Mamá filled me with dreams of a life she hoped I would live. She made me believe I could become anything I wanted, and Deacon swept in like a promise those dreams would come true. He made me laugh, he made me swoon.
He kissed me, and my stomach flew like diving off the tallest cliff into a cloud of wonder and deliciousness. His lips were soft, his taste so sweet. Deacon between my thighs became a drug I couldn’t live without, an addiction I would guard with my life.
With Valeria’s original warning in my ear, the promise she forced me to make, I decided it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, and I did my dead-level best never, never to get caught.
“You’ve changed since the last time I saw you.” Beto’s voice rouses me, and I look over to see him studying me from the driver’s side of his truck. His window is down, and the wind pushes his collar-length hair around his temples.
“It’s been almost four years.”
“Yes. A long time.”
“You hardly ever called… We rarely saw you. Why?” I’m old enough to know.
He tilts his head to the side. “I was working, taking care of business, protecting our interests.”
My eyes fall to the holstered gun on the console.
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Because I live in Texas.”
“Jesus said if you live by the sword, you’ll die by the sword.”
He exhales a chuckle. “I have no intention of dying any time soon, mija.”
He keeps saying that. No one has called me mija since my mother passed.
“Did you visit Mamá’s house?”
“Yes.” His brow lowers. “I saw the pit you lived in at Villa de Santa María.”
“It was not a pit!” I shift in my seat to face him.
Granted, I was only a kid when I left my mother’s ranch, but it was a beautiful place full of art and light and happiness.
“It’s a broken-down shack with no air conditioning, no Wifi. I’m surprised it had indoor plumbing.” Disgust permeates his tone. “Our family are not peasants.”
“It was a lovely place. The night breezes kept us cool, and we didn’t need the Internet. We talked and sang songs.” My eyes go out the open window to the brown, dusty road, and I remember the colors, the joy I felt as a child in Mexico. Everything here is brown and dusty, and the wind never stops blowing.
His nose curls. “You should have lived like queens.”
“We’re not royals, Beto, no matter how proud you are.”
“All that changes now.” He pulls into the driveway of the small studio. “Tonight you’ll pack your things. You’re coming to live with me.”
“Live with you where?”
“Lakeside Estates.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Lakeside!” It’s one of the richest gated communities in the city. “How?”
“I bought a house there last week.” His eyebrows rise, and he looks proud but also a bit smug—like he had something to prove, and he did. “Closed on it this morning before I came to get you. You’re not working at that coffee shop anymore, either.”
All this new information has my head spinning. “I like working at the coffee shop.”
“If you owned it, that would be one thing. You’re not working as a waitress. It’s beneath you.”
“It helps pay my bills. And the schedule is flexible so I can do my art—”
He leans towards me, holding up a finger. “End of discussion.”
Fat chance of that.
“I’m not quitting my job.” I jerk the door handle and slide out of his truck.
Just before I close the door, our eyes catch. Anger flashes in his, but I flash right back. I’m not afraid of Roberto. He’s my brother, and while we might not be close, we’re still family. He won’t hurt me.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll catch a ride like I always do.” My heart’s beating fast, but I’m doing my best to hold my ground.
“I’ll be here in an hour.”
“Let your inner child play.” Professor Roshay circles the small room, giving feedback as we work. “Relax… Set her free!”
Every year, one of Farrell Roshay’s students wins the Arthaus “Artist in Residence” award. It’s a massive, twenty-thousand-dollar gift that includes six months to create, culminating in a private show at the Palladium Gallery in downtown Dallas.
Uncle Antonio has helped me pay for these studio classes since I graduated from community college two years ago, and I want that award so badly, it hurts.
I’m standing in front of my latest piece, a four-foot canvas covered in energetic swirls of red-orange and coral with yellow and white, brown and forest green cast highlights and depth.
Rising above it all is a black charcoal outline of a horse with its tail fanning out. Its mane swirls up and around its powerful, bowed head. In the foreground is the rear and back legs flexing and stomping.
The horse is in a gallop, consumed in the colors like a cyclone.
I’m lost in the movement of the piece, a spiral curl falls onto my cheek, and I push it back, leaving a smudge of paint across my skin. I don’t care. My spirit is free, running wild, eating up the miles, chasing the sunset. I’ve shaken off the scars of my past. My fear is gone, and I can do anything I want. I’m invincible.
“Angelica!” Professor Roshay stops behind me, holding out her arms. “I feel the energy radiating from this piece. Tell me what you’ve done here.”
My breath catches. We have two classes left before graduation, and every piece, every class feeds into consideration for the award. Every interview is a judgement, every answer a step closer or a strike back.
Swallowing my nerves, I ignore the smear of paint on my face, the messiness of my hair, and I speak from my heart. “I’m calling it Spirit. The horse is the spirit of the west, but he can also be the spirit of the viewer. He’s a mustang, free to run the grasslands, swept up in the fire of the desert, the glow of the setting sun.”
“I see it. Now tell me about your technique.”
My heart is beating so hard—deep breaths… “I knew the colors and the movement of the sketch would dominate the canvas. For the highlights, I wanted to do something special. I dipped my fingers in the paint and made these smudges, these glows around the nose and jaw with my hands.”
“Finger painting?” Her eyebrow arches, and my stomach drops. “A primitive and unexpected choice.”
“It felt right.”
She nods, taking a few steps, tapping her finger against her lips. “Inventive. I like it.”
I swallow the squeal bubbling in my throat, and answer calmly. “Thank you.”
She continues down the row, and I close my eyes, fighting tears. Spirit is one of my favorite pieces. I can’t wait to show it to Deacon. I can’t wait for Uncle Antonio to see it. I’ll include it in my portfolio when I apply for the award.
“Our time is at an end.” Professor Roshay claps, and it’s the signal to clean up. “Our last meeting is next week, then the Arthaus application opens online. Good luck.”
I float through cleaning and wrapping my brushes, stowing my palette, wiping the paint off my face, and head out the door with a smile on my lips, visions of winning that coveted award in my head. Not even my scowling brother in his truck can dampen my mood. He’s on the phone the entire drive to Valeria’s small house, so it doesn’t matter.