Page 7 of Painter's Obsession

I close my eyes, but the dark it brings isn’t empty. It’s filled with frozen bodies, drained and perfect like macabre statues. I see my sister—alone, vulnerable,next.

The bed creaks above me, and I know Luigi’s awake, too. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but I can feel him there. Breathing. Watching.

Tomorrow, I’ll be a free man.

But freedom doesn’t feel like salvation. It feels like the sharp edge of a knife pressed to my throat.

And part of me wonders if I’m already too late.

The morning comes, and I’m up and ready before the guard comes to get me. Luigi doesn’t say a word, but I heard him this morning, jacking off, moaning my name as he came in his hands. But I didn’t give in. I didn’t need him or the warmth of his mouth or ass. I’ll have the real thing in just a couple of hours, and I couldn’t wait.

Mercy Betty’s—the strip joint that offers more than just strippers—was calling my name. I couldn’t afford full service, but a nice baby girl to fuck in the “10 Minutes of Heaven” stall would be good enough for me. As long as I knew it was a nice-ass hottie behind that wall, it didn’t matter. Or maybe I’ll fuck the neighbor’s wife, like I do every time he gets deployed. Linda uses me, and I use her. One hand washes another.

But none of that mattered right now. The choices are endless for me.

Once the guard got me from my cell, the process to release me was surprisingly short. Now, as I walk toward the outside world, I feel nothing but a knot in the pit of my stomach.

I spot Dad’s busted truck with white paint peeling off and the bumper hanging on for dear life. Standing in front of it is Gabriela. Her hair’s braided to the side, and she’s wearing one of my old hoodies—red and black—paired with leggings and boots.

“Byron!” she shouts, walking toward the fence that’s about to open.

My sister doesn’t even wait for the gate to fully open before she lunges toward me.

“Byron,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around me. The small plastic bag with my belongings falls to the ground as I hold her.

I breathe her in. “Hey,” I say, feeling her tears wet my neck. Despite the brave face and her edge, Gabby is nothing but a soft heart.

“I missed you, dickhead,” she sobs.

I rub her back. “I missed you too, pendeja. Now let’s go to Pop’s Diner.”

She pulls away, wiping her tears with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Okay.”

I bend down, pick up the bag, and follow her to the truck, not bothering to look behind me. She hops in, and I follow.

The drive is quiet. She doesn’t bring up prison or Dad, and I don’t bring up any of it either. I’d rather not.

We pull into the diner’s parking lot. Right as we walk inside, Theresa spots us. Her brown, shoulder-length curls bounce as she runs toward us.

“Byron, good to see you,” she says, pulling me into a hug. Gabriela smiles, watching our old friend.

“Ready for some real food? On me,” Theresa says, grabbing my hand and dragging me inside.

I let her pull me along. The diner is busy with the typical breakfast rush, plates clattering, voices humming like a static buzz. The air smells of burnt coffee and sizzling bacon, but under that, there’s a faint whiff of bleach—a reminder of the many messes this place has seen. The booths are full of locals, their faces buried in newspapers or half-hearted conversations.

Then, suddenly, I hear a crash.

“Gab,” I say, looking at my sister, who’s just run into some guy in a suit.

He’s tall, his frame rigid and commanding. The dark navy suit clings to him like a second skin, perfectly tailored, too perfect for a place like this. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t flinch. His stillness makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Gabriela waves me off, her smile bright, but there’s something off about the way her fingers fumble to adjust her braid.

The man finally shifts, turning his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp angle of his jaw. It’s clean-shaven, too sharp, almost unreal. He tilts his head toward Gab as she types something into his phone with quick, nervous fingers.

She looks like she just won the lottery, her smile stretching wide, but I can see her other hand shaking slightly, hidden at her side.

I don’t interfere, even though my gut tells me to. My curiosity itches like a rash, but I force myself to turn back.

Theresa pulls at my sleeve. “Hey, focus,” she says, grinning. “Sandra just had a baby.”

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