Crossing the Line

  "Of course it matters. I can see the bruises on your body and the blood on your face. You need nourishment to heal. Stay here. I'll be right back."

  She's taking this fake caring thing way too far. "I don't take orders. From anyone."

  "Cut the ego trip for five minutes, Mr. America."

  "My name's Ryan," I call out.

  She leaves the room and all I want to do is tell her not to come back. It's not about ego. The only person I trust here is Mateo, even if he did set me up to fight last night. He did it to help me make money because he knew I was broke. His intentions were good even if the outcome was a big fat failure.

  I'm still standing in the middle of my room when Dalila comes back. She's carrying a wet rag in one hand and something wrapped in foil in the other.

  "Sit down," she orders.

  I could argue. I've been taking care of myself since I was eight and don't need anyone else. Especially someone who's only here to get information out of me.

  "I'm fine," I tell her.

  She eyes my bruised body. "I'll help you."

  Fuck that. I shake my head. "Playing nurse to me isn't going to make me change my story. I'm here to train with Juan Camacho and make money. That's it. So you can just go back to whoever sent you here and tell them I know nothing."

  "Shut up, Ryan," she interrupts as she steps so close to me I can smell her sweet perfume that reminds me of wildflowers. "I'm here because there's something about you that intrigues me. I don't know why. I hardly know you and to be honest you've got a crappy attitude. Now if you want me to stay and help you . . ." She points to the mat on the floor. "Sit down."

  Her brutally honest words coming out of that perfect heart-shaped mouth rock me. While my head tells me to push her away, there's something comforting about her being here. The truth is that I don't want her to leave.

  "Fine," I say, then sit on the mat and wait for her to tend to my wounds.

  When she kneels beside me, I briefly wonder what it would be like to have a girl like Dalila in my life. She's probably used to being treated like a princess. I can tell from her expensive jewelry, the designer clothes, and the way she holds her head high as if she doesn't carry heavy burdens in life.

  Her hand reaches up and she starts wiping the side of my lip with the cloth. Her touch is gentle and warm, reminding me of what her lips felt like when she kissed me at the concert. "Tell me about your life, Mr. America."

  She's trying to get information out of me again. If I had my guard down, I'd probably fall for it. "There's nothin' to tell."

  She sits back on her heels. "Everyone has a story."

  "Mine's a pretty shitty one."

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asks as she leans forward and examines my brow.

  "No." At least none that I know of. My stepbrothers don't count.

  She smells so damn good I could breathe in her scent forever. And when she bends over to tend to the cut on my cheek, her cleavage makes my groin twitch. If she's trying to distract me, it's working.

  "Tell me about your parents."

  I take her wrist and hold it still. I can feel her pulse quicken in my grip. "I don't want to talk about me."

  I need her to back off because I'm not about to be manipulated by a girl who has the ability to make me lose my senses.

  "I'll talk about myself, then." She looks at my hand still holding her wrist. I slowly let go and let her continue nursing me as I concentrate on a spot on the back wall. It's better than focusing on the way she's staring intently at me. "I have three younger sisters," she says in a soft, feminine voice that fills the room. "Two of them are twins, and they're always getting in trouble. Margarita is only thirteen but she wants to be older. She's boy crazy and has a crush on a different boy every week. My mom is an amazing gardener. She's obsessed with flowers and is the best cook I know. She's old-school, so I can't really share everything with her. My parents want me to go to medical school to become a heart surgeon." Her hand falls to her side and she looks down as if she's too vulnerable to look at me right now. "So that's my plan."

  "What about your father? What does he do?"

  I sense her hesitating the slightest bit before she says, "He's a lawyer. Now it's your turn to tell me the truth about your stepfather."

  "How do you know English so well?"

  She moves her attention to the cuts on my hands. "My father made it his business to hire the best English teachers in Mexico."

  "Is he connected to the cartels? Or maybe that boyfriend of yours?"

  "What? No!" She straightens her shoulders and looks regal and proud. "I don't know anyone with connections to the cartels," she says in a frosty tone.

