Page 26 of A Dish Best Served Hot

Because he was already feeling awful, he reacted with defensiveness. “Of course you’d assume the worst. You don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing here, because this—” she pointed to the woman next to her “—is the director of El Hogar and she was informed that the scavengers who just kicked a bunch of displaced teens out of their home would be here today showing around the sellouts they hired to destroy it. Simple deduction tells me you’re either the scavenger or the sellout. Either way it’s not a good look.”

“Look, we are just trying to help the neighborhood,” one of the foolishly brave members of Raven Realty’s team spoke up.

Saint winced. The guy had no idea who he was talking to and what he was about to unleash.

Lola swung her attention to him. “Oh, you just want to help the neighborhood? Okay, Mr. Raven Realty, why don’t you tell me how much of your five million dollars in gross profit is making its way to this neighborhood? Because I haven’t seen it. Have you, Yara?”

The woman next to her shook her head. “Nope.”

Lola continued. “But maybe instead you’re providing some sort of service like feeding the hungry?” She paused as if in thought. “Then again Miss Tammy over here, she heads up one of the neighborhood’s biggest food programs, she was just telling us how they’re going to have to close at least one branch for lack of resources, so I don’t think any of your help has made it there.”

“No check for us,” an older woman called out from the back.

“Hmm.” Lola scratched her chin. “I know. You must be funding the programs that support the plethora of mental health services required in serving low-income and highly trauma-impacted neighborhoods.”

“Where are all those programs at, because I haven’t seen them,” a teen said from Lola’s left.

“Come to think of it, Ruby. I haven’t either.” She snapped her fingers as if she’d just gotten a great idea. “I got it. You’re going to help this neighborhood because this about-to-be renovated building is going to provide free housing to the unhoused.”

She took in the team’s deadpan faces. “No?” She handed off her sign and then crossed her arms. “Then I fail to see how forcing out a program that did all of those things, in order to build yet another set of condos that are too expensive for the true residents of this neighborhood to rent, is helping this neighborhood. Maybe you can explain it to me, Mr. Raven Realty, because the math isn’t mathing.”

The small crowd around her began to cheer and clap, but they quickly transitioned to chanting, “If we get no housing, you get no peace,”

“Fuera, fuera, fuera,” and “Ravens are scavengers!”

The anger in the air was palpable and all of Saint’s instincts were telling him that things could get bad quickly. He thought about his dizzy uncle and the clueless members of the team. He thought about the community members who were completely justified in their anger. He tried to think of a way to get Lola to back down. Even for a second so he could talk to her.

But his thoughts wouldn’t focus on any one thing. They kept spinning and swirling. Then the sound of shouting protesters morphed in his mind into explosions in desert streets, the sounds of bullets hitting flesh, and wails of pain. His heart began trying to break out of his chest, his lungs refusing to take in or let out air. There was a loud buzzing in his ears, even worse than the stupid boom box the crew blasted at work sites. He needed to get out. He needed to make sure his people were safe.

“Get back in the building,” he barked at Tío Luís. “And take them with you.” He didn’t pause to see if he listened. He knew his uncle would.

Then, without thinking, he latched on to Lola’s arm and began tugging her down the street.

“Hey,” she shouted. “Let me go! Get your hands off me.”

Saint wanted to listen. He really did. He knew he was acting irrationally, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to get them both away from the powder keg set to explode at any minute. He needed to get them both to safety.

Finally, he got them around the side of the building to the narrow alley that separated the building from the shop next door. He pulled them behind the large dumpster and backed Lola into the corner. Saint placed himself in front of her, covering her body with his. His forearms rested against the bricks, his hands bracketing either side of her head. He stayed quiet. Listening.

“Saint?” she asked after a minute. “Saint, are you okay?”

He dropped his head. His forehead hovered over the top of her head. He took a deep breath through his nose. He got a huge whiff of something fruity and spicy. Lola. He did it again, inhaling her scent. “Canela,” he whispered. “You still smell like cinnamon.”

Lola tried her best to calm her racing heart. “It’s my body wash,” she whispered back despite her nerves still clamoring.

She’d never gone so quickly from angry to worried.

At first she’d thought Saint was pulling her away to yell at her or something, but then she’d seen the sweat on his forehead and the way his hand shook where it was latched on to her upper arm. And she’d remembered that he was a veteran.

Lola was all too familiar with trauma triggers. Although she doubted theirs were the same. She paused. Actually, they were probably more similar than she could imagine.

“Lola!” Yara yelled down the alley, causing Saint’s entire body to go rigid.

Instinctively, foolishly, Lola put a hand on his chest. “Saint,” she tried again. “Everything is okay. We are both okay.”

She felt his deep inhale when his chest pressed against hers and his exhale when his breath coasted through her hair and along her face.

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