Page 21 of Petal

The images of Callie don’t let go of me. She is the sweetest memory. And when I forget where I am and what I am about to do, her smile is in front of me. Her soft voice repeats my name and the words that I’d like to hear again. She is bare for me. I get hard, but it would be ironic if I jerked off thinking about her in this place.

One of Candy’s maids brought food earlier, but I barely ate anything, though only days ago, chickenpupusassounded like a heavenly delicacy.

It’s midday when Candy walks into the room, and I raise my head from the pillow. A short older guy follows her into the room, gives my shirtless inked torso a surprised stare, and I sit up on the bed, then stand to put my shirt back on and shake his hand.

“This is my guy, Mario,” Candy says, closing the door but not sitting down. “The badge is his cousin’s. It’s active, though the cousin is about to quit and go work for Shepherd.”

I nod to the guy who smiles through his thick mustache and beard and studies me curiously.

“You owe him,” Candy says, tossing the badge to me.

“Oh, iz nothing, honey,” the guy smiles broadly at Candy like she is his wife-to-be, and she rolls her eyes. I see what she meant by desperate men in this town.

“He’ll tell you about the workers’ bus,” she says, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette while Mario tells me in a low voice with an island accent exactly what to do and what to expect.

“Once ye there, the bus stops before the security gates. Past it, there’s a giant parking lot where staff parks. Iz the most northern part of Ayana. Ye take the most left-hand street with the sign that points to the Diggs. That’s the living quarters for the security staff. Iz big. Ten or so buildings for those who live on the grounds. Iz separated from the main resort area by a jungle patch. If ye wanna stay low—hang around there. The security quarters have very little surveillance, believe it or not. An’ the guys don’ care much for strangers. Women, visitors, ye know. They leave their jobs at work, if ye know what I mean.”

I nod.

“Also”—the guy looks from me to Candy then back to me—“jus’ so ye don’ get any ideas, no weapons are allowed.”

My heart sinks at the words.

I grab my backpack, take out the guns, push the baseball hat low over my eyes, and follow Mario out of the room.

“I hope I see you again,” Candy says.

I know what she means. I hope I make it back and not alone.

Walking down the street during the day is surreal. I feel too exposed, though there are plenty of people around, and no one is looking at me.

Shops, food vendors, panhandlers, children, bicycles, scooters, beat-up golf carts, and occasional trucks—being back to civilization suddenly feels like I am back two years ago when I first arrived here. Though there is an air of growing decay in this town. It’s in the number of homeless people on the street despite the heat. The suspicious men standing in small groups at corners, smoking and talking too loudly. In the way one street is littered with broken bottles and wooden planks as if a riot broke out, bloodied cloth a grim evidence. Boarded up buildings. Laundry water and garbage dumped right on the street. Children—way more than should be on the streets during the day instead of at school.

A jeep rolls by with five big dudes cramped in it—sunglasses, guns, cigarettes hanging off their mouths, music blasting. This reminds me of movies about Congo or Mali, not a well-to-do tropical island that escaped war.

Mario walks with me all the way to the bus stop, shakes hands and exchanges words with several guys, shares a cigarette with one, then turns to me.

“There.” He nods toward a bus with no windows that looks like it was salvaged a decade ago.

We file into it, and I take a seat at the back.

The bus starts moving, and my body tenses like a string. I am an outsider, so I keep my head low and look out the window so that the older guy next to me doesn’t start asking questions.

It’s hot, my shirt sweaty and sticking to my body. Thank god for the missing windows, because I would have suffocated in the stink of a hundred bodies cramped together and the smell of exhaust.

It’s a half an hour ride up the bumpy road through the jungle. Some riders are quiet, most—women and girls dressed in the identical shade of blue—chat and laugh. I see phones. I see cheerful faces.

It dawns on me—despite the hardships and change, life goes on. Unlike a lot of people in the Western world, these people do know they are lucky. For them, life carries on in a limited way but without human collateral. These folks still have a reason to smile while I feel like a fugitive.

The bus finally stops, and my heart slams in my chest.

The line through the checkpoint is long. There are six security guys and two more lanes for scooters and trucks.

It’s like crossing the Mexican border. The thought is random and out of place, because the only times I was in Mexico were with Crone. In another life.

The setting sun is merciless. It feels hotter inland. Plus, I’m soaked from nervousness.

Trucks, electric carts, and scooters crawl by through a separate line while dozens of us slowly shuffle one after another. I never quite realized how much maintenance the resort requires, now that it’s the size of a small town. Especially catering to the needs of the rich.

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