Page 73 of Dirty

I took a drink of coffee, and then another. I turned to the side and smiled. “I think I’m okay.”

He lowered his cup to his lap. “What do you mean?”

“I’m comfortable with you.”

“Good,” he said with a laugh. “You’re okay, and I’m far from it.”

I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

He took a sip of coffee. “You still make me nervous.”

“Good.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why is that good?”

“Because you’ve got plenty to be nervous about.”

“Thanks.” He chuckled. “That made it worse.”

There were a lot of things that could have entered my mind as we sat drinking coffee together. But only one did.

Adam wasn’t put in my life to hurt me.

The way he entered my life was a perfect example of who he was.

He slayed monsters.

And, on that night, he slayed what little remained of mine.

TWENTY-ONE

Cholo

I don’t know what it was, and I suppose I never will, but something woke me up from a sound sleep.

I fumbled to find the button on the side of my watch and then pressed it, illuminating the face.

2:14.

I cocked my head to the side and listened for any strange sounds, barking dogs, or late night auto repairs across the street. A dull humming sound from the kitchen stood as proof that my 30-year-old refrigerator was still operational.

At the same instant I thought I heard the floor creak outside my bedroom door, it flew open, hitting the wall with a bang!

Instinctively, I rolled to the side and reached for the nightstand.

“Don’t do it, pendejo. I’ll put a bullet in jer leg,” a raspy voice said in a thick Hispanic accent.

My eyes shot toward the voice. The silhouette of a man holding a pistol was enough to reassure me I needed to follow his demand. At his side stood two more men, each of which held assault rifles.

I released the drawer and clenched my fist.

Fuck.

After my eyes adjusted, I could see that the two men with him had bandanas over their faces. He, however, did not. They pointed the barrels of their rifles at my chest, and he walked to the side of my bed wearing a shitty grin.

As he leaned over the edge of my bed, I noticed the number 18 tattooed on the front of his neck.

“I want my mahney and my chiva,” he said through his teeth. “And jer gonna geev it to me.”