Page 1 of Trapped

Past: Night Before Wedding

I wrap my fists with delicate precision before facing the punching bag again. The indoor gym is quiet, and the lights are dim. I close my eyes, taking in the peaceful sense of solitude. I came here to escape all the chatter going on around me. All the whispers behind my back, and the sad glances from my family.

I check my stance and listen to the guiding voice of my father etched into my memory. I wouldn’t call it guiding, but more like demands attached to memories of his stinging hits to my face. The infamous Ivan Consuelo, screaming at me to hold myself upright.

“Your enemies won’t be gentle if they find you,” he said.

I am Thalia Consuelo. The last name came with a price. Thatprice afforded me a comfortable lifestyle that outweighed the risks. The Consuelo family legacy began with my grandfather, Vicente Consuelo. He migrated to the United States during a time when Mexican Americans had few opportunities to succeed. He wouldn’t have the success he has today had he not sought the help and protection from the Houston Cartel Connect.

With their help, he was able to turn a small bed-and-breakfast into the five-star hotel it is today—into what people all over the West Coast knew as Calavera Hotels. There are now several locations that offer a resort-like feel, with its expanded amenities and all-inclusive offers.

In return for the fame and success, the cartel was able to successfully clean their money and invest into other surrounding businesses. The relationship between the Consuelo and Gonzales families only strengthened in time, as my father vowed his allegiance to them. We went from business associates to ranking members within the cartel.

Ivan put us on the map to be used as pawns in their game. The money my father and his brothers made from illegal activities was triple what the hotel could offer. That greed created the monster I knew as a father. Only, my father’s greed is never satisfied. He won’t be satisfied until he is on top.

I slam my fist into the bag, imagining the satisfaction I would feel to punch my father in the face and remembering all the times he justified his physical abuse as helping me.

“You’re a Consuelo. We don’t lose,” he would say, taunting me to get up—to fight back. His words replay with each punch I deliver to the bag. My fists burn with each punch landing and echoing through the empty gym.

I hate being in here when my father’s men are in here. Hate the way they all stare at me. At my developing body. The same body and innocence Ivan needs to preserve for an alliance. Since I wasthirteen, he has been preparing me for marriage. It is the way our world works. Marriages are contracts.

I continue to punch the bag, envisioning his face. Over and over again. I don’t realize I’m crying until the gym door sounds open. I turn to the front and watch as a tall figure walks around the ring and to the training mats.

He doesn’t acknowledge me as he drops his bag to the empty station in front of me. His body falls to sit on the mat. I stand there, watching as he wraps his hands. His long hair is pulled up and headphones cover his ears. Even with the dim lights, I can tell he’s beautiful, in a nonconventional way. His nails are painted black, and he has snake bite piercings under full lips. He doesn’t look like the boys at my school, but he also didn’t look much older than me.

He feels the weight of my stare and looks up at me. I tug my cropped shirt down and look away, returning return to my workout and avoiding his presence. I mean, I try to avoid his presence, but I can’t focus. Not when he removes his shirt and stands in nothing but a pair of black gym shorts. With every hit to the punching bag, his muscles tighten with the movement. His arms are tanned and defined. I can’t focus on anything but the way sweat trickles from those arms down to his defined abdominals.

I have never seen him here before. He doesn’t look like the men who work for the cartel or anyone I have seen at the hotel. This is my uncle’s private gym on his hidden estate. It isn’t a gym some stranger stumbled on by accident. Especially this late at night.

I walk toward the other training station to confront him, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach. In some fucked up way, my father creating fear in me toward him had made me fearless in every other situation. I inch closer to the man on the mat, whose back is to me as he looks down at his phone. Stickingmy hand out, I tap on his shoulder. His body bounces back and crashes into mine. I fall onto the mat hard and lie there in complete panic.Fuck.I must look like a fucking idiot. He rushes toward me and drops to the mat beside me.

“Are you okay?” he asks. It’s then I notice his eyes. Up close, his beauty only intensifies. His eyes are dark pools of danger, calling to me like a Siren’s song. I lie there fixated on them, unable to move or speak.

“Estas bien?” He repeats the question in Spanish. I pull myself up and look at him.

“Yes. I’m fine,” I say.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he says, ripping off his headphones. The insult brings me to my feet, and he follows, standing in front of me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.” He walks away, and my heart skips. There’s this persistent need to follow him. For what reason, I don’t know. The knock to the mat likely fucked up something in my brain. The answer lay somewhere between wanting to yell at him and wanting to touch him.No, definitely not to touch him. That’s absurd. I don’t even know him.

I follow him anyway, hot on his heels. I like to argue. Mostly because I feel in a constant state of defending myself. But arguing with a stranger is beneath me. The need to say something to him stems from this urgency in my core. This unexplainable need to look into those dark pools of his eyes and this curious desire to know him.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t like to train when other people are here,” I say. When he turns to look at me, he takes me in. All of me. His eyes roam over me in a way I have never experienced. Those dark eyes light me on fire from the inside out.

“I don’t, either. I thought I would be alone, too,” he confesses.

“I’m already done. I can just leave,” I say quickly, eager to go.

“Or we can do some drills. I mean, if you want?” The plea in his voice has me turning back around. It’s the only reason I push myself to keep up with his intense workout—circuits of pivoting, punching, and burpees.

I keep up despite my endurance being much lower than his. I keep up in a desperate attempt to win his favor, for the light touch of his high five or the way my heart melts when he says, “Atta Girl.” I am grateful he doesn’t ask for my name. I dread the way he will react when he finds out I am Thalia Consuelo. For all I know, he is here for the wedding tomorrow.For my wedding.I want one more night to feel normal. To feel like this.

The music from his headphones streams out, and I recognize the lyrics.

“Is that Kevin Gates?” I ask. My music taste is bipolar, ranging from rock to rap to regional Mexican music. The question opens him up to talking about our favorite songs and concerts we have been to. I listen to the excitement in his voice as he tells me about his experiences at raves, and I tell him about my Drake obsession.

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