I’d paid attention to the guards’ rotations without really meaning to all these years, never thinking it would come in handy. It was more like a subconscious hobby, noticing who came and went and when, the times when security seemed thin. Now, it’s to my benefit. I slip through the back doors to the gardens, the ones that aren’t alarmed, thanks to the additional high walls around it and the guards who patrol the grounds.
Every step feels like it takes an eternity. My bare shoulders prickle with gooseflesh against the chill of the desert air at night, and I realize I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket—but it doesn’t matter. Anything I have wouldn’t have gone with this dress, not even a little bit. The stones of the garden path are cold against my bare feet as I creep behind bushes and trees towards the side gate, sending more of a chill through me, but I keep going. I’ve gone too far to turn back now.
I listen for the guards’ footsteps. Passing the wooden side gate, continuing on their rounds. I creep out, flattening against the wall. There’s a decent distance between me and the main entrance leading out to the drive, and even then, I have to make it to the main road.
Step by step, inch by inch, I make my way. I feel like I’m going to pass out the entire time, but somehow, I make it. I make it to the gate as the guards change, and I punch in the combination, praying that my father hasn’t changed it since I overheard him say it all those years ago.
I never thought I’d have a reason to use it. Never thought I’d need my sharp memory, which seems to retain so many little, useless things that suddenly are proving to be what I need more than anything in the world.
I had the keys to a brief moment of freedom all along.
The hardest part is making it down the long, winding driveway without being seen. But I do, using whatever cover I can find on the sparse desert landscape, and then when I’m far enough from the compound, I make a break for it.
I’m panting and sweating lightly despite the chill by the time I make it to the main road, but I don’t care. I catch my breath, slipping my high heels back on, and wait for a car to come. The other part of my plan—maybe the one most likely to fail, since there isn’t that much traffic out here. And if the wrong car comes, this night could end in a very different way.
It’s fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, standing out there waiting for the sounds of someone chasing after me with an anxiously beating pulse, before I see headlights. I wave immediately, flagging them down, my heart in my throat as the sedan crawls to a stop at the side of the road.
When I see a woman in the driver’s seat, plain but pretty and maybe in her mid-thirties, I nearly pass out from relief.
“Estás bien?”Are you okay?Her brow furrows, and I nod quickly.
“I’m fine!” I tell her in rapid Spanish, trying not to sound too eager. “I just—my phone died, right as I was about to call a cab. My car broke down a few miles down the road. Can you give me a lift into town?”
The woman narrows her eyes ever so briefly, hesitating, but then she nods, unlocking her doors. “You’re not far from the Santiago cartel compound,” she tells me in an almost motherly tone as I slide in, buckling my seatbelt. “It’s dangerous out here. Especially for a young woman dressed like that. You should be more careful.”
“I know. Thanks for the ride,” I manage, biting my lip. I sit there, frozen with nerves in the passenger’s seat as she pulls back out onto the highway, hoping she doesn’t ask questions that I’ll have to make up answers for on the spot. I’d been prepared to fend off the advances of whatever man stopped, but I hadn’t prepped myself for a concerned woman—one whose worry isn’t actually ill-placed.
She’d probably have a coronary if she knew what I was actually planning tonight.I sit there in silence, trying to breathe naturally, to act normal. Fortunately, the woman driving doesn’t seem all that keen for small talk, either.
“Is there anywhere specific you want to be dropped off at?” she asks as we drive into town. “You can use my phone if you need to—”
“No, that’s fine. I just—” I spy a bar a little further down the street, a bit divey for my tastes, but it looks as if it’s full of people, and I can hear the music trickling out to the street. A good place to start, even if I don’t like it. “I have a friend who bartends there,” I say quickly, pointing. “M—Marcos. He’ll help me call a tow. You can just drop me off here.”
The woman frowns again, tiny points of suspicion and concern wrinkling between her eyes, but I can see the moment that she decides it’s not her business, that she’s done enough. Her good Samaritan act for the night, and now she can move on without accidentally stepping into some messy business. Out here, everything can be a trap, including a beautiful young woman asking for a ride.
“Be careful,” is all she says as she pulls up to the bar, idling as she glances over at me. “Good luck.”
If only she knew.But I hold onto the words anyway, clutching the admonishment and well-wishes of a kind stranger like a talisman to my chest as I stand on the curb, watching her pull away.
A few feet away, above me, is a red neon sign that spells out in winding script the name of the bar.Sangres de Ángel.Angel’s Blood. Music spills out along with glowing light, the sounds of laughter and conversation flooding my senses. This, just this, is already more than I’ve ever experienced.
A shiver ripples down my spine—fear or anticipation, I don’t know which. I’m tempted to turn and run back to the warm safety of my family compound, the mansion that has protected me all my life. A cage—or, now that I’m out of it, looking back with different eyes, a sanctuary.
But it’s too late now. My own guardian angel is gone, and I’ve come to the point of no return. If I run away, it’s more than just cowardice. It’s giving up on myself, on my one chance. A betrayal.
I take a deep breath and walk into the bar.
8
ISABELLA
Inside the bar, it’s loud, and it smells like smoke. A song I don’t recognize is spilling from the jukebox, loud enough to almost drown out the raucous conversation filling the place. At the far end of the room, couples are dancing. I cough, trying to muffle it, so I don’t draw attention to myself, but it’s way too late for that. I drew the eye of every man in here the second I walked into the room, my high heels clicking against the sticky floor. I’m in the lion’s den, and they can smell fresh meat.
It’s a sensation I hadn’t been prepared for. I’d planned to walk in here, all confidence and carelessness, but the moment I entered the Sangre de Ángel, I feel like prey. I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as I walk to the bar, I don’t want to encourage them until I’ve decided my next move, but it doesn’t matter. I can feel the gazes following me, the hunger that rises in the room, as hot and thick as the close air that squeezes at my lungs.
This might have been a mistake.I consider leaving, trying my luck somewhere else, somewhere fancier. I don’t know how to choose a place, though, what makes one bar better than another. And at a fancier place, somewhere that has velvet ropes and security at the door, I might run into men who work for my father. Men who would recognize me as Isabella Santiago and drag me back home to gain my father’s favor.
I don’t want that kind of man anyway. I don’t want someone rich, polished, respectable. That’s the kind of man I’m going to be married off to, anyway. I want to be respected, for it to be good—but I also want it to be someone exciting. Someone who makes my skin tingle and my heart race.