HE TOLD ME I WAS HOLY

13.07.15

"The Wild Coyote knows the first week back has been hard on everyone so be sure to head over there after work for $2 drinks."

Trap music blares from the overhead speakers as a girl dances above me. She presses her smooth, dark hips against the pole, her movements slow . Her eyes find mine and she flashes a smile before flipping upside down. I don't know whether to be more caught by her skill or the curves of her body.

A bunch of us are taking a break from lugging Lucho's booze crates from the back room of the club to his forty-year-old pickup truck. He buys them wholesale from the club instead of hashing hundreds on a couple bottles of Jack every time he's expecting company. It's a fairly lucrative deal for both sides: the club brings in extra money and Lucho can spend more of his income buying mota from his suppliers upstate. Mostly we all exploit the opportunity to spend an hour in a strip club.

Chava suddenly elbows my ribs and I jump, spilling my drink. They all burst out laughing and I shoot them a dark look. Chava starts cleaning up the mess while Lucho leans in. "Liking what you see, Nina A.?" he teases.

"Cállate," I say, leaning forward to smack his knee.

"Not since she looked at you, hijo," Chava cuts in, waggling his brows at him.

He sits back in faux-disgust. "That's just damn rude, Aberquero."

"Dude, you're the shadiest person in the room," Dante says.

"You wanna go?" Lucho looks at him, lifting his hands up jokingly.

I shake my head and stand, grabbing all of our glasses. "I'm getting refills and putting it on your tab, Tovar," I say mockingly. You'd think he'd be a gringo in a polo shirt by the way he talks sometimes.

"If we're putting it on his tab, get me a full pint," Dante calls out. He and Chava dissolve into a fit of giggles as Lucho stares them down.

"Pendejos," he mutters and stands. "I'm taking more crates out."

I snort a laugh and turn away. Lucho buys his booze off clubs and bars in massive amounts, and they arrive in wooden crates bi-weekly. We spend the next two weeks drinking the contents before returning to get his next shipment. Although we don't really mind the trip, all things considered.

I walk through the club lit in fluorescent blacklight, weaving through rows of chairs and small platforms with scantily clad women dancing upon them. Some are topless, others dressed in leather or lace, and I'm careful to stay focused as I pass each and every one. There's something unexplainable about bodies, about curves and shifting muscles and acres of skin that finds the pit of my stomach and turns me inside out. I see a pretty girl dancing and suddenly my heart is in my palms and I've lost my train of thought. It's a mess.

As I near the bar, I notice a dark haired girl sitting with a long-necked, dusty-haired boy. My grip tightens on my glass and I slow to a stop. Silas. Drunk and sloppy, leaning against the bar and drooping over an empty glass. Sofia sits next to him, her eyes wide as she takes him in. My arms burn from the weight of all the glasses and I swallow hard, stepping back.

When he first started drinking, he'd get wasted after two coolers and end up lying in Lucho's lazy boy mumbling to himself. I was already experienced, so I could handle a couple drinks and still be fine. When it came time to leave, I used to have to help him get his shoes on and call Chava to drag him to the car. He was physically incapable of sitting up straight so we'd rest him horizontal in the backseat. Once, he managed to sit up and play with my hair as I drove, calling it pretty. He was only fifteen.

Now he's falling onto other girls and playing with their hair, and it doesn't matter anymore. None of it matters. Especially this - this standing and staring and pining like a kid neglected by her parents. I'm not a victim, not with him. We both made our beds, and now we have to sleep in them. It doesn't matter what he does with his time. He can take care of himself.