Page 11 of Angels Fall

“Fuck that. I don’t need him. He’s not dependable, anyway. Fucker comes and goes. Never shows up when I need him.”

“He showed that night.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know it was me.”

Other Guy gives me a weird look. “What?”

“He was my brother’s best friend.” And then I let out another sigh, but this time it’s sad. “Back when I had a brother, that is. And when he died, Tyler couldn’t even bother to show for the funeral.”

“Oh, well, that sucks. Was he out of town?”

“Well, yeah. Sorta. He was deployed somewhere. In the military.”

“...Okay. So, he couldn’t come. But you hold it against him?”

“I already have a therapist, man,” I snap. Which is a lie. Because Plumeria Brown can kiss my ass. “I don’t need your armchair psychology bullshit. OK? The fact is, he never showed. And I called him, and sent him letters, and the last letter was like… a desperate plea for help. And he just fucking sent it back!”

I kinda yell that last part. Other Guy actually jumps in his seat, sorta surprised at my anger. Then he points to me and says, “Ese es tu problema. Tienes mal genio.”

“I do not have a fucking temper!”

He’s quiet for a long time after that. So I just curl up against the door, press my head against the window, and close my eyes.

“Where do you want to be dropped off?”

I pull myself fully awake at his question. The fucking Nevada sun is coming up and I’m all sweaty as I squint out the window and try to figure out where I am.

Vegas. We’re back in Vegas.

“Why the fuck didn’t we just fly? Doesn’t Carlos Castillo own a plane?” I ask.

“He’s afraid of flying,” my new driver/counselor/bff says.

“Classic,” I mutter under my breath. Carlos is actually crazy. Fab.

“Where to?” he asks again. “Tu casa?”

“No,” I say. “I need to get my car. If it’s still there at all. And I gotta figure this shit out. I don’t fucking—Shit. Just drop me off at Pete’s.”

We fight the morning traffic near the Strip and then Other Guy pulls into the alley behind Pete’s and stops the car. Pretty much exactly where they picked me up… two days ago? Jesus. Christ. My roommates are gonna be wild with worry.

I look over at my driver and say, “You got a name? So I can stop calling you ‘Other Guy’ in my head?”

He smiles. He’s a couple years older than me, I decide. Nice-looking guy if you like that thug look. And then he reaches for his wallet in his back pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me.

It says, Ricardo Ramirez. Vendedor, Castillo Tequila, Acapulco División. With a Mexican phone number underneath his title.

“That’s me,” he says. “Call me Ricky.”

“OK. Ricky.” I smile, because that’s how you be friendly, and then say, “Thank you,” because that’s how you be nice.

He says, “De nada. Now go show your tits and make lots of money. Because you only have six weeks to figure this out. And if I have to kill you when your time’s up, it’ll bum me out. You remind me of a girl I used to date.” He winks.

I get out of the car and slam the door. Asshole.

I’m walking to the back door of Pete’s, just about to pull it open, when the horn honks and makes me jump. I look over my shoulder and see Ricky leaning over into the passenger seat with the window down. “Don’t let pride get you killed, Maddie,” he yells.

“Fuck off,” I mutter. then go inside.