Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord (29 page)

   
             
Easier than I thought. Suppressing a smile, I take my seat.

             
Everyone is staring
.
I’m somewhat pleased
. E
mbarrassed, but
secretly thrilled
. I’ve never been able to bring conversation to a halt before.

             
Christa
eyes me, a fixed smile to her garnet lips
. ‘Gringa is looking very ...
different
today,’ she scoffs, her eyes sweeping over me
. 

             
Bitchface is talk
ing to me? I didn’t know we are on speaking terms again after she whipped my ass and incapacitated me for three weeks. And how come Diablo has just forgiven her like that? I got a good mind to break her other leg with my stilettos.

             
‘Wh
y?
You going to a ball or something, eh
gringa
?’

             
Lo
ts of laughter around the table. Santana’s laugh dominates.

             
Suddenly,
I feel like a
n idiot and I
resist the urge to run back to my room.

             
Using my middle finger (A move I learnt from
Paris
) I slowly move my hair aside from my heavily made up face and smile sweetly.
Usually, I’d use my middle finger differently.

             
‘I sure am,’ I say,
in what I hope is a
Marilyn Monroe voice – you know – soft, breathy
.
‘
And
...’ I look at Diablo from under my lashes, ‘I’m taking Diablo with me, so don’t wait up, ’cos we may be late.’

             
‘Oooooh!’ the men chorus, while Christa slams back in her chair, a
granite
look in her eyes.
Bet that’s not the
response she expected
?

             
Santana
picks at the table with her steak knife.

             
Diablo raises both his bus
h
y eyebrows but does not smile or join in the chorus.

             
I hold his gaze and tilt my head to one side. He gives me the slightest of nods and spends the res
t of the evening ogling me, pissing off
Santana and Christa.

             
I ignore their barbs and focus on my target. 

  
             
After dinner
, in a sweet voice
I say, ‘Diablo, may I be excused? Please?’

  
             
He nods and
is unable to mask the
appreciation in his eyes.

  
             
‘Thank you,’ I mouth and reward him with a
coy
smile.

             
I leave the table and
sashay
away.
Halfway through the room,
I turn back to see if he is looking. Everyone, including him is leaning over their chairs, watching my ass. Self conscious and scared of
toppling over in these hells,
I carefully walk away.

             
I lie in bed thinking about the power and attention I
commanded
simply because I looked hot. No wonder
Paris
gets away with everything. Being beautiful and sexy makes a woman instantly powerful. I like it.
I could easily get addicted to it.

             
From now on, I tell myself, I’ll be dressing like th
at
everyday. It’ll take time and effort but what else have I got to do?

*
             
*
             
*

‘But Diablo, you said I could go. Why you changing your mind now, huh?’

‘I say no,
now
.’

‘Just like that, huh?’ I say, fury getting the better of me. ‘You own me now, huh? So you can
change your mind just like that,
huh Diablo?’

His eyes start to narrow at my obstinacy.

‘They’re expecting me, you know.’

‘I tell Marcus to bring them her
e.’

‘I
don’t want them to come here Diablo. I wanna go there! I need to get away …’

‘Y
ou want to see
him
!’ he shouts. ‘
Tha
t
’s why you dress like that
.
’

He’s jealous?
‘N
o
!
’ I protest, ‘
I wanna see my family.
I’ll change this fucking dress.
’

He glares at me, then turns and walks away.

My disappointment morphs into fury.
‘Come back here! I haven’t finished with you.’

‘
You
haven’t finished with
me
?’

I’m handling this wrong. Damn! If only I attended anger management classes like everyone suggested I did. 

He walks away.

I
pace. Everything was going so well for the past couple of weeks. He appeared taken in with my makeover and said ‘Yes” to everything. Even agreed for me to visit my family today. Then all of a sudden, he changes his mind
because of the way I’m dressed. I look at my dress in the mirror. It’s simple but clingy, maybe even a little sexy. Ok, a lot sexy, but what the fuck?

Here I was planning to
show off my new look to Elaine and Paris. I was so in the mood to be entertained by
their
jealously.
It would have been the ultimate compliment.

Besides, I wanted
Austin
to see the new and improved me and die of disappointment – how could he have made such an enormous mistake and married the wrong sister?

             
Pacing in heels is not a good idea but I continue.

             
My family
really is
expecting me. I sent word with Marcus that I’ll be seeing them today.

             
‘G
ringaaa!’ Diablo yells.

             
I slam the door on his hollering. Bastard can go to hell.

             
‘G
ringaaa
!’ he yells again and again, I ignore him.

             
Finally, Maria
quietly
enters my room, a worried look on her face.
‘Senorita please ...’ 

    
             
‘
Maria, you t
ell him ...’ I draw a long breath, ‘tell him my name is Payton, and
not
fucking “G
ringaaa! Gringaaa! Gringaaa!”
.’

             
Before she can respond, Diablo storms into my room and of course, hears what I say.

             
‘C
ome
to lunch,’ he says in a strained but controlled voice.

             
I look him in the eye and say, ‘
No
!’

             
He stiffens. ‘Come to lunch.’

             
‘No
!
I don’t wanna eat with you.’

             
He glares at me, then grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me out of the room to the lunch table.

             
‘Leave me the fuck alone!’

             
He shoves me into the dining room.
It’s Saturday so that entire gang is there, in the mood to party and be entertained. Watching
Diablo drag me to the table gets them excited
.
             
Humiliated and seething, I sit
down
and drum my nails on the table. I don’t eat or look at him. 

    
             
‘Eat,’ he orders.

             
I ignore him and drum louder, furiously.

             
A man named
Norman
who is seated next to me leans over and says,
‘
Senorita gringa want Whisky?

             
‘Yes please,
Norman
,’

             
Norman
pours the whisky and places the glass in front of me.

             
‘Thank you
Norman
,’ I say, bypassing the glass and reaching for the bottle.

             
Norman
’s eyes grow huge when he sees me taking
giant
swigs from the bottle.

             
It’s awful
.
I hate whisky. Tastes like petrol to me.

             
‘Damn!’ I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘This
sure is
mighty fine whisky,
Norman
.’

             
‘Eh, Senorita gringa, my …’