Page 11 of Ink

Her mamá looked suspiciously at me. “This late? You couldn’t phone her instead?”

“I don’t have her number, I’m afraid.” I hadn’t bothered putting it into my contact list, thinking she wouldn’t last the week.

Her mamá looked at me like I was a liar.

“Ah, right.” Xiomara rattled off her number, and I immediately punched it into my phone before pocketing the device.

I nodded. “Thank you. And sorry again for disturbing your night.”

Taking a ride back to the club house, I enjoyed the wind whipping against my face, letting the flow clear my mind, but it kept going back to Xiomara.

I’d not pretend I didn’t feel anything other than guilt, especially when I prided myself on being immaculate.

I’d given her the job back, and I’d noted her relief, but I’d also noted her living conditions.

She appeared to live like most upper-lower class Mexicans. But if she desperately needed a job, I wondered why she couldn’t seem to hold one down.

I should have asked. I suddenly needed to know that information.

Maybe it was my guilt that drove my next action. It didn’t matter. But when I arrived at the club house, I waved over a prospect.

“You’re coming with me tomorrow,” I ordered. No need for politeness. Prospects were our bitches. “But I need you to go buy a few supplies first.”

Chapter Five

Xiomara

Itwasbizarreknowingmy boss–who I’d mentally called an hijo de puta many times–was picking me up for work.

I was grateful that he hadn’t mentioned anything to my mamá. If she would’ve known he fired me only to rehire me, she would’ve taken a belt to my back or glared at me in disappointment for the lies I spewed.

Still, the next day I dressed with more care than usual.

For some fucking reason.

Not like I was trying to impress that asshole.

But I was grateful for the second chance. So I took care pencilling in my brows and darkening my liner, lining and filling my lips red. I took a toothbrush to my edges, pressing and curling the hairs against my cheeks and forehead.

My hoops went in last before I admired myself in my mirror. My band shirt, a hand-me-down that was too big for my curvy frame, belonged to my brother. A tighter, white, long sleeved shirt went beneath that and tan pants with a black belt completed my ensemble. My converse were frayed and coming apart. They were one of the first gifts my papá had sent from the other side before he stopped calling altogether.

I would’ve tossed them out of pure spite if I hadn’t needed them so badly. Shoes in Mexico were expensive, and the ones that didn’t cost around thousands of pesos were made of cheap, ugly material.

The first thing I was going to do–if I survived until payday–was shoe shop.

My mamá was in the kitchen when I went downstairs, tying a checkered apron behind her waist.

“Buenos dias,” I greeted.

She was looking out the window. “Who is that in front of our house? Is that your boss?”

My heart pounded and I snapped my gaze outside. Sure enough, Ink was there, climbing off his bike. I hadn’t heard him arrive. There was a truck there too, and a man hopped out and went to the back, pulling things out of the bed of the vehicle.

I went to open the door before they could knock.

“You’re early.” The words felt like an accusation on my lips, and I regretted the tone immediately.

I shouldn’t piss him off when I knew how volatile his moods were.

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