Their Broken Pieces by Jessica Gomez

Chapter Nine

Alex

 

 

I cannot believe Jasmine.

Even though I knew the mierda flying out of her mouth was a lie, her words still cut. As much as I try to convince myself that what she said means nothing—that I couldn’t care less what she thinks about me, or anyone else in my family, it isn’t working. She wounded me, and she saw it written plain as day on my face.

To keep my mind occupied, I gather the gang and set out to look for trouble. I know I’m on my last chance, and I know what the punishment is if I find the trouble I am looking for, but right now, that means zilch. Jasmine’s words are eating me alive. Does she blame me somehow for that night? Or does she not want to talk to me because of my father’s involvement? Her rejection bothers me more than I care to admit.

We roll up to a club that’s a halfway point between my gang and our rival gang. We usually keep a truce at this place, but tonight, I’m not interested in keeping the peace. I’m looking for a fight, and by the looks on my gang’s faces, they’re down for whatever I want to throw their way.

I step off my bike, tilting it so it stands on its own. It’s an old bike, but I worked my ass off to make the money to buy it. The seven members of Infiernos Guerreros I brought with me tonight follow my lead, knowing I came here for nothing but trouble. They all stretch out their limbs, getting ready for the brawl we are no doubt about to engage in. I may not be able to figure out what or how I’m feeling about Jasmine, but I can figure out how to slam my fist into someone’s face.

I push through the front door of the club, scanning the room until I spot the poor sap that’s going to get the brunt of my anger. He’s second in command of our rival gang. I walk right up to him without saying a word and smash my fist into the side of his temple, causing him to tumble to the ground. Ten people around him jump up while he peels himself off the floor to face me.

“What the fuck is your problem, Alex?” he spits out.

“Your ugly mug is my problem, gilipollas.” My gang approves of the fight. They flank my back without saying a word.

“You really want to do this, hombre?” He gives me a chance to back out, but he doesn’t know me. Once I start something, I do not back down. I stand my ground.

“You want to take it outside?” I give him the option of where they want to get their asses kicked. I’m being generous, if I do say so myself.

“Fuera,” he says, and flicks his head toward the door.

We meet outside and circle each other, tensely waiting for the other to strike. I’m no longer willing to wait and lunge, punching him twice before he gets a couple of slugs in.

Fists are flying all around us when I notice my people gaining ground. Number two notices at the same time and ups the ante by pulling out a knife.

I hardly register the gleaming weapon as I lunge for him again, catching him solid and breaking his nose, but not before he slices a deep gash down my right arm. I barely feel the fiery lance as I reengage and rain blow after blow down on him.

Time stands still as my assault continues. Pleasure courses through me as I’m released from my pain, if only for a moment while my knuckles crack and split against bone. The agony of the accident pours out with my blood.

Hands pull on me, breaking me out of my trance. “Come on, Alejo. Cops!”

Cops. There’s no going back. Getting busted again would mean jail time for sure.

We cut loose and run, getting to our bikes, and rocketing out of sight. Within seconds, we’re safe. No one from the other gang will narc… they know better. I’ll expect retaliation, but I’ll be more than ready. The adrenalin rush provides the escape I require to breathe. To forget mi hermana and mi padre, a desperate relief from the fist of fate that’s grasping my bloody, beating heart.

Even now, I’m lying to myself, denying that the one person I’m trying to forget is continuously creeping in. No matter how many people I fight, or how much blood is spilled, she’ll constantly be there like the shadows are to the sun, lurking just beyond reach.

One day is all it took to destroy my resolve. One day to cause an emotional hurricane too difficult to dissect. I had every intention of pushing her out. But now, she’s not going anywhere.

Once we reach my house, everyone notices the slice on my arm.

“Holy shit, Alex! You’re bleeding,” Carlos, my closest friend, says to me. “You want to go to the hospital?”

I’m shaking my head before he can finish speaking. “Hospitals ask questions.” I pull off my shirt to get a better look at the damage.

