Crossing the Line by Simone Elkeles

  "Here, let me help you. At least it'll get my mind off things." She starts arranging unrecognizable food on a plate. "Some of this needs to be heated."

  "I'll eat it cold," I say, abruptly pulling the plate from her. "I'm not picky."

  She snatches it back. "You can't eat this food cold. Trust me."

  "Chicken is good cold," I tell her.

  "Not stewed chicken."

  "Are you ever gonna stop bein' bossy?"

  "No. Are you ever going to stop being a hero?"

  "I've never been a hero, Dalila."

  "Right," she says. "You only took a bullet for me. No big deal."

  Giving up, I sit on one of the stools and watch as she expertly heats up a hefty portion of leftovers. After she places hot food in front of me she says in a soft, apologetic voice, "I'm sorry I kissed you in the gardens. It was stupid and really immature."

  I stab a piece of stewed chicken with a fork. "You don't see me complainin', do you?"

  "It took you away from your job. I distracted you and then you got shot."

  I wag the now-empty fork in her direction. "I can't argue with you there. You are a distraction."

  "Why did you do it?"

  I take a bite of a tamale and my mouth waters for more. "Do what?"

  "Put your life in danger? You could have died."

  "Yeah, and who would care?" Hell, I don't even think my mom would shed a tear if I disappeared forever. On second thought, maybe one or two tears when she sobered up, but that'd be it. Paul would throw a party celebrating my departure from this earth.

  I'm aware that I'm shoving the food in my mouth like a pig, but it's so damn good. The flavors are so sweet and spicy, I could eat it every day. And the chicken dish has just the right amount of heat.

  "Slow down," Dalila says with a look of shock as she watches me shovel the food in.

  "I can't. It's so damn good." I point at the tamales. "Whoever made those is a genius."

  "I'll tell Lola to make you more."

  Her words linger in the cool night air.

  Time to be honest with her, because we can't pretend this is something it's not. "We're never going to see each other after tonight, Dalila. I've got to stay focused and you've got to realize that it's not me who's caught up in some kind of cartel power struggle. It's your family who's caught the attention of somethin' bigger than you're willing to admit."

  "I don't know what to think anymore," she says in a soft, wistful voice. She swipes at her eyes a couple of times and I realize she's trying not to cry. "I've got to go."

  Before I can call her back, she's disappeared into the dark house.

  I'm in trouble, because I'd like nothing more than to take Dalila Sandoval in my arms and comfort her until the sun comes up.

  Twenty

  Dalila

  He said we'd never see each other again. Oh, how his words stung, but I kept up a brave face. Before he could say anything else that would make tears run down my face, I rushed out of the kitchen.

  When I reach my bedroom I close the door and put a hand over my beating heart. The way I'm feeling isn't normal. Being near Ryan makes me happy and sad and nervous and excited all at once. I don't know what Ryan thinks of me. He probably thinks I'm a mess.

  He'd be right.

  I can't even call Soona or Demi because they're sleeping. And they wouldn't understand what I'm going through, mainly because I can't even explain it to myself. The shooting tonight really made my entire life turn upside down. I always considered myself independent, able to be alone and take care of myself.

  Until tonight.

  Calm yourself, Dalila. Ryan Hess is just a boy. A really lean and muscular boy who can make a girl want to cling to him for safety and security and . . .

  He made it clear he doesn't want to see me again. There's nothing between us at all.

  I plop down on my bed, bury my face into my pillow, and groan. Why do I feel like I can trust Ryan more than my own family? I believe him when he says he knows nothing about the connection between his stepfather and Santiago Vega. I used to look at my parents and see two perfect people. But they're not perfect, and they refuse to trust me with the reality of the danger they're putting our family through.

  My parents seem like strangers to me now, holding back critical information to try to keep me safe from the truth.

  As I turn over and try to sleep, fears of that shooter in the distance keep clogging up my head. Suddenly fear grips my entire body and I start shaking uncontrollably. Ryan was shot tonight protecting me. What if I lost him before I really got to know him?

