The Tax Collector (GirlxIntersex) Book 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Lucia Diaz POV

Martinez's vellus hair tickled my skin as he pressed me against his shirtless chest. His breathing appeared to be tranquil, as it created a wave of coolness on my nape, his hand was tightly gripped around my waist, and my air passed through my nostrils in a ragged manner.

Martinez, my boyfriend, was what I was told to call him. A boyfriend. He freed me from the smell of Mexico and brought me closer to American soil; one day, I aspire to pursue my goals in the country of milk, honey, and opportunity.

My shaking fingers tentatively contacted his hand and attempted to gently push it away.

He grunted at my obvious struggle and tightened his cuff around my abdomen. It would have been lovely if it had been with a man I love.

I want nothing more than to be in the embrace of a man who loves me. I would let him and urge him to squeeze me tight. Martinez's hold, however, was out of concern that I might flee. I want to escape away. But all I have to my name is the name that my parents gave me. They died. Crime takes them away. And Martinez "saved" me.

Did he actually save me? Or was I misled into believing that he did? Would I have survived if I had stayed where I was? Probably not.

But if I was rescued, why do I still feel like I'm exactly back where I previously was, if not worse. I was assaulted by none other than Martinez and a handful of his customers who wanted to cool off before getting a tattoo.

"You're awake." His morning voice muttered, sending shivers down my spine as I realized this was my existence. I have to bed with someone I've never loved, not even in my dreams. His hand gradually ascended, like the sun, and I could feel my breathing deepening in relief.

"Go cook some breakfast. I'll go prepared the shop for today."

"Yes, Sir." He enjoyed it when I addressed him as Sir. It makes him feel phenomenal.

Martinez prefers that I do whatever makes him happy. It causes his dark, nasty brown eyes to lighten. We rely on his business. All of the living space was above, while the business was downstairs.

"Lucia?"

I paused at the entryway, staring back at him. He was still lying back in bed. His black hair was unkempt. His fingers go through his chest hair. "I love you." He said. Martinez did not love me. Because he didn't understand what love was. I had no idea what love was, but I knew it wasn't getting smacked in the face for making a mistake, or being raped or molested in the restroom every night.

"I lo—" I could never let it out, like a dove's wing.

Because I knew I did not love him. His brown eyes sank down and he offered a scowl. His tone signaled for me to come over, and I felt my chest constricted. He patted the edge of the bed.

I gasped as I felt him hold my cheeks. My jaw was already aching from him beating my face so many times.

"I said I love you, Lucia. When I said it, you are entitled to say it back. Say it back." He grasped more tightly. I nodded with a cry. He retracted his hand.

My mouth aches when I open it to speak. My jaw hurt like a concrete slob slamming it repeatedly.

"I love you." I reply meekly.

"Good. Now, go grab breakfast."

***********
Just beyond the clothes line sits the huge wall that separates Mexico and America. The walls had severe effects, yet they didn't stop the Mexican from crawling through tunnels.

I saw myself passing through the tunnels and creating a better life in America. I even dream about it. The gloom of the tunnel, but eventually the light of America appeared.

I didn't know what the first step was to travel to America, and I didn't have the first piece of advice. The dusty breeze lifted the damp clothing, which fluttered in the air.

"Lucia!" Martinez yelled. I exhaled. Martinez did not treat me as I would have expected from a lover.

He treated me like a foster care mother would, despite the fact that I had never been in the foster care system before. I must be Martinez's hands and feet. I meant literally. He wasn't a cripple, but he certainly behaved like one.

"Lucia!" He yelled once more. He never liked calling twice. Upon the first call, I ought to be at his feet, at his service. I hurriedly threw the garment on the line and put a clothes pin over it. The pins won't last long. The winds were too strong.

I raced back into the old home. Martinez purchased this property as a gang headquarters, but in order to avoid suspicion from the authorities, he runs a tattoo business.

But Martinez, along with other guys, buried firearms, narcotics, illicit money, tunnel instructions, and other items that would cause a man to live the life in the cell.

I pushed the curtain beads that separate the rear room from the outdoors. I saw a woman on the sofa and a guy in his feet. His face was straight, his hands clasped in front of him.

"...Lucia bring the tequila." He barked. I ran up the stairs, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of tequila. I'd never seen them before, and I never would, until now. He normally does not provide folks alcohol. Assuming he does. He was either attempting to talk himself out of issues. Which has happened a lot in recent days.

However, anyone leaving Martinez in control of anything remotely business-related is either dumb or a last resort.

I slide back down the steps and enter the room. My eyes were drawn to the woman. She had a mischievous smirk on her lips. She and the man, wore suits. Typically, somebody dressed in a suit may not be affiliated with a gang. Gangs here do not wear suits. They dress like hippies. I hid my sight in the dirt floor right as she was about to glance at me. The sand, combined with the force of strong gusts, has forced it into the house.

I yelped as I felt a huge hand slam into my back, and I staggered forward into the woman's laps.

I gasped when a whiff of her scent hit my nostrils. I remained anchored to the woman's lap rather than getting off.