My Redemption Read online

  What the fuck? “Pull me?” The words came out louder than he’d intended.

  “Yeah. End the investigation and get you out,” Slay elaborated, but Diego had already understood what he meant, he just couldn’t believe he was hearing it.

  “No fucking way.”

  “Dammit, be reasonable, man,” Slay began.

  “You were the one, Slay,” Diego told him in a furious whisper. “You were the one who told me, all those years ago, that this was the way I would atone for the shit I did, this was the way I’d make things right for Armando. And now you wanna pull me before I can do that?”

  “Jesus, no! Is that what you thought? You were a kid then, Diego. You needed an enemy to face down, a battle to fight, so I gave you one. You didn’t wanna hear me talk about how you had nothing to do with Armando’s death, and how you weren’t responsible for the things Chalo forced you to do when he threatened your family. I never believed for a single minute that you had anything to atone for. You wanted vengeance, and I wanted to help you get it, but not like this. Not if it means losing yourself.”

  Oh, fuck. Diego felt moisture behind his eyes, and he blew out a harsh breath. “Yeah. Well. I’m in it now, Slay. I’ve got a job to do, and I’m gonna see it through.”

  Slay sighed. “Yeah. Figured you’d say that. But I’m not letting this shit play out for too much longer, you hear me? You made your choices, I respect them, but I’m not gonna let you kill yourself in some fucked up attempt to do the right thing. I love you, brother.” Slay paused, and Diego heard him inhale sharply before he continued. “But I’m pretty sure you don’t even know what the right thing is anymore.”

  Diego shook his head and sighed. The man was fucking psychic when it came to reading people and situations. Diego didn’t know why it even surprised him at this point. “I hear you,” he replied.

  Slay was silent so long that Diego wondered if he’d hung up, and when he spoke again, he did so slowly, like he was pulling the words from someplace deep.

  “I don’t… I don’t talk about some of what I had to do, back when I was in the service, and even after that. I worked at Black Box—before I worked with Blake, I mean—and they did some pretty twisted shit there, you know?”

  “I remember.” Black Box was a BDSM club that had been partly owned by Chalo Salazar and Salazar’s cousin, an arrogant asshole who’d called himself Marauder. Consent and legality had been nebulous concepts at Black Box.

  “I thought my presence there was a good thing, like I was preventing the worst of the crimes from happening, and I thought maybe I could help someone. But… the scales never seemed to balance. For a long time after that, I felt lost.”

  “Yeah,” Diego whispered. The cold wind whipped the leaves around his ankles and had turned his fingers to ice, but he gripped the phone tighter.

  “That was my mess to deal with, right? I mean, my choice, my consequences. So I locked my shit up tight and hid in plain sight. Took on dangerous jobs like that would even the score, then ran away from a good woman who tried to love me because I was worried about what I’d bring down on her.”

  “Alice?” he asked, stunned.

  “Alice,” Slay confirmed. “Good thing I pulled my head out of my ass or I would have lost her. Don’t let that happen to you.”

  “Me? The guy they call Padre?” Diego scoffed, deliberately training his gaze away from Centered. “I’m not in love with anyone, man. I’m clear.”

  “Huh. Nobody special?”

  Goddamn the psychic asshole. “Nobody,” Diego lied.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure, Slay,” Diego said. “And I think I’d know.”

  “All right, bud. If you say so. But, hey, next time you wanna spend an hour sitting in front of Centered watching nobody special, maybe wear a heavier jacket. October nights in Boston are no joke.”

  Across the park, Diego watched a tall, broad figure step out of the deep shadows formed by another stand of trees. In the yellow glow of the streetlight, he saw the figure throw him a mocking salute. “Remember, I’m always watching, Santiago. Later.”

  Diego snorted. He watched Slay jog across the street and up the steps to Centered, then slid his own phone back in his pocket. He began his solitary journey back across town, but somehow felt less alone than when he’d arrived.

  Chapter 2

  Nora Damon leaned up against the desk at Centered, trying to keep her shit together.