  I hold my hands up. "All right, calm down. No need to get all freaked out on me."

  "I don't freak out."

  "Good. I'm just here for the chance to train with Juan Camacho."

  There's silence for a while. When she sits back on her heels again she says, "There's no way Juan Camacho will train you. He doesn't train anybody. He hardly leaves his house."

  "I guess that makes me a fool, huh?"

  She shrugs. "I guess so. But miracles do happen, so you never know."

  "Miracles don't happen in my world. I'd owe a big fat favor to anyone who could get Camacho to train me. I'm running out of hope fast."

  "What happens if Camacho never shows up? Will you go back to the US?"

  "I don't know." Just the thought of crawling back to Paul and my mom depresses the hell out of me. I'll continue to be the loser they always knew I was and become a professional shit shoveler after high school. The thought is beyond depressing. "Thanks for dropping off my shirt. I need you to stop playing nurse and leave."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're trying to get info out of me and I just don't have any," I say. "I'm not here to make friends, especially with a bossy girl who's as manipulative as she is pretty."

  Her mouth opens wide and she sucks in a breath. "I'm not manipulative. I need to find out who you are, besides a boxer with a killer left hook."

  I look down at the bloodstained rag still in her hand. "I'm a boxer looking for a trainer. Nothin' more."

  She stands and tosses the rag on the floor next to me. "Uh-huh," she says in a sarcastic tone.

  "You don't believe me?"

  "No." She starts heading for the door. "And one day soon I'm going to find out if you're lying to me."

  "And if I am what are you going to do about it?" I challenge. "Kill me?"

  "I guess you're just going to have to find that out when the time comes," she teases before letting herself out. "See you later, Mr. America."

  Fourteen

  Dalila

  My papa is a lawyer who might represent people who don't follow the laws one hundred percent, but he isn't involved in cartel business. He can't be.

  Last night we heard gunshots coming from inside the club as we stood outside figuring out how to get home. And as the club cleared out, I heard El Fuego's name thrown around more than once in the crowd. He's the leader of Los Reyes del Norte. Rico found me and quickly ushered me and my friends into a car, telling us Los Reyes del Norte was responsible for the shooting. El Fuego's men.

  It all confuses me.

  Ryan told me the only reason he's in Mexico is to train with the great Juan Camacho. I don't know anyone who would change their life and move to another country on the slight chance of meeting someone who hardly shows his face anymore. It seems so suspect and I need to get him to open up to me.

  When Ryan vowed to owe someone a big favor if they got Camacho to train him, a lightbulb went off in my head.

  What Ryan doesn't know is that my father knows Juan Camacho. Papa worked with him many years ago. I remember the first time I saw The Great Camacho. He was sitting in the courtyard talking to my father when I walked in on their conversation. At the time I was frozen and couldn't talk. Juan Camacho is a boxing legend. I was just a little girl and Juan talked to me like I was an important person
, not just his lawyer's daughter. Every time he came over, he'd tell me a story about his life. I was mesmerized by his life and his success. I haven't seen him in years, but I know he'd still remember me.

  When my father comes home, I pull him aside.

  "What's wrong, mija?"

  "Nothing, Papa. I just . . ." I don't know how to bring it up, but I figure I might as well just blurt it out. "I was wondering if you still talk to Juan Camacho."

  He raises a brow. "Why?"

  "Um . . . I have a friend who wants an autograph."

  Suddenly my face gets hot. Even though I've done it on occasion, I don't like lying to my parents. I also hate the feeling that Papa is hiding something important from me. He's a strong man and I look up to him so much. I don't want him disappointed in me or pushing me away when all I want is for him to look at me with respect and pride.

  "Tell your friend he doesn't give autographs. Not anymore." He crosses his arms. "Does this have anything to do with the fight you attended last night? I heard there was a shooting. I don't want you to go there again."

  "I won't. I promise." I look at him curiously. "You'd never be involved in anything illegal, would you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I heard Don Cruz ask you for information the other night. You argued with him."