The cut starts at the top inner side of my bicep, traveling down to about an inch above my elbow. Lightly cut on the outer edges, while cut deep enough in the middle to need sutures. Moving my arm causes blood to gush from the wound—I need to get this cleaned.

I place my shirt against my arm to stunt the bleeding. “Get me peroxide and the stapler,” I instruct Carlos. He stares for a moment, his eyes letting me know he thinks I’m crazy.

“Ahora!” I yell.

He jumps and rushes from the room to collect the supplies, then returns a few minutes later with everything I asked him to gather.

“You want me to help you?” he asks timidly, with worry in his eyes, so I decide not to be a dick.

“Yeah, dump this shit on my arm.” I hand him back the peroxide.

Again, he hesitates and checks for approval before continuing.

I nod and grit my teeth, knowing this is going to hurt like hell.

Carlos dumps half the bottle on my arm. Instantly, fire engulfs my skin as if I dipped my arm in acid, but I refuse to let a sound slip past my lips. My tough-as-nails image didn’t come easy and whining like a little girl over a minor cut is the best way to appear weak. The cut would be hospital-worthy if I wasn’t trying to avoid the court system. All gunshot and knife wounds involve the local authorities, eventually. That’s the last thing I need.

“I brought this too, amigo.” He holds up a small tube of superglue.

“Good,” I tell him. That will seal the wound before we staple it together.

“¿Estás listo?” Are you ready? he asks.

I nod, but he’s already getting to work.

First comes the simple part—holding the wound together. Most of the bleeding has stopped, so we hold the two sides of skin together and wipe the area, stopping the bleeding completely.

Carlos squeezes the contents of the tube onto my skin. The glue burns where it touches, but dries within seconds.

“Keep holding it together.” He grabs the stapler with his free hand and glances at me, as if giving me one last chance to back out. I meet his gaze steadily, until he nods, returning his attention to my arm, and placing the staple gun next to my skin.

I bite down on my shirt as Carlos punches the first staple into my arm, working fast to get them in. I’ve had staples before, but doing it without numbing drugs is on a completely different level. We’re lucky that one of my guys stole the gun from the hospital. We have all had enough staples done to know how to use the thing by now.

When Carlos stops, I look down and see a straight line of newly inserted staples and blood trickling down my arm. Carlos hands me a damp cloth, and I run it softly over the wound, cleaning off the blood.

I breathe heavily, relieved that the worst is over, but as I swipe my hand through my hair, Jasmine’s image dances across my closed lids.

A string of English and Spanish curse words flies through my lips as frustration consumes me. All the fighting, cutting, and stitching touched nothing of my thoughts about her. She remains plain as day at the forefront of my mind.

Mierda!

On top of that, I have to explain this cut to mi madre. Lucky for me, she usually stays out of my dealings, taking the ‘less I know, the better,’ route, but she knows I blow off steam by fighting… or fucking, and she doesn’t condone either.

Ever since the accident, I’ve been fighting to numb my emotions, and when that doesn’t work, a different girl to drown my sorrows. I’d consider myself a pretty big asshole if I weren’t upfront with them in the beginning. No attachments. I don’t do relationships. The girls I mess with understand and expect nothing but a good time.

Later that night, when mi madre returns home from work, she says that she heard about what had happened from some girls at the diner. Seeing my wound, she calls the school and leaves a message that I’ll be out sick the next day.

I’m trying not to analyze all the reasons behind missing tomorrow, telling myself that staying home has nothing to do with Jasmine.

Instead of school, I decide to squeeze a day in at work. Mi madre told me about finding close to six hundred dollars in our mailbox about a week ago. We thought of asking around—maybe it was dropped in the wrong mailbox—but you go around asking questions about that kind of money, everyone will claim it as theirs. If someone were expecting cash, we’d have heard about it by now, so I think I’ll tell her to spend it on herself. She deserves a little pampering.