Page 14 of Watch Me Turn
"Nope. Not me. But it wasn't easy. I hitchhiked from Tucson to Juárez when I was twenty-one. Found an auto repair shop ina sketchy part of town where I'd heard the Malditas operated. I don't know what I was expecting—maybe some grand headquarters behind a secret speakeasy entrance? Instead, it was just a regular garage. I knew I couldn't turn back, not after making it that far, so I poked around until a pissed-off woman in greasy overalls chased me out with a tire iron."
He laughs. "Not the welcome you were expecting?"
"No. Not at all. Her name was Nadège. A beautiful Haitian woman-turned-vampire in her early fifties, so her temples were streaked with grey. But don't let that fool you—she was terrifying as hell. Told me to fuck off in three languages and never come back."
Angel's lips twitch. "But you didn't."
"No way. I came back every day for a month. Just showed up, asked for a job, got rejected. Rinse, repeat. Finally she got so tired of seeing my face she gave me a gig cleaning cars for below minimum wage."
"Sounds glamorous."
"Hey, everyone's gotta start somewhere." I set the mortar aside and set about arranging a few candles around the bowl. "The shop was functional, but it was also a front. They used it as the perfect cover for money laundering, smuggling, all that fun stuff. But it was also where they prepared for jobs. Where they met clients. Where they did their actual work."
"So you just...cleaned cars?"
"For a while. I watched, learned the ropes, and made sure to keep my mouth shut. Gradually I met the others, and they began to trust me. There's fifteen of us in total. Not including La Madre. Despite the age differences, human and vampire, they're like sisters to me, and I'd do anything for them."
"You're the youngest," he says, but it's not a question.
"I am," I say, jutting my chin up. "But that doesn't mean anything. They still treat me with respect."
"I didn't mean anything by it,” he says with a look of sincere concern. “It's just—I have sisters, so I know what it's like. Every single one is a pain in my ass, but I'd do anything for them."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, for all seven of them."
I gasp. "Seven? Your parents are Catholics, I'm guessing?" He gives a knowing nod of confirmation as I gesture to my lap. "Give me those feet. This needs to go on the bottom of them."
To my surprise, he doesn't protest, just leans back on the couch and stretches his legs out. I catch myself staring for a second. Strong calves, well-defined thighs. Probably from running around the tennis court at the local country club. Or maybe he spends hours in the gym picking heavy things up and putting them down again. A body sculpted by a personal trainer who prescribes creatine and meticulous macronutrient tracking.
I lift his ankles and settle them across my lap, trying not to think about how much I enjoy feeling the weight of him on top of me. After all, I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"That must have been a lot," I say as I pull off a ribbed cashmere sock and reveal his immaculate toenails. This motherfucker gets pedicures. Of course he does.
He studies me with his head tilted to the side as I run my thumb up the sole of his foot, searching for the pressure point that should provide some relief.
"So, seven sisters, huh? Are you close?"
"With some of them, yeah. Valentina's the eldest—she just had a baby. Saul." His expression softens. "I'm biased, but my nephew is so fucking cute. She knows how much I love spoiling him, so she's always dropping by and leaving him so she can rest. When the others start having babies, I'm gonna be so screwed. Uncle Angel's daycare is gonna be the hottest spot in town."
He laughs, and it catches me off guard.
I try to picture it: Angel bouncing a pink-cheeked baby on his knee, wiping spit-up from his designer lapel. The fearsome cartel prince playing peekaboo. The visual stirs something uncomfortable in my chest, but I swallow it down.
"Must be weird being the only boy," I say,
I sense a hint of bitterness in his reply. "I'm the golden boy. The only child for thirteen years until Valentina arrived and changed everything. After that, my mom seemed to always be pregnant...or welcoming a new baby into the house."
I dip my thumb into the mortar and smear a little of the concoction on the sole of his foot. It smells good, like the spilled contents of a spice drawer, a mix of mismatched aromas that don't quite belong together. He doesn't flinch or squirm when I touch him, so I use the liquid to mark a symbol that stretches from the base of his big toe to his heel. A simple sigil consisting of a swirl with an X cutting through it.
“Your poor mother,” I say. “She must have been exhausted after all that. How did your father cope with all that estrogen? Talk about being outnumbered."
I offer a laugh, but he doesn't return it. Instead he looks past me, his eyes glazing like he's recalling a painful memory.
"Something like that," he mutters.
There's something so intimate about holding his feet whilst we talk. The easy way they fit in the nook of my lap like we're an old married couple watching TV.