  He sighs, then walks up to me with a concerned look on his face. "Dalila, focus on getting into medical school and stop worrying so much about what me and the rest of the world are doing."

  It's my nature to be curious. Ryan thought I went to the gym trying to get information out of him. He was right. I was trying to find out what he knows about the connection between his stepfather and Santiago Vega.

  What if I got Juan Camacho to meet with him? Would Ryan open up and tell me what he knows about his stepfather and his connection to the cartels or Vega?

  I wait until nighttime after everyone is asleep before I tiptoe into my father's office. Finding Juan Camacho won't be easy, but my father must have a way to get in touch with his old friend.

  Papa's files are locked. I know he's got secret compartments around the house where he keeps confidential information. His office is dark, and I whack my toe on one of his office chairs. Ouch! I didn't want to turn on the light from my cell phone, but I have no choice. His office is like a maze.

  I sit in his big leather chair and pray he forgot to lock his file drawers. I try each one with no luck. The cabinets behind his desk are also locked.

  As I reach under his desk for a hidden key, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I freeze.

  If someone catches me I'm in trouble. Shutting off my cell phone light, I quickly duck under the desk and hope nobody sees me. But who's in the hallway?

  The stories of our neighbors' homes being robbed cross my mind. I know I'm being paranoid. At least I hope I am.

  The footsteps come closer.

  And closer.

  I can tell someone is right outside the office door. If my family is in danger, I know where our guns are. I wouldn't hesitate to hurt someone if they were threatening my family.

  And yet, the thought makes my hands shake uncontrollably. I think of myself as tough, but right now panic stabs at my insides. My heart is beating fast as I hold my breath and wait for more footsteps. Then I hear Lola's unmistakable cough outside the door. I let out a thankful breath as her footsteps get faint.

  I'm safe and alone, locked in Papa's office. I turn my cell phone light on and catch a glimpse of an envelope with my grandmother's name on the return address sticking out of the little garbage can under his desk. I pick it up and find a ripped-up check made out to my grandmother and a letter inside.

  Tears come to my eyes as my abuelita tries to convince my father to remember where he came from. In the letter she pleads for him to fight for the good people. Until then, she'll refuse to come to La Joya de Sandoval.

  Does she know if he's working with a cartel?

  In the letter she writes that she's getting old and desperately wants to see her grandchildren but won't do it under the circumstances. I tuck the letter and ripped check back into the envelope and shove it in my pocket with a vow to see my abuelita soon to get the answers I need.

  Keeping my movements slow and careful, I continue my search for the hidden key to my dad's files. Time is ticking and I keep looking, but I can't find a key.

  I let out a frustrated sigh as I sit back in my father's big leather office chair. Where would my dad's client information be? I stare blankly at the computer on his desk.

  Papa is always on his computer typing up briefs, preparing testimony, and sending out emails. Careful not to make noise, I turn on his computer. The cursor blinks, waiting for me to type in the password.

  It takes me a couple of tries before I get it. It's his nickname for my mother. Sirenita, little mermaid.

  And I'm in.

  As I scan his files, I recognize names of his clients as famous celebrities and businessmen. No information on Santiago Vega.

  I keep scrolling down to find Juan Camacho's contact information.

  Finally I find Juan's name on a list of clients. It has an address and phone number. I quickly scribble the numbers down and feel a sense of relief.

  As I tiptoe back to my room, I'm grateful that the house is completely quiet. In the morning I'm going to contact Juan Camacho.

  And get information out of Mr. America, who might just have one of the puzzle pieces I need.

  Fifteen

  Ryan

  I'm sweating my ass off in the gym. Not because of the scorching heat in Mexico, which is brutal, but because I ran four miles this morning before attacking the punching bags at the gym.

  The problem is that Dalila, with her silky hair and questioning eyes, is etched into my mind.

  Damn.

  I'm not one to get stuck on a chick, especially one with ulterior motives. Hell, for all I know her boyfriend's got a hit out on me. Not that I care. At this point I've got a couple of weeks before I'm kicked out on my ass and then it won't matter if I'm dead or not.