  Earlier in the night, she’d allowed herself to indulge in the age-old “woe is me,” a luxury she rarely allowed herself. There was something about seeing Elena, with her sweet little baby strapped to her back, and Alice, waddling around heavily pregnant, that caused Nora to grow wistful. Everyone she loved was either happily married or close to it. Even Grace, who’d gotten a parting kiss from her husband Donnie, made Nora a little jealous. It didn’t help that her inner circle of friends wasn’t a random assortment of college-aged couples, but couples who’d forged their bonds through trials and blessings, all dominants and submissives she’d befriended who were members of The Club. These couples were committed: the women fiercely loyal and the men devoted.

  As the lone single girl, being around such relationships sometimes set her off kilter. Though the past few years she’d done nothing but dedicate herself to completing her degree in social work and beginning her career, Nora couldn’t help but long for what her friends had. She’d dated a few guys in college—guys who were as studious as she was, good guys who paid their bills on time and cleaned their cars out before they picked her up, clean-shaven men she should have been proud to date. But they paled in comparison to the gritty, possessive men she’d come to know and love. The relationships her friends and even her sister and brother-in-law had weren’t the kind of relationships she’d ever thought she’d want. Growing up with a mother who’d given her power away to any man who’d look twice at her, Nora had always valued her independence fiercely. But recently, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have someone she could lean on, someone she could instinctively trust, someone who would support her when life became too demanding.

  Tonight, however, jealous thoughts vanished as she looked upon the girl who sat at the table with Grace. The girl who reminded her eerily of herself, with similar curves and long blonde hair. But those eyes… her fear-filled eyes were nothing like Nora’s.

  The girl was fucking terrified.

  Nora clicked the ballpoint pen in her hand so rapidly, Allie finally put her hand on her arm. “Nora, honey,” Allie whispered in her ear, “we’re all pissed. We all know something terrible has happened to her. But let’s stay calm and get to the bottom of this, yeah?” In the years since Nora had known Allie, she’d seen her learn Slay’s “calm, cool, and collected” approach to intense situations. No one could handle a toddler tantrum or screaming baby with as much ease as the Alice-Slay parenting combo, and their approach to intense situations carried over into all areas of their lives. Nora wished she could learn to be as chill.

  “We’ll have to call the police,” Nora whispered back to Allie. “I don’t want to do it yet, but something tells me this girl has experienced things we’ll need to report.” Though the girl wasn’t talking to anyone, she seemed to enjoy the company of the group around her, and gravitated toward the art project Grace was orchestrating.

  Alice shrugged, frowning, as she leaned back against the desk next to Nora, resting her hand on her swollen abdomen. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “But we both know she won’t speak if they’re here. And because she hasn’t actually said a word to us, and has no physical signs of abuse, we don’t need to call yet.”

  Nora nodded. “Of course.”

  Nora had sat beside the girl for a few minutes before she couldn’t take it anymore. Sometimes, her sense of justice and impatience got the best of her. She wanted to throttle whoever had hurt the girl, and she knew she needed to calm the hell down. Now, though, it was time to try to help her
, even if it meant she’d spend three hours sitting beside the girl, coloring.

  Nora watched Grace interact with her for a while longer, trying to get her to draw, but the girl would have none of it. Grace finally got up and moved away, and Nora took the opportunity to try to reach her. She pushed off the desk, walked over to the table, and sat down. She picked up a piece of paper and began doodling. Centered wasn’t just a medical facility but a safe haven, a non-profit that focused on offering peaceful sanctuary to women who needed it. They focused on positivity and wellness, and welcomed all visitors regardless of their situations. Because Centered was located in the inner city, though, workers often saw victims of severe trauma.

  “I’m going to color for a bit,” Nora said as if to herself, though she hoped the girl was listening. “It helps me relax sometimes,” she said. “Or draw, and doodle.” Her hand swept across the page in an arc, outlining a rainbow with fluffy clouds. She picked up a colored pencil and sketched in red, followed by orange and yellow, until she’d colored in the entire rainbow. The girl sat stock still, her hands in her lap, watching Nora. She did not speak, and Nora wondered for a moment if she was even breathing, but a quick glance, and she could see the steady rise and fall of the girl’s chest.

