Page 6 of His Gilded Cage

“Yes, thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Oh come on,” she said, pushing me away. “You are so melodramatic. Now let’s go inside. You need sleep.”

I followed my friend up the white stone staircase that led to my father’s house. The condo was a two-story townhouse with a large blue door and stone walls covered with colorful tile artwork.

I dug in my pockets and panicked for a moment worried I’d left the keys at the bar. But luck was on my side. I had my set. I stepped in front of the door handle so Veronica wouldn’t see how my hands shook at the lock.

The moon overhead bathed us in light. I closed my eyes and imagined it could wipe me clean of all my mistakes and regrets.

Veronica was here so I wouldn’t be alone on the anniversary of my mother’s death. My mother drowned herself in the waters offshore of Cabo San Lucas while we were on a family sailing trip. I wasn’t on board when she killed herself. I’d lied and stayed ashore that day to meet Carmella, a fact that haunted me.

I had always wondered if things would have been different if I had been on board. Would I have heard my mother slip out of her stateroom? Would I have given her a reason to not jump into the water intent on drowning?

I would never know.

It was the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death and the tenth year Veronica had made sure I wasn’t alone.

She walked me down the hall to my bedroom lifting up the covers while I climbed beneath the sheets.

“Stay with me,” I said, grabbing her hand.

She nodded and lay down beside me our heads close together. We weren’t lovers. We were friends and family by choice. The sound of her breathing calmed me and reminded me of the days when I had been a better person, she reminded me of the man I wanted to become.

I awoke to the sound of pans clanking in the kitchen. Someone was in the condo. I sat up in bed my heart hammering. Had I brought someone home from El Pescador? Just allowing my mind to recall the name of the bar brought back the disastrous details of the night in a humiliating rush.

The curvaceous bartender.

The shared shots.

The drunken fuck in the storeroom.

Embarrassment and shame tied my stomach into a knot.

“Jesus Christ I’m a fucking idiot,” I said, closing my eyes and sinking back into the sheets.

Then I remembered talking to Veronica outside the townhouse. She’d lain beside me to help me sleep as if we were still children. Thank God she was in the kitchen this morning and not someone else.

I was so grateful to her for coming to see me. Her annual visit in July was steadfast, as reliable as the changing of the seasons. No doubt she’d decided it was time for me to wake up.

I glanced at the clock. It was after noon.

My cell phone buzzed in case I was tempted to go back to sleep. Ten missed calls from the main house in Guadalajara.

Dammit.

That had to be Carmella.

Why was she calling me? Was it possible the drama at El Pescador had already rippled through my life under a microscope? I hoped not. I needed to make some calls to the bar to see if I could smooth things over before this situation got out of hand.

“Clean up this mess, Marco.” I climbed out of bed, ignoring the phone for now. If Carmella wanted to reach me, she’d find a way. She was impossible to locate when she didn’t want to be found, but when I was in her cross hairs, look out.

The woman had a way of getting what she wanted. I just wished she still wanted me.

I walked into the bathroom turning on the shower. My clothes smelled of tequila and vodka. I cringed at the memory of bottles crashing to the cement floor.

I wiped a circle off the mirror as steam filled the bath. My brown eyes were bloodshot, my skin ruddy and sticky with sweat. My black hair looked rumpled and in need of a haircut.

“Never again, Marco,” I whispered to the man in the mirror. “You are better than this, at least I hope you are. Clean this up and then move on with your life.”

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