Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord (36 page)

             
We grin a little more at each other. Then we study the menus and grin at each other over them.

             
I order a steak, medium, while he flounders over his choice.

             
‘Order for me,’ he finally says, slapping the menu onto the table and eliciting frightened looks from the wait staff.

I suspect he’s having problems reading the menu – something to do with his lack of formal education. That makes me even more protective over him.

             
‘What does your etiquette notes tell you to order?’

             
‘Eh, chicken.’

             
‘Chicken? Why chicken? ’Cos you like it?’

             
‘Nah. Easy to cut. Fish – you need different knife …fork. Meat – rare, medium ... too much trouble. But chicken - is ...
foolish
? That’s the word?’

             
‘Foolproof, you mean?’

             
‘
Si
. Yes.’

             
‘Really? Wow.’

I order him a steak with prawns. ‘That’s my second choice,’ I say. ‘I ordered steak as well. Medium, same as mine. Should be okay. If it’s not, you can always kill the chef and take his apron and hat. Or walk over and just steal another patron’s food. That’ll add to tonight’s entertainment.’

             
  He smiles. ‘No. Tonight Imagood. A gentleman.’

             
‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’

             
‘Watch this, Diablo,’ I whisper and shut the menu hard.

             
The wait staff jump. We giggle. Then we sit back and resume our gazing at each other until our food arrives.

    
             
The moment we finish eating and I put down my fork, he wants to leave – run out of here. I want to linger and spoon but I guess he’s fed up with the stares he’s getting. Well, not
spoon
–
use
a spoon.

             
We do not receive a bill and he makes no attempt to ask for one. I’m unhappy about that. I want to teach him about paying for things, doing the right thing and stuff like that. I’m supposed to teach him how to be good, remember?

    
             
I lean forward and whisper, ‘Diago,’ I’m using his real name.

             
He leans forward. ‘
Si
?’

             
‘Can I call you
Diago
?’

             
He frowns. ‘Call me Diablo.

             
‘I like “Diago” better.’

             
His eyes dance, his jaws set and his breathing gets raspy. ‘Diago is dead. Diablo lives,’ he says in a curt voice.

             
I shake my head slowly. ‘No, Diago is very much alive.’ I cock my head to one side and smile at him. ‘’Sides, I really like the name “Diago”. It’s so cute.”

             
‘You like it?’

             
‘Yes!’

             
He smiles, drops his shoulders and nods ‘Okay.
Si
.’

  
             
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

             
‘Um ... you um ... welcome, Payton.’ 

‘Wow Diago, your etiquette classes – they’re like, paying off – big time. But Diago, you have to pay the bill,’ I say and jerk my head towards the waiters.

    
             
He looks up at the waiters eavesdropping on our conversation. They give themselves away by shaking their heads from side-to-side, terrified to accept money from the infamous Diablo.

             
Diablo looks at me again, a confused look on his face. Then he turns to them and rattles off in Spanish and the waiters fall over each other drawing up a bill.

             
‘That’s good. Now don’t forget to leave a tip.’

    
             
He sticks his face close to mine and whispers, ‘“Tip”?’

             
For the first time, I’m actually seeing his eyes. They’re hazel, pretty and not in the least bit bloodshot tonight. Cucumber slices or teabags – whatever - they’re bright tonight.

    
             
‘Yeah. Years ago, I worked as a waitress and I relied on them for essentials like booze and weed …’

             
He smiles.

The bill arrives and I think it’s the first time he’s ever been given a bill. He peers at it, fishes out his wallet, peels of a couple of notes and leaves it on the table, ignoring the protests from the wait staff. He’s about to put away his wallet, when he pauses and throws a few more notes to the pile on the table.      

I make a show of thanking the wait staff for their services tonight. ‘I’ll definitely be back,’ I say. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

             
Diablo watches me silently, a fascinated look on his face.

‘And I’ll bring Diablo with. I’ll be sure to tell all my frie …’

Diablo suddenly yanks my arm and almost drags me out of there. ‘That’s ’nuff thanking,’ he grumbles.