  "If you relax your shoulders, you'll have an easier time focusing on your target." A voice echoes through the gym.

  I turn to find none other than Juan Camacho, the greatest Mexican boxer of all time, walking toward me. He's got a head full of gray hair and he moves slow but I bet he could still kick ass in a fight.

  "I. Uh. Wow, um . . ." I'm too stunned to speak coherently.

  "Go on," he says. "I hear you're a good fighter. Show me what you got."

  I don't move. I saw videos online of when he knocked out Cody Sanchez in the first round of the championship back in the seventies. And when he fought Hunter McGehee, known as the biggest threat to his winning streak, he surprised everyone with a huge upset. McGehee was supposed to give Camacho a run for his money, but that didn't happen. McGehee stopped fighting after Camacho knocked him out in the third round.

  "You're here," I say dumbly. "Wow. I'm Ryan Hess."

  He nods. "I know."

  My mind is a blur. I realize I'm pretty much frozen, and I tell myself to snap out of it.

  "Hit the bag, but make sure your shoulders are relaxed and square," he says.

  I work on the bag until Camacho tells me to stop. When he puts on target mitts and orders me into the ring, I jump in without hesitating. I want to show him this isn't just a hobby for me. Boxing defines my life. It makes me feel worthy of living.

  I know that sounds stupid. But when you're told all your life that you're a worthless loser, you search for something to validate your existence.

  I show off every skill I have. I jab fast and furiously in a perfect rhythm that feels like music.

  After an hour Juan puts the mitts down. "You've got skills," he says. "But you're overly eager and you're in your head too much."

  "Yes, sir. I'll work on it."

  Mateo and a couple of other guys walk into the club. Even Mateo, who's been trying to get Camacho to come watch me fight, widens his eyes as he s
tares at the legend.

  They all greet Camacho with a mixture of eagerness and awe. I'm still feeling like a little kid who just met his hero.

  Camacho stays for a while, watching us spar while giving pointers.

  But it's over all too soon. Before he leaves, he shakes our hands and starts walking out of the club. It occurs to me that I might never see the guy again. I know it's a long shot, but I rush to the parking lot.

  He's walking to his car but stops when I stand in his path.

  "I need a trainer," I blurt out as the hot Mexican sun beats down on my back.

  He pulls out his car keys from his pocket. "I don't train anyone. Not anymore."

  Before he gets into his car, I call out. "Wait!" He looks at me with impatience written on his face. "I came to Mexico with nothing but a few bucks in my pocket. Just a dream to meet you and the hope that you'll teach me what you learned. I've watched videos of you boxing. The way you moved, the way you played with your opponent . . . it was like a warrior's dance. I wanted to be you when I grew up, someone that people admire." I swallow the lump that's forming in my throat. "Someone who wasn't just defined as an unwanted bastard."

  Camacho stares at me as my words sink in, then pats me on the back. "You're a good fighter, Ryan. But I heard you were fighting in the underground cages. That kind of fighting is dirty. It won't teach you strategy or discipline." He gestures to the bruises on my face. "It'll just teach you to beat the crap out of your opponent until they're lying flat on their back."

  "Isn't that what it's all about?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "No. That's not what it's all about."

  I watch as he slides into his car.

  I can't let him leave, not now when his help could mean the difference between a life worth living and one that isn't worth a peso. "I'll pay you whatever you want, Mr. Camacho."

  He cocks a brow. "You just said you're broke."

  "I made fifty pesos last night. I'll give you everything I have."

  "Fifty pesos, huh?" His upper lip twitches in amusement. "I'll tell you what, Ryan. I'll come by a couple days a week to train you. You do what I say, eat what I say, and sleep when I tell you to. Then I'll get you a legitimate fight, and we'll see if you really have what it takes. ?Entiendes?"

  I nod. "Yes, sir."

  He closes the door to his car but rolls down the window. "One more thing. Get a tan and learn some Spanish. You stick out like a pinata in the White House."