The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(31)

“Holy shit,” Marcos whispered. “For real, Chu? Is that honest?”

“Yeah.” He knew his cousin was asking if they were still speaking in code. “That’s honest. They’re building this huge f*cking gym. It’s got a real octagon in it. I trained yesterday with Clay Powers. I also kicked the shit out of the Deputy the other day.”

“The cop?” Marcos laughed. “You kicked the shit out of that big motherf*cker the Deputy? The one who quit the UFC to be a sheriff?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“That makes me so happy.” Marcos took a breath as if he needed a moment to process that. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

Chuito swallowed hard and looked at the table that became a watery blur. “I wish you could’ve too. I really do miss you.”

“You f*cking cry, chica, and I’m hanging up on you,” Marcos growled at him. “If I can give up * for two years, you can live through the flu without cold medicine, especially if kicking the shit out of the Deputy is the fringe benefit.”

“That’s why I came, you know?” Chuito told his cousin. “I figured it’s the least I could do.”

“Yeah, it is the least you could do,” Marcos agreed with him. “And you know what, cabrón, you better f*cking win. I’m not kidding about this. You get over your cold, and then you beat down anyone who stands in your way. I want to see your Boricua ass on television. Represent.”

“I’m still coming back when you’re out.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not getting out for a while,” Marcos said and then yelled, “?Me cago en ná! Three minutes!”

Chuito sighed. “Just hang up.”

“No, that motherf*cker can wait.” Marcos’s voice was low and threatening, making it obvious he was still speaking to the other inmate waiting for the phone. “Now I’m staying on the phone twice as long. Just ’cause I f*cking feel like it.”

“You’re supposed to be on good behavior,” Chuito warned him, because he knew that sound in his cousin’s voice. “If you do something stupid, you’re never getting out.”

“No *,” Marcos reminded him. “I’m on good behavior. I promise you I’m the most well-behaved pendejo in here.”

“I doubt that.” Chuito sighed. “Are you okay, Marc?”

“Sure, I’m great. I love it here. It’s like f*cking Club Med,” he said before he added, “Without the *.”

“At least you get to spend time with your father.”

“Yeah, lucky me. You could do something and go down, and we could have a family reunion.”

Chuito laughed, because it had come very close to happening. “I guess I’ll just stay here instead. It’s snowing, you know? That’s ironic.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” Marcos said and then added, “The cold kind. Not that I would ever look at the other kind. ’Cause I’m on good behavior.”

“An ideal prisoner.”

“Fucking ideal. I have to go, Chu.”

Chuito closed his eyes, because he didn’t want him to hang up, but he just said, “I know.”

“Shave your head,” Marcos added. “So no one pulls your hair when you’re fighting.”

Chuito looked at the table, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that. They did drug tests with hair follicles too. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Okay. Bye, cabrón.”

He stared at the phone when it clicked off, feeling tears sting his eyes again.

“That was your cousin,” Alaine asked softly.

Chuito nodded as he kept staring at the receiver in his hand. “Yeah.”

“You miss him?”

He lifted his head, seeing that she was studying him from her spot at his stove. “I do. Very much.”

“How long is he in prison for?”

“Another year.” Chuito flinched even as he said, “If he gets out on good behavior. That’d be a f*cking miracle.”

“You don’t think he can behave in prison?”

“He hasn’t been behaving in prison.” He shook his head. “He’s been in solitary three times. At this point, I’m just hoping his sentence doesn’t end up extended.”

“Why’d he go to solitary? Drugs? I heard there’s drugs in prison.”

“There are drugs in prison,” Chuito promised her, unable to help the wince that he had ended up here in Garnet instead of down with his cousin in Miami. “But he doesn’t do drugs. Bud sometimes, but that doesn’t count. It’s been fighting mostly. He got into a lot of fights when he first got in.”

“But not now?”

“That’s the thing about fighting. If you’re good at it, motherf*ckers stop fighting with you. It’s only another year. He’s okay,” he said more for his benefit than hers. “He’ll be okay. His father’s there with him. He can make it. I got to make sure Mamá gets him money. I’ve been doing it, but—”

“You’re talking in Spanish,” she reminded him softly.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his head and stared at her. “It’s the crash. I have a f*cking headache.”