Page 122 of Lash

"See that you are. You are irreplaceable, you know."

"He could come after you, sir. It's not outside the realm of possibility. I think he knows of you, but not exactly who you are, or were. My point is you need to be on guard as well."

His laugh is predatory. Vicious. "I almost hope he tries."

I snort. "Honestly, sir, me too."

"We will speak again later, Inez."

"Yes sir. Goodbye."

He doesn't respond, as is his way—just hangs up.

I roll the windows back down and hang my hand out the window. I rip the hat off my head and pull the elastic band out of my hair, letting the wind flutter it every which way. I'll regret it later when I have to comb the snarls out, but for now, I need the tactile sensation of the wind in my hair.

Anything to keep me in the present.

Anything to keep the past from rising up in me like vomit.

Anything to center me, so I don't fall back into that pit, where Father's men took their turns on me while I was chained to a cot.

I shake my head as those memories threaten to surge up and overtake me.

No.

That's over. Those men are all dead. Ironically, it was Rafael who killed them, and some days I'm grateful while other days I resent it, wishing I had the closure of killing them myself.

I turn my thoughts to Lorenzo. My heart leaps at the mere thought of him—desperation to be near him rifles through me.

Ineedhim.

I hate it, but I do.

He is the one human being on this planet who truly knows me. Even my employer only knows certain parts of me. Lorenzo? He knows it all. He knows me inside and out. All my secrets.

He knows the shape of the nightmares that haunt my dreams, keeping me from restful slumber.

My hope is that by finally erasing Rafael from this earth I will finally know a measure of peace. I’ll be able to sleep at night.

Perhaps even find happiness.

With Lorenzo. If there is happiness for me on this earth, it will be with him. I just…I can't have that while Rafael lives.

I long to call Lorenzo. To hear his voice, just for a moment.

I wonder if he realizes how much he means to me, if he knows how totally he's woven into my being. I wonder if he knows I dream of him every night. That I have wept myself to sleep in the dark and solitude of my room, missing him. Craving him.

I press the accelerator, and the powerful SUV jumps forward. It's a twenty-some-hour drive from Las Vegas to Houston where Lorenzo last was, and I am lonely and in pain and angry and desperate. I should turn on the radio to distract myself, but I don't. I'm a masochistic like that—the pain and anger crystalize as I drive, become a single hard diamond at the center of me. Hour after hour, I fight my memories, my nightmares. And yet, with every hour and mile that passes, I feel myself drawing nearer and nearer to Lorenzo.

He's out there, alive, protecting my boy and the woman I chose to be his mother. I wish I could call him, hear his voice, get his advice, hear him tell me he loves me.

I dare not.

Instead, I drive faster, recklessly, illegally fast. Swerving around slower-moving cars, dodging oncoming traffic, and ignoring horns and middle fingers. At one point, I hear sirens behind me and see flashing lights—I pull off the freeway and lose them in a subdivision.

Back on the freeway, I floor the accelerator.

Four in the morning.Houston is quiet, only a few early risers on their way to work filling the roads. I follow the car's GPS to the address of the safe house—it's in a rambling, run-down, lower-middle-class suburb on the outskirts of the metropolitan area, a neighborhood of narrow, tree-lined roads, tiny ranchhomes with yellowing postage stamp yards and 20-year-old cars in the driveways.