  I'm sweaty, my heart is aching, and I can't stop worrying that something terrible is about to happen. It's almost three in the morning now. I sit up in bed and hope the fear will subside, but it doesn't.

  Five minutes go by. Every creak and sound startles me as if something evil is around the corner.

  Without thinking, I rush downstairs to the guest bedroom. Ryan is awake. He's lying in bed with one arm behind his head.

  "Hi," I say sheepishly as I lean against the door.

  "Hi," he says back. "What's up?"

  "I can't sleep," I tell him, my voice trembling.

  He sits up, concern etched into his chiseled face. "Is everything okay?"

  I nod.

  Then I shake my head. "I'm kind of freaking out about what happened this afternoon. I mean, I should be okay with it. I know my dad hired a lot of people to help protect this place so we're safe. But . . ." I hesitate. I don't want to put crazy ideas in his head about my father. "I know we're never going to see each other again. But, Ryan, will you hold me tonight?"

  My eyes are locked on his.

  "Come here," he says. Ryan moves over and lifts the covers. I walk to the bed with tentative steps and slide in, reveling in the sheets warm from his body heat. "Thank you," I say, laying my head on his pillow. "I know you're hurt. I don't want you to be uncomfortable with your wound."

  "I don't even feel it anymore," he says in a deep, calm voice.

  It's dark in the room and silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan.

  "Do you have a girlfriend?" I find myself blurting out, then immediately regret it. I don't want him thinking that I came here to hook up with him.

  "No."

  "When was the last time you dated someone?"

  He chuckles. "I'm in a bed with a girl and she's asking me about other girls I've dated. That's never happened before."

  "I need you to distract me from my racing mind, Ryan." I lean on my elbow and look at him. I can't imagine any girl not being attracted to him. "Have you ever been in love?" I ask, holding my breath for the answer.

  "There's no such thing as love."

  "Yes there is."

  "Physical reactions to someone isn't love. It's lust. Lust eventually fades." He sighs. "My parents were supposedly crazy in love when they met. They even got their names tattooed on each other's wrists. That fake love lasted for six months. Love is just something people come up with to try to understand these physical feelings that eventually fade, but they don't know it yet."

  "You're so cynical."

  "I have every reason to be. I don't get attached. I know what I'm good at, and boxing is it. Boxing is the only thing I love."

  My heart sinks a little. "Maybe one day you'll fall in love with an actual person. Then you can come back and tell me how wrong you were."

  "Don't count on it."

  We lie in silence for a long time.

  "I'm really glad you're here, Ryan."

  "I'm glad I'm here too."

  I put my head on his shoulder and look up at him. "Can I tell you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Just being near you makes me feel safe. I know I sound needy, but it's true. And I don't need you to be my hero or to say anything romantic or weird back to me. I know this isn't more than you comforting me because I'm scared. That's it. And if you want to tell me to leave, I'll understand. I've seen where you sleep. Gym mats are not as
comfortable as this bed, so if you want the bed all to yourself--"

  "Dalila?" he says with a sigh.

  "Yeah?"

  He takes his arm and wraps it around me. "Shut up and go to sleep."

  My entire body relaxes. I don't know what'll happen in the future, but I'm content right here and now. In Ryan's arms.

  He pulls me in close, and just as I'm about to fall into a deep sleep, I feel him kiss the top of my head and whisper, "Sweet dreams, princess."

  In the morning I open my eyes and find myself back in my room. I quickly sit up and notice a bright red sunflower on the pillow next to me. Ryan must have put it there.

  I vaguely remember being picked up from the guest room and brought here, but I thought I was dreaming. In reality Ryan must have carried me into my room sometime in the middle of the night while I was sleeping. In my sleepy state I remember him laying me on my bed and telling me something, but I have no recollection of what he said.

  I take the red flower and hold it gently in my hands, knowing that last night was just the beginning.

  I'm going to see Ryan Hess again, because I'm not letting him go.

  Twenty-One

  Ryan

  I could have held Dalila Sandoval all night. Hell, I could have held her for weeks. But I know that eventually I'd have to let her go.