  “I like to draw,” Nora murmured. “Just let my mind wander, and lose myself in doodling. Some people like Grace are good at it,” she said, hoping that if she talked about her co-workers nonchalantly, the girl might feel less threatened. “Grace is amazing. Me, I just like to fiddle around. Here, why don’t you try?” She pushed a piece of paper and pencil over, half expecting the girl to stay unmoving. But slowly, her little hand, as small as a child’s, grasped the charcoal pencil from the assortment in the tin in front of her. The pencil was more suited for sketching, unlike the colored ones Nora fiddled with. In seconds, the girl sitting beside her had drawn large blocks. Nora tried to pretend she was keeping her cool, not watching in rapt attention at what transpired in front of her. The blocks took on different shapes, some shaded, stacked beside one another, and after a little while longer, Nora could tell that they were not merely cubes anymore, but block letters.

  C-A-M-I-L-A.

  “Oh,” Nora said, dropping her voice to a whisper as she leaned in closer to the girl. “Is Camila your name?”

  Though she still got no response, a quick glance at the girl’s face, and Nora could tell she was getting somewhere. The girl’s lips turned up, and her frightened eyes had grown hopeful.

  Nora continued to whisper. “Very nice to meet you, Camila,” Nora said, so low that no one but Camila could hear her. “I want you to know something, honey,” she continued, her voice wavering a bit as she blinked back tears that suddenly filled her eyes. “You’re safe here with us. No matter what has happened to you, we will take care of you.”

  Camila closed her eyes briefly before nodding, tapping the pencil in her hand. Not wanting to scare her off, Nora went back to the paper. The staff at Centered had discovered the benefits of therapeutic art classes, and even those who worked at Centered enjoyed taking part. Grace would lead them through techniques that helped relax them, free painting or drawing, even working with clay or beads. There was something about creating with their hands, in a safe place, that helped their clients relax.

  “Sometimes,” Nora said, looking at her paper and not at Camila, “I like to draw things that calm me. It doesn’t always come out the way it is in my mind, but I don’t really care. Stick figures can be symbolic.”

  To Nora’s surprise, Camila laughed then, a soft giggle Nora could barely hear. Hiding a smile, Nora continued to draw. She sketched a rectangular bar and wrote Hershey’s across the front, coloring it in deep browns before she drew a picture of a coffee cup with a swirl of steam at the top. Next, she drew music notes, and beside that, a crude stack of books. “These are the things I relax with,” she murmured, darkening the edges of the drawing, shading a bit here and there. She took a deep breath before speaking again. “Maybe you’d like to draw something like this, too. Something that makes you feel safe.”

  Camila stared at her pencil thoughtfully for a minute, running one finger along the smooth edge of the barrel. As she fidgeted with the pencil, her lips turned down thoughtfully. Had Nora somehow hit a nerve with her? Not breathing, careful not to move too fast. Nora continued to draw on her own paper, little by little sketching stars and hearts and flowers in a border around her picture of things that made her feel safe. She took the paper and looked at it, forgetting for a minute that Camila sat beside her. She folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket, before she realized with a start that Camila had begun to draw.

  She no longer drew blocks or shadows, but the oval shape of a face, first one line then another, softening the look, before she sketched dark eyes beneath heavy brows, and a thin nose. The drawing was symmetrical, and already anyone who looked at it could tell this was no mere stick figure or an amateur drawing. The girl could draw. Angled cheekbones and a full mouth, severe lines around the eyes that made the face appear serious and thoughtful. Nora watched in rapt attention as Camila continued. Was it her mother? A sister, perhaps? It was hard to tell without the hair in place, but with another flourish of the pencil, a scruffy beard appeared along the jawline. Her father, maybe? A brother? But then the drawing really began to take form, and Nora had the odd feeling that she knew those eyes.

