Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

|4 |

We climbed the stairs to the hotel - the one Guero had whispered about, a safe haven if things went south. Each step felt like fire in my legs, the burn a stark reminder of the urgency. I glanced back; Teresa was right there, her eyes darting around, a fortress of caution.

"Here, this is it," I murmured, eyeing the room number. My hand slipped under the mat, fingers closing around the key. We burst through the door, the world outside momentarily shut out. Down the stairs we went, into the heart of the room, where shadows played tricks with my mind.

I made a beeline for the closet, where Guero said the book would be. Stretching up, I grasped it, feeling the weight of secrets in my hands. Teresa's gaze was a tangible thing, burning into me.

"What is that?" Her voice was a mix of curiosity and suspicion, slicing through the silence.

I turned, our eyes locking, and my heart stuttered. I had to make her understand, to trust me.

"Guero said... this book, it's our ticket out. We take it to Epifanio, trade it for our lives." My voice was a whisper, heavy with the gravity of our situation.

Teresa nodded, her hands finding mine, a lifeline to my fraying nerves. I was unraveling, and despite my efforts to hold it together, the world was crumbling at the edges. "Everything will be okay, I promise. I'll call Epifanio, you try to rest," she said, her voice a soothing balm.

I don't know how long I was out, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. I jolted awake, my eyes scanning the dim room for Teresa. She was gone. "Teresa?" My voice echoed in the emptiness. No response. I swung my legs over the bed, arms hugging myself as I searched the small, cramped space. No sign of her.

Heart pounding, I crept upstairs, peeking outside but careful not to expose myself fully. "Teresa?" I whispered into the night. Nothing. Where could she have gone? She wouldn't abandon me... would she? I shut the door, the realization hitting like a physical blow. She left. She actually left.

Shit, the book.

I bolted back down, taking the stairs two at a time, panic fueling my movements. I tore apart the room, flipping the mattress, scattering clothes, overturning the nightstand. "Damn it, Teresa!" I yelled, my fingers raking through my hair. "God, fucking damn it."

I couldn't believe she'd do this to me. After everything, letting her crash at my place with Guero, slipping her cash for those fancy shoes and outfits. She was my best friend, and I'd moved mountains for her, only for her to stab me in the back? A heavy sigh escaped me, eyes squeezed shut as the betrayal settled in like a cold fog. I had to get out of Mexico. Staying meant death, that was for sure.

I shook my hands, trying to jolt them awake from numbness. Another deep breath, and I started pacing the room, gathering essentials with a frantic energy. Once packed, I headed upstairs, stepping outside with caution, checking both ways before darting down the side stairs.

Where was I supposed to go now? If Teresa took the book to Epifanio, how could I possibly bargain for my life? What did I have left? Nothing. That's what I had—nothing. What were my options now?

I've been trudging through this godforsaken desert for what feels like an eternity. The sun, relentless and cruel, sears my skin with each passing second. My water ran out ages ago, leaving me to survive on sheer desperation. Then, like a mirage, I spot it—a small station on the horizon. My heart leaps, and I push my exhausted body forward, each step heavier than the last.

As I near the station, a sense of unease creeps over me. There's no life here—no cars, no people, not even a stray dog. Just an old man sitting outside a dilapidated store, his eyes hollow, staring into nothingness. I approach him, my voice barely a whisper, "Help me, please." He doesn't respond, only nods towards a rusty water pump nearby.

Something's off. This place feels like a ghost town. I climb the creaky steps to the store, the old man's gaze following me, empty and unsettling. "Hola, do you have a phone?" I ask in Spanish, my voice trembling. He remains silent, a statue in the heat. "Please, I need to—" My plea is cut short by the roar of an engine.

A truck screeches to a stop, dust billowing around it. My heart stops as I realize—they've found me. Panic surges through me like electricity. I bolt from the porch, my feet almost betraying me, but I regain my balance and sprint into the barren landscape. Behind me, car doors slam, and shouts pierce the air. I risk a glance back; two men, guns glinting in their hands, are gaining on me.

They're going to kill me. The thought propels me forward, my lungs burning, my legs screaming in protest. But I can't stop. Not now. Not ever.