Page 7 of His to Bedevil

“My drug of choice is white powder.?”

If for some reason he can’t contact me, this is the first place he’ll scope out, and he’ll know exactly where to find me when he sees the message. Not in too big of a rush, I cook myself some breakfast and take my time getting ready. I book a flight to Western Nebraska Regional Airport that takes off tonight. From there, I’ll either take the bus or a cab to Aspen. One of my favorite safe locations. I may be a Miami girl, but I do love to snowboard. Nothing like ripping down the slopes, and the scenery is unreal.

Only taking with me a small handbag, I leave the USB I transferred everything on to at the last second. In case I somehow do get caught or spotted, it’s best not to have it on me. The hiding place under my tub will never be discovered, and Matches knows about it, so he can always retrieve it if need be.

Checking my reflection in the mirror one last time, I smile. I’m not conceded or anything, but I’m just feeling really good today. I’m wearing a ribbed white crop top with tiny red flowers, short sleeves, and buttons down the center and some high-waisted cutoff denim shorts. And to add some height to myself, I paired the outfit with some neutral-colored wedges, making my legs look deliciously long and toned. I work hard for this body, so I definitely have no problem showing it off.

I leave my long auburn hair down in loose waves and apply just a little makeup. Some blush for my cheeks and some mascara. Throwing on some necklaces and bracelets, I grab my sunglasses and hit the town.

It’s around lunchtime when I step out onto the street, and already I’m getting whistles and catcalls from my neighbors. They mean me no harm, so I smile and give them a little wave and keep heading toward downtown.

Something pulls me toward Little Havana, and it reminds of a certain Cuban. One who shall not be named. I allowed myself the one little fantasy last night, but no more. I’m about to steal a lot of money from him, and he’s a very powerful man. Quite possibly on the hunt for me right now. Or maybe he doesn’t even know I’m missing. It’s not like I work directly for him. The crew may just keep it on the down low so none of them get in trouble because of a mysteriously missing employee. Shit, I hope I don’t get anyone in any kind of trouble for my disappearance. Someone might get blamed when they find out my credentials were falsified. Mentally shrugging, I let it go. Nothing I can do about it other than wish them all luck.

As I get closer to my favorite little slice of Cuba, I hear the music coming from the festival going on, and it takes me back to one of my only good memories as a child. One I sometimes let myself daydream about when I’m feeling maudlin and nostalgic.

“Mama! Mama! I want to go see the salsa dancers!” I tug on my mother’s colorful dress, trying to get her attention. Today Mama is having a good day. She woke up before I did and made us some breakfast and told me that she was taking me to the festival in Little Havana. She’s been really sad ever since Papa died. Sometimes she doesn’t leave her bed and I have to get myself ready for school, and a lot of times, I have to go to the neighbors to eat, since I don’t know how to cook yet. I just turned six years old.

My beautiful mother smiles down at me and laughs. “Okay,flaquita.” Her long dark hair falls down to her waist, and her brown eyes shimmer. I haven’t seen her smile like this in a really long time. “Let’s go see the dancers.”

Squealing, I try pulling Mama through the crowd to get closer to the salsa music I hear coming from the other side. All the while, Mama is laughing behind me as she holds tightly on to my hand. Finally, we make our way through the crowd, and I see beautiful men and women dancing. The women are wearing bright and beautiful colors with headpieces, and they have similar features as Mama. Looking up at Mama next to me, I see her begin swaying her hips to the music, and now it’s her I watch dancing. Mama is so beautiful, I wish it were her I looked like. Mama’s family is from Cuba, but Papa’s family was from some other country where red hair, green eyes, and pale skin are common. I don’t remember what his country was called though. All I know is that I hate my red hair and pale skin. I wish my hair were dark like Mama’s, and I wish I didn’t have to put on so much sunblock when I go out in the sun and could get brown like Mama does. I look so much like my Papa, sometimes I’m afraid Mama doesn’t like to look at me.

After paying admission into the festival and shaking that old memory from my thoughts, I head over to the nearest cart for some good ol’ criollo. I choose chicken to go with my plantains, salad, rice, and beans and begin a casual stroll down the street.

I love it when they have festivals here. The music, the dancing, the food, the people. Everything about it. I’ve always wondered what it would be like at a real Cuban festival in Cuba. It’s one place I have yet to visit and one that I’ve always wanted to. I probably should’ve made an effort to visit there before this last job because I may never be able to go now. Maybe after some time and things die down, I can sneak down there incognito.

I grab a beer after finishing my food and stop at a cart selling beautiful handmade jewelry. The beads are so colorful and beautifully made, and they remind me of an old friend of my mother’s when I was little. She used to make jewelry just like this.

I’m studying all the different colors of the beads on this one bracelet that caught my eye when an older woman comes up to me. “The green would really complement your hair and your eyes.” I look up with a polite smile to come face-to-face with an older Spanish-sounding woman.

Reaching into my pocket, I fish out some cash. “They’re so beautiful. How much?”

The friendly smile drops from her face as she gawks at me. She squints her eyes and stares harder, as if studying me closely. “Flaquita?”

My heart sinks instantly, and I’m in flight mode, ready to bolt. Setting the bracelets down, I go to leave. The woman grabs my wrist and whispers my real name. Touching me makes me panicky as it is, but now I have someone who recognizes me. The real me.

Turning back to the woman, I whisper hoarsely to her, “I’m sorry, but I think you may have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Fynn.”

The woman shakes her head slowly, staring at me as if she’s seeing a ghost. “No, flaquita.I know I haven’t seen you in many years and you were just a little girl, but I’ll never forget those green eyes and auburn hair.” She looks me up and down, and sentimental tears form in her eyes. “I always knew you would become just as beautiful as your mama.”

My heart pounds, and I want to knock this sweet woman out for filling me with unwanted feelings such as yearning. “Please, let go of me,” I say through gritted teeth, on the verge of nasty furor.

The woman begins to loosen her grip so I can pull away, but then she stops me again. “Wait!Por favor.” Frustrated, I turn, telling myself I’ll give her three seconds before I make my escape. “Here.” She places the bracelets around one of my wrists.

“How much?” I snipe, because I need to get far away from her.

“Please.” She takes my hand in both of hers and stares down at me with unshed tears. Her warm gaze seeps right in through my chest cavity and threatens the barrier around my heart. “Consider it a gift. From an old friend.”

Swallowing hard, I give her my best attempt at a smile. “Thank you,” I say quickly, and turn away to disappear into the crowd.

I give myself as much distance as possible before my hand goes to my chest, and I suck in air as if I were just submerged underwater for too long, the crowd suddenly feeling too thick and the air too hot and my heart pounding unnaturally fast. I haven’t heard anyone call me by my given birth name since I was fifteen years old when I ran away from my last foster home. When I met Matches at age seventeen, I gave him the name Fynn, and that’s who I became from that day forward. My birth name died many years ago, along with my innocence.

Chugging the rest of my beer, I toss it into the trash can nearby and head for the live music, needing something to chase away the affliction threatening to consume me from the inside out. This was always my favorite part about my mother’s culture. The dancing.

My mother used to dance whenever she cooked or was in a really playful mood. Basically, if there was music playing, she was dancing. The way her hips would move and the way her feet would shuffle, it was all so beautiful, just like her.

As I stand there watching all the people dance with a tiny smile on my face, a handsome man comes up to me with his hand extended. “Dance with me,mami?”

I happily accept his hand and join him among the dancing crowd. The man is definitely of Hispanic origin and knows how to move. I may not look Cuban, but it’s in my blood. My body begins naturally moving to the music. “Tienes swing, mami.”You have flavor, mami.

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