  It's too bad I live in reality.

  Sleeping next to Dalila was a reminder that you can't order the life you want--you're dealt a certain hand, and you have to live with it. Last night she snuggled into my chest and made me feel like I was her savior. I'm no savior. When she realizes I'm just a bastard with nothing besides a talent for boxing, she'll look at me with contempt instead of adoration. I'll never be a doctor like she's going to be. I'll never be a lawyer like her dad or a college-graduate professional. She deserves a guy who's smart and has a future.

  The only chance I'll have at a decent future is in the boxing ring.

  That's not to say I didn't eat it up. Last night when she held me close she made me feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted to.

  I stare at the boxing ring in front of me. If I'm going to be worth something, this is where it'll be. In the ring.

  "You ready to work hard?" Camacho says as he prepares the training lesson for today.

  "Si, senor."

  "Veo que estas aprendiendo espanol. Que bien."

  "To be honest, I have no clue what you said. My Spanish still sucks."

  "What happens if you're in the middle of a remote Mexican town where nobody speaks English?" he asks me.

  "I've managed to survive eighteen years. I figure I can get by."

  When I take my shirt off Camacho eyes the bloodied bandage on my side. "What's that?"

  "Nothin'. Nada," I tell him, remembering another Spanish word.

  "Doesn't look like nada to me. Were you in a fight?"

  "If you mean with a bullet, then yes."

  Instead of being shocked, he shakes his head in disappointment. "You got shot?"

  "Grazed is a better description." Then, because I don't know the word for grazed in Spanish, I try my hardest to come up with it. "Grazado? Grazie?"

  "Rozar."

  "Sure, that one. But I'm fine, really."

  "Want to tell me what happened?"

  "I got hired as a bodyguard last night, which means my job was to put myself in between a shooter and the people I was paid to protect. There was a shooter, there were people, and I came between the two. It's as simple as that."

  He sighs. "I sure hope you got paid enough to put your life on the line, Ryan."

  My life is probably worth less than the two hundred bucks I got paid last night, so I'm pretty sure I got the better end of the deal.

  He makes me show him the wound. He examines it, then cleans it and agrees that it's not too bad.

  "Take care of the cut," he orders as he wags an arthritic finger at me. "Or it'll get infected. Take it from an old man who's seen it all. Once infection sets in, you feel like you're rotting from the inside out."

  "I'll keep it clean," I promise as he bandages me back up. I take a swipe at one of the speed bags. "I'm ready to kick some butt today."

  "Bueno. That's what I like to hear." He chuckles to himself. "You remind me of myself back in the day, muchacho. Just keep your mind clear and focused. No distractions. "

  My mind wanders to Dalila. If she saw me train, she'd yell at me to get back in bed and rest. That's just the kind of person she is, taking on the problems of others and making sure they're okay. She'll be a great doctor one day.

  Camacho hands me a jump rope. "It's old-school, but it works," he says.

  He leans back in a metal chair and looks at his phone. I crane my neck and see him playing solitaire.

  "Must be nice to sit back and relax," I say as I jump.

  "Keep going," he says after ten minutes of me jumping rope.

  My entire body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. At this point I don't even try to wipe it off, because I know ten seconds later I'll be sweating even more. I don't see the Mexican guys here breaking half the sweat I do because they're so used to living in this heat.

  "I did my time, Ryan. If you want this, it's your turn." He glances at me. "I'll warn you now that word gets out fast around here when you're muscle for hire."

  "I got shot. I'm obviously not that great of a bodyguard. More like a bull's-eye."

  He raises a brow. "When you're loyal and are more than willing to become a bull's-eye to protect someone else, you become a valuable commodity. The fact that you're a fearless fighter will only make you more desirable to cartels who'll want to recruit you."

  "Cartels? I'm not stupid enough to get involved in that crap."

  I think the subject is over until he blurts out, "Some of the smartest kids I know got caught up in it. They'll lure you with whatever your weakness is. If that's money, they'll throw it at you. If it's fear, they'll scare you until you're pissing your pants. If it's a girl, they'll find the prettiest angel you've ever seen to lure you in."