             
As we walk back to the Jeep, our fingers brush a couple of times. He holds my hand, then quickly releases it.

I don’t react and eventually, he takes my hand in his and we walk hand-in-hand to his jeep. It’s nice holding his hand – it’s large and coarse, but warm, roomy. The same hand he used to strangle me. And shoot me. And throw me off the cliff. And rape me. Why didn’t I mind? How could I not? I know – I’m really fucked up. Surely you know me by now?

As we walk, his hand eventually progresses to my waist. I don’t mind. It makes me feel secure and almost contented. Realising I’m not rejecting him, he holds me tighter and slows down. We drive back to the ranch in silence but he hangs onto my hand while he drives, making me smile. Sweet.

             
We’re outside our villa. Diablo helps me out of the jeep and walks me to the main door. The night is over and I’m sure he is relieved - he can now relax and go back to his unrestrained self.

             
‘You tell Senor Vito that I said, he’s done a great job and that you were like, a perfect gentleman. Everything about the evening was great, special and I like, really appreciate the effort you put into it.’

             
He shifts in his shoes, then scratches the back of his neck, then his chin, then jerks his neck from side-to-side. His discomfort amuses me. 

             
I lean over, kiss his cheek lightly and stand back. We stare silently at each in the dark. 

             
Suddenly I’m nervous – does he expect to spend the night with me? If he is, how do I handle it?

      
             
He reaches up and gently tucks strands of hair around my ears and finally cups my face with his large coarse hands. As his hands reach my face I spot little round scars on his palms – Jimo’s cigarette burns!

             
My eyes well up with tears and I quickly look at the ground.

             
Gently, he raises my face to see my eyes. With a smile, he plants the lightest of kisses on my forehead. So light, I can barely feel it.

I scratch my brain for something to smart-alecy to say. Probably for the first time in my life - Zilch. My mind has deserted me. Must be something to do with his closeness.

 
             
We just smile at each other in the wavering moonlight.
             

             
Suddenly, we are startled by thunderous applause. Like two kids busted, we jerk apart.

             
We have a hidden audience hiding in the shadows, waiting to see how

our date went. Kissing each other goodnight is apparently a good sign. 

    
             
‘
Cállate
!’ Diablo roars into the dark and the applause abruptly ceases.

I giggle into my hand, while he gives me a sheepish smile. Now that we have an audience, I want to run into my room and shut the door.  

    
             
‘Goodnight Diablo,’ I whisper as I open my door. 

             
‘Goodnight, Payton,’ he whispers.

             
I shut the door on him and hear his footsteps recede.

             
Moments later, I hear voices outside. I peep through the blinds and see Santana talking to Diablo. After a few moments they disappear inside his room.

          Somewhere inside me, I feel a strange flutter - a feeling I have difficulty explaining. If I really try hard, I’d probably call it, disappointment. And that confuses me. I hastily brush my teeth, rip of my clothes and slip under the covers wanting to fall asleep immediately.

    
             
But I lie in bed wide awake and post-mortem the evening, step-by-step. I think about how Diablo cleaned up for me, looking so dapper and handsome, his shyness over dinner, his kiss brief kiss goodnight, Santana. 

   
             
This barbed feeling in my chest – it will not go away. I mean, he goes through such lengths for me, then spends the night with Santana. How is that possible?

             
It’s like the evening was just a show. Like he was trying to prove a point - he could be better than I thought he was, as good as
Austin
. My eyes are misting up again so I thump my pillow imagining it’s Santana’s head. How could I lower my guard? How could I allow myself to become so soft and vulnerable?

CHAPTER NINE

It’s morning
.
I’m
awakened by Maria and Rosa in my bedroom
doing, well,
something
in my room
.

             
I force my eyes open and squint at them. ‘Why you banging …?’

             
‘We bring you coffee,’ Maria says, while
Rosa
throws open my blinds
then
pretends to dust.

             
I peer at the wall clock – nine am. Fuck! They don’t usually do this
at this time of the morning
, so why today?