell her we want a meeting.”
“He won’t have to.” Ricky leaned back and laced his hands behind his head.
She’ll come to us.
“So we wait.” Martin rubbed the tension in his neck. “And try not to get killed.”A swarm of emotions chased Tula through the halls and caught up with her in her cell. The sharp burn hit her sideways, stabbing through her throat and gathering behind her eyes.
Most days squeaked by without worry or dread or the threat of tears. She’d become one of them, a member of Hector’s inner circle, and with that came safety. Any harm directed at her had to go through Garra.
Two years in Area Three and she hadn’t sustained so much as a scratch.
She had nothing to fear.
No, that wasn’t true. She feared it would all be taken away. If something happened to Hector, she would lose his protection. She would also lose a friend.
She’d developed a close bond with him. Enjoyed his company, even. He never leered at her, touched her inappropriately, or gave her any reason to think he would hurt her.
She trusted him.
But every once in a while, a bad day sneaked in. A familiar scent or melody would spark a memory, and she would wake from the numbness, sweating and gasping for air. In those moments, the veil lifted, and old hurts came rushing back—how she’d arrived here, the decisions she’d made, and everything she’d lost.
Today was one of those days.
It was the new prisoners. They reminded her of home. Not just because she hadn’t seen another American in two years. But because they were different. Smart different. Full-of-life-and-hope different.
With their drawling accents and tattoo-free skin, they looked more like the guys she used to date and less like hardened convicts.
They radiated confidence, not arrogance. Their muscled physiques promised pain if provoked, but they didn’t seem like the type of men who bulked up because they had something to prove.
Christ, they were gorgeous, the blond hair and blue eyes of one contrasting with the black hair and brown eyes of the other. Together, they were an overload on the senses. Too much testosterone in one place. Too much lethal beauty.
Area Three didn’t see a lot of attractive men. There was plenty of brawn pumping iron in the yard, but those honed bodies were attached to twisted expressions, vile tongues, and depraved minds.
The new guys belonged on the cover of a magazine, but that wasn’t what captivated her.
It was the endearing bond between them, the way their gazes connected and held so easily. She envied that closeness. Envied how they weren’t alone in this place.
Were they brothers? Best friends? They didn’t touch each other with the familiarity of sexual intimacy, so probably not lovers.
Whatever their relationship, they’d arrived here together. That meant they were probably together at the time of their arrest. What crime had they committed?
The blond carried himself with a stern sort of reserve and control. The Hispanic guy was more expressive, smiling brighter and scowling darker than his friend.
They kept to themselves and navigated their new surroundings as a single unit—their own unit—with no clear loyalties to a race or group.
That was a problem. The white guy was too white, and his friend was too pocho. The fact that they weren’t born and bred in Mexico was a strike against them. They made it worse by not sucking up to the shot callers.
It was only a matter of time before they got heart checked. The biggest predators would start circling them, sizing them up, seeing if they would fight or cower. Respect was established by being fearless.
Maybe they were fearless, but unless they gained four-hundred pounds of muscle, punched like Mike Tyson, and grew eyes in the backs of their heads, they might not survive the week.
Then there was Hector. The boss kept tabs on everyone, and if he suspected them of doing anything against his cartel, he would deal with them painfully and permanently.
That bothered her. For the first time in a long time, she felt something other than indifference. Part of her wanted them to make it through this, and not because they were good-looking.
Well, maybe partly because they were good-looking.
She’d spent the past couple of hours in the common area, basking in the glow on their handsome faces and pretending they weren’t dangerous criminals. She wanted to sit at their table and make believe they were just a couple of cute, harmless guys in a restaurant. A real restaurant with real utensils.
They would talk about how hot the Arizona summers were, laugh about the silly things they did as kids, and end the night with a kiss that promised another date.