  I will myself to push away thoughts of Dalila looking up at me last night, as if I was somehow going to make everything okay. It's impossible to forget how good her warm body felt nestled against mine. But I came to Mexico to further my boxing career. I have one goal, and I'm not going to focus on anything else.

  They'll get the prettiest angel you've ever seen to lure you in. Camacho's words stick in my head.

  Maybe she's one of them and is suckering me into falling for her.

  It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I'll see her again. I made it clear that we needed to cut all contact.

  "I've got someone coming here to spar with you tomorrow," Camacho says as we walk to the weights so he can spot me while I lift. "You've got good technique, but I need to see how you box with a real opponent."

  The sweat is dripping off every part of my body, but I don't care. Camacho is teaching me how to move properly, how to jab without opening up and making my body vulnerable.

  "Why are you helpin' me?" I ask him.

  "Because everyone deserves a break in life. You never had one, so I guess I'm it."

  I don't know if it makes me feel good that Mateo shared my life story with Camacho, or embarrassed. "Do you think I'm good enough?"

  He shrugs. "You've got talent, but if you choke when you're between the ropes, then no. But remember: even if you win, there will always be another guy to come knock you down off your pedestal."

  My confidence kicks in. "But what if I never lose?"

  "Then you become a legend." He motions for me to come close and he puts a hand on my shoulder.

  "I'll be a legend like you."

  He chuckles. "I'm a has-been, Ryan. If I was younger and fighting these guys today, I don't know if I'd be the one slinging the belt over my shoulder. Times have changed. Guys are tougher, meaner, faster."

  I sit on the edge of the weight bench. "So it'll be my goal to be tougher, meaner, and faster."

  "It's m
ore than that." He looks down at me. "Always remember to protect the integrity of the sport. It's a story, Ryan, between you and your opponent. It has a beginning, middle, and end. And it's full of dance moves. Remember that." He gestures to my feet. "And you definitely need dance practice."

  "You don't think I can dance?"

  He looks me up and down. "You're a gringo. That's enough to tell me your footwork isn't good enough. You move like a burro."

  I give my best impression of a Michael Jackson spin, making Camacho shake his head in amusement. "I can dance. Don't underestimate me because of the color of my skin."

  Camacho crosses his arms on his chest and nods. "I won't," he says. "But hopefully your opponents will."

  Every word Camacho says sinks in. I want to learn everything I can from him.

  "Come on," he says when we're done for the day.

  "Where are we goin'?"

  "My place," he says without turning back.

  It doesn't take long to get to Camacho's apartment building, in the middle of a town with a few stores flanking it. We park on the street and he leads me to his small, one-bedroom apartment. A woman greets us with a warm smile. Camacho starts talking to her in Spanish, then she waves to me and walks out.

  "Was that your daughter?" I ask him. I take in the worn couch and old, random paintings of landscapes and boxers nailed on the wall. In most of them I recognize Camacho when he was younger.

  "No, that wasn't my daughter," he says as he shuffles to the small kitchen and fills up a kettle with water. "That was the caretaker. She helps out a couple of days a week."

  A caretaker? "I didn't know you needed a caretaker."

  "I don't." He motions for me to follow him into the bedroom off to the side. Propped up against a flood of pillows is an older woman. "This is Valeria, my wife."

  The minute his wife lays eyes on him, she smiles wide and holds out stiff, shaky arms. There's a little drool running down the side of her mouth and her greeting is slow, like that of a child learning to speak for the first time.

  "She was disabled after a car accident on her way to my last fight," he explains. "She lost oxygen to her brain." He sits on the edge of the bed and gently takes her hand in his. "This is Ryan Hess," he tells her. "The boxer I told you about."

  I don't know how much she understands as she stares at me with a curious expression on her face.

  "You've talked about me?"

  "Don't get your head full of ideas. Sometimes I'm bored." He kisses her forehead, then leads me back to the kitchen.