Page 68 of Liar

He tugs on a lock of hair, resorting back to vicious schoolboy-mode. “How about we kiss and make up?”

“I’ll wait until you’ve finished kissing your friends’ asses. Isn’t that what this is about? You, trying to impress them.” I pause while my words hit home before I issue the punch line. Lightning fast, I swing my arm around, and with the full force of my movements, jam the gun barrel into his groin. “You’ll get the kiss of my bullet if you don’t back off.”

He falls away, hand on his privates. Yet as painful as this lesson is, the pendejo doesn’t get it. He reaches for his gun, as expected.

I shoot a bullet into the ground, barely grazing his shoe.

“Ah. The fucking puta shot me.” He hops around on one leg while one hand still cradles his family jewels.

“Leave now,” I say to the group, “and I won’t tell the Bastard you disobeyed his order.”

A tense few seconds pass as they consider my offer. “Come on. Marifer will be pissed off if the Bastard confronts her about this.” They begin to move away, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

This ended better than I hoped.

“Luciana,” I hear Veronique’s shout.

But it’s too late.

El Calaca’s fist slams into my cheek so hard my head turns sideways. “Don’t think I didn’t see thatespíapush you into the bushes. Better pray I don’t see you again or you’ll get more of what I gave him.”

He stalks away, following his friends.

My friends are on their feet seconds later. “Get some ice, María. Quickly.”

I touch my cheek, feeling for crushed bone. “Swollen,” I whisper. “Nothing broken.”

“Jesús Cristo, Luciana.”

“My thoughts exactly.” But it hurts to talk so I stop myself right there.

“Let me see.” Veronique examines my injury, all the while murmuring a series of short, clipped statements. “That asshole. Hitting a woman. Who does he think he is, harassing people? You should have shot his dick off.” She abruptly stops speaking, then begins shaking her head back and forth. “Your beautiful face,” she whispers so quietly, my ears strain to hear her. “Now what are you going to do?”

But it’s the last part that’s left unsaid that lands the hardest punch yet.

What are you going to do about Nacionales?

19

With gentle fingers, I dab thick concealer over the tender, bluish-black bruising on my cheek. The dressing room light is dim so it’s hard to say if I’m successful or not. What also doesn’t help is that my eyes are two thin slits due to the residual effects of my swollen face and the tears I can’t seem to stop shedding.

I’m trying to be brave. But in this moment, alone in the dressing room and minutes away from giving the performance of my life, I’ve never felt more alone.

Diego is unreachable, at a time I could use some fussy older brothering. I couldn’t exactly leave a message describing El Calaca’s attack and I refrained from calling him repeatedly so as to avoid causing him to freak out. He’s going to miss Nacionales yet considering my swollen face, maybe that’s a good thing.

“Ten minutes.” The knock on the dressing room door causes me to jump.

Ten minutes to pull myself together.

Ten minutes before I face the judges and a live audience.

I have ten minutes to speak to Eduardo, to reassure us both that whatever he’s gotten himself involved in won’t be reflected in our performance.

It’s been said that the greatest artists live in strife and turmoil. In a town where the most genuine artistic expressions are those written on gravestones, I’d say there’s an artist hidden within every one of us.

I swipe at a tear then will the rest away.

The time to feel sorry for myself is over.