  Did she?

  Her breath caught in her throat, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end, as Camila’s pencil flew over the skull now, adding hair. Nora knew what it would look like before it took form on the page. Dark hair, so long he could tuck it behind his ears, framing his face, the hard angles of his jaw in sharp contrast to the shocks of jet black hair.

  Draw something that makes you feel safe, Nora had said.

  She stared at the unmistakable face of Diego Santiago.

  Thank God everyone else in Centered had been busy doing something else. One of the kids had knocked over a cup of water used for painting, and the volunteers and workers were busy cleaning it up. Nora got to her feet and snagged Camila’s drawing. “I’ll put this safe in my office, so no one spills anything on it, okay?” she said to Camila, who only nodded.

  She tucked it into her pocket before anyone else could see. The drawing was so vivid, so lifelike, Nora could almost hear Diego scolding her from the paper. Was it right to hide this evidence from Alice, Elena, and Grace? They’d want details. Nora told herself it was just as well that she kept this to herself right now, because the last thing anyone needed to do was worry, and any sort of reaction from anyone else could scare the girl. Nora had made more progress with her than anyone else had. She didn’t want to scare Camila back into her shell.

  Diego Santiago. God.

  She needed to see him, to understand why he made Camila feel safe, to find out why Camila knew him at all and, she wasn't too proud to admit to herself, but because some part of her craved to see him in person, in the flesh rather than in her dreams too.

  “We’re going to get something to eat, and tonight I’ll arrange for a place for the girl to stay,” Alice said softly, low enough that only Nora could hear.

  “Her name is Camila,” Nora whispered, leaning in so Alice could hear her as she discreetly showed Alice the block letter drawing.

  “Ah, is it? What a lovely name,” Alice mulled, her hand at her chin as she looked at Camila, who stood apart from the others now, watching them clean up.

  “She drew it,” Nora said.

  Alice nodded. “I’m glad she opened up to you. She must like you, or trust you.”

  Trust.

  Guilt churned in Nora’s stomach. Didn’t she trust her friends? No one but Nora and Camila needed to know that Diego Santiago had somehow been in Camila's life before the girl came to Centered. Was he somehow related to her? Nora did the math quickly in her mind. Diego would be about thirty years old, and this girl was a young teen. He could be her father, but it wasn’t very likely. It was much more likel
y he had something to do with her rescue.

  Shit.

  Feigning a yawn, Nora stretched her arms over her head. “I’m exhausted,” she said to Alice. “I need to get some rest tonight. I’ve got a full day tomorrow. Do you and Elena need help arranging for a place for Camila to stay?”

  Alice shook her head, her gaze still focused on Camila. “Of course not, honey,” she said. “She’s in good hands. Tomorrow, maybe we make a little more progress, but at least we’ve got something tonight.”

  They sure did. “Okay, then,” Nora said, smiling brightly at Camila, and waving her hand. Camila waved back, but her eyes still looked haunted.

  “You’re in good hands,” Nora said to the girl, who looked to Elena and Alice, and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” A part of her felt guilty for leaving when the girl was still so shaken, and she was really the only one who had made a connection with her, but she had to get to Diego. If she was going to make any headway in figuring out what the hell had scared this girl, she needed to see him, now.

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her phone, scrolling through the text messages. She had one from her sister Tessa, asking if she could babysit the following night. She’d call her later. She didn’t even want to call or text Tess, as if somehow Tessa’s big sister intuition would know that Nora was about to do something very, very dangerous.

  Sometimes it was better to keep things to yourself.

  Though it was a beautiful evening, Nora’s stomach churned and her head pounded. Just coming back to the wharf did strange things to her that even the cool night air could not soothe. Amidst the leaves, tinted golden yellow and deep rust, crimson and fiery red, she could smell the salt air, feel that she was near the wharf. Here, where Diego Santiago had rescued her from the clutches of her mother’s sick boyfriend, Roger, all those years ago.