Page 42 of Watch Me Turn
"You will stay here," La Madre says as she towers over my trembling body. "You will work in the shop. You will earn back our trust. And you will never—under any circumstances—see orcontact that boy again. If you do, I will cut them off for good. Do you understand?"
I nod, but a streak of defiance ignites inside me.
I know something she doesn't.
Love doesn't need wings to find its way back.
12
JUMP START
Imay never be clean again.
It doesn't matter how many showers I take. How many rounds of lather, rinse, repeat I do. How many fancy, scalp-cleansing, clarifying shampoos I buy. The smell of motor oil is part of me now. It lingers in every hair and clogs every pore on my body. I'm the greasiest creature this side of the border, and it's what I deserve.
For the last six weeks, I have worked my fingers to the bone, doing all the shitty jobs no one else wants to touch, and I've done them with gusto. I've crawled under pickups with shit-caked mudflaps to drain oil pans that haven't been changed in years—the thick, black sludge coating my arms up to the elbows. I've scraped undercarriages caked with road salt and rust until my knuckles bled. I've spent hours flat on my back on a creeper, wrestling with seized bolts on exhaust systems, breathing in rust particles and feeling the heat from still-warm catalytic converters inches from my face.
But every filthy exhaust, every disgusting transmission fluid change, every corroded battery brings me closer to redemption.
My sisters have been sympathetic, but I know they're glad to leave all the worst jobs to me. Each night they party, hunt, or socialize together, and I spend my precious few hours free from sunlight trawling highways, searching for stranded passengers.
Mother has barely said a word to me since that night she clipped my wings, and whilst my sisters have mostly been polite, I can detect the unmistakable scent of betrayal beneath the niceties. I suppose I could leave, but where would I go? Who would have me? This sisterhood is all I've ever wanted, and if I need to eat shit for a hundred years to get it back, I'll do it.
The Malditas aren't the only thing I've lost. I left Black Betty back at the bunker, and I haven't been back. The thought of returning to that place—the place that gave me so much and stole almost everything in return—is still too raw, too painful.
So I make do with the shop's 1983 Chevrolet C30 instead. Nothing flashy, just a workhorse. Which is fitting, really, because that's all I am now.
Without my wings, I can't be out in the day, so my world consists of darkness and only darkness. If this is what a regular vampire's existence is, then stake me now and send me straight to hell because I don't want it.
Tonight is Saturday—at least I think it is—and I'm on call again. Sitting, waiting, reading, passing time until a call comes in. Some nights there's nothing. Other times it's a back-to-back stream of desperate calls from hysterical drivers who've blown out a tire and can't summon the strength to change it.
I'm desperate to peel off these overalls and scrub myself under the cleansing fire of a nice hot shower, but I know the second I turn on the water we'll get a call and I'll have to abandon my plans. Better to wait it out, read some smut, and enjoy a pint of laksa-laced blood whilst the rest of the world goes on without me.
A few of my sisters are out on protection jobs, some gone for months, others still here in Juarez planning a night on the town. I hear them chattering downstairs, swapping clothes and testing lipsticks whilst a montage of mismatched music drifts from the Bluetooth speaker that belongs to no one in particular.
I'm splayed on an old, threadbare couch, feet up, enjoying the sound of Joni Mitchell smashing into 50 Cent when Nadège bursts through the back room. She's breathless, braids twisted into a full bun at her crown, half-dressed in a pair of high-waisted leather pants and a half-buttoned silk blouse. She tosses a phone at me.
"You left this downstairs," she says as I catch it in one hand. "Just got a call from some guy with a flat battery out near Monumento Cristo de Curiel. It sounds like all he needs is a jump. Can you go?"
I shut my book and haul myself up. "Sure. It's not like I've got a hot date or anything. What time are you leaving? I can give you a ride on the way."
She waves her hand. "No need. We're only going to the Kentucky Club. We'll walk." She cocks her head to the side. "You doing okay? You look a little sad."
I'm on my feet and grabbing the keys for the Chevy. "Never better."
As I pass her, she grabs my arm and fixes me with a concerned look. "Sophia, she'll forgive you eventually. You know that, right? She loves you. We all do. You don't have to spend eternity punishing yourself."
"Have you forgiven me?" I ask.
She smiles. "I don't hold grudges, babe. Not my style. Cat's still furious, but you know how she is. As for the others? They’ll get there. Just give it time."
"All I have is time."
She throws her eyes heavenward and grins. "Don't I know it."
The truck stuttersand ticks beneath me as I ride out through the barren desert. It's quiet tonight, and so far I've only spotted three other vehicles whiz past me, headlights dipped low, drivers desperate to get wherever they're going without attracting attention.
The highway stretches endlessly ahead, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through nothing. No streetlights out here, just the occasional reflector post catching my headlights and throwing back a weak yellow glare. The landscape is sparsely dotted with dried scrub and jagged rocks, the kind of gaping terrain that swallows secrets whole.
