Page 3 of Unspoken Promises

He’s always treated me like a daughter. And one time, when I was thirteen, one of Father’s leery guards put his arm around my shoulder. Anton swept out his legs so fast, the guy’s eyes hardly blinked once before he was on the ground and Anton’s hand was clenched around his throat.

I’m terrified of Anton catching me leaving for so many reasons. Will I be caught and sent to that basement? What would Anton think of me betraying him… If he’s my only family, I’m must be his. My eyes sting, and I squeeze them tightly.

I’m sorry, friend.

I draw in a deep breath, darting my eyes across the shadows again. Even though it considerably lowers my chances of getting away, I test the waters and toss a book out of my bedroom onto the floor with a thud, then quickly close my door. I urge the breath heaving my chest up to slow. I try to listen through the drum beneath my sternum, but my heartbeat is louder than anything.

I circle the key to our apartment in my hand over and over, nervous energy twirling it around in my fingers, waiting for Anton to investigate the thud. This key was a lapse in judgment for Anton a couple weeks ago. I told him I needed a copy in case of emergency. Never did I abuse it. He won’t suspect a thing tonight.

I press my ear to the door.

Not a sound.

My hand shakes as I reach for the handle, push it down, and crack the door as quietly as I can. Through the tiniest sliver possible, I peek.

Darkness invites my escape.

Mustering up courage, I open the door wide enough for my body. The night is still. I’m silent and unmoving for what feels like a century waiting for the moment I’ll make my break. I check my watch. 11:05. The bus will be here any minute.

Just under our kitchen window is a bus stop. It’s so loud it rumbles the apartment multiple times a day. It will mask any creak of floorboards, the click of the external door lock…

I run through the things I’ve packed. Clothes. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. My IDs. All of them, because leaving behind the old ones would be too telling. I go over the route to the bus station once again. My heart hits my rib cage so hard it’s painful, so I take a deep breath, and when I open my eyes, I catch sight of my birthday present to Anton. His cologne. A lump forms in my throat. Should I leave it for him? Or take it with me to remind me of him? There’s no time to hesitate… I snatch the already wrapped cologne off my dresser and shove it in my backpack just as the whirr of the bus’s engine grows louder.

When the walls begin to indicate the earthquake at the bus stop below, I zip my bag and throw it over my shoulder, dart out into the kitchen as softly as possible in my socks. I reach into Anton’s coat pocket and don’t even count the cash I steal from his wallet, but it’s a thick wad so it gives me hope. There’s no time to care, I just need to leave.

While the bus rumbles and shakes our thin walls, the hydraulics make a loud hissing sound when the driver opens the door. I grab my boots and click open the locks to our apartment.

I shove my feet into my Doc Martens, not bothering to lace them, and race down the hallway and finally out into the darkness of a warm autumn night. It’s hard to run, air doesn’t breathe easily into my lungs, and my throat is tight with heartache, tears, and plenty of fear.

If Father catches me, I’ll certainly be punished. Maybe even killed.

Any person who has as much control over a powerful man like Anton must be a force like a tsunami. And Anton warned me many, many times, with a grave gaze, never to leave. I’ve never been able to confirm who my father is but I watchedNarcosenough times to think he’s some sort of cartel leader. Or a mobster. Maybe, I’ll never find out. Or maybe, when I meet him for the first time, I’ll also be meeting my end.

Still, when I arrive at the Greyhound bus station and finally count my money, I still feel Anton’s warm fingers on the bills. I stole five hundred and fifty dollars from my only friend. Stealing is a mosquito bite compared to what else I might have done to him.

I might have gotten him killed, too.

I can’t think about it or I’ll turn back. I get behind another man waiting to buy a ticket at the kiosk, but thethought of what will happen to Anton won’t stop digging its claws into my chest.

No. They won’t kill Anton. Not right away.

Because as the only person who truly knows me, he’d be the best person to find me.

2

I exitour gym complex on the ranch, sweeping my eyes across the horizon of California mountains and sunrise. I raise my arms in the air to stretch my lats after a brutal boxing session and breathe in what’s left of the cooler overnight air. It’s going to be a scorcher again today. I twist my spine to encourage my muscles already going stiff from sparring.

My trainer, who walked out of the gym before I did, beeps from his Subaru Outback and waves his arm out the window before pulling off and on to his next whipping session. The man trains me like I’m nineteen,not thirty-eight.

I set my feet in motion. Five days a week I train. Three days a week I run. Two days a week I ride. I have to keep this ass moving, because it spends a lot of time in a desk chair and I have no intention of getting old before my time. My dad can still wrestle a calf and lift bales, not with ease, even so, I aim to be just as strong by his age. I’ve been taught what it means to be a Mendez by that man.

You quit when you’re six feet under.

I hustle up the dirt track up the side of the hills to the eastern edge of our land. It’s already warm at six-thirty in the morning, and the ridges of the Diablo Range are a deep orange hue, reminding me the sun and its relentless heat is on its way. I never cooled down after sparring with my trainer. Sweat drips down the center of my chest and steams my glasses, so I take them off and shove them in my pocket.

My brothers and I have been living in Echo Valley for well over a decade, and yet, I’m still surprised that summer doesn’t stop until after September. Dad complained about the heat when he visited last time, his last visit before moving here and away from our childhood ranch in New Mexico. I said nothing about the heat then because I don’t bother using words on things I can’t change. Still, I do agree with the man. I love Echo Valley now and it’s become my home as much as my small town in New Mexico—maybe even more— but I will never stop missing those cold dry nights of my childhood that used to offer relief to days like the one that is melting me already before the midday sun even arrives.

At the top of the hill, I hitch a left along the pastures on the eastern perimeter of our land. The stallions are already waiting by their individual pasture gates to be brought in by the stable hands. I breeze past pristine fencing, not like the cobbled-together, bolted-on posts and rails back on mychildhood ranch. Nothing but the best here for Santi’s prized horses. We all scoffed at the cost of it, but to be fair on him, his thoroughbred stud enterprise, Monarch Hills, is what bought our first parcel of land here and what kept the ranch expanding until GhostEye finally got a big investor.

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