Boca snorts.
The calm one doesn’t.
“My name is Toro,” he says.
Of course it is.
“Do I clap?”
“No. You listen.”
“I’m more of a performer.”
His hand flashes out and grabs my jaw. Not a slap. Not messy. Just fingers digging into bruised skin until my eyes water.
“You listen,” he repeats softly.
I breathe through it.
His thumb presses near the split in my lip. Pain blooms hot and fast.
“You’re alive because alive women make better messages,” he says. “Dead women are useful once. Living ones keep screaming.”
I hold his stare.
Inside, something small and scared tries to curl up.
I don’t let it.
“I’m not much of a screamer,” I say.
His gaze drops to my throat, then lower to the marks Shady left above the edge of my bodysuit. Bite. Kiss. Teeth. His expression changes, just barely.
“Road captain seems to like your screams.”
Something ugly rolls through me.
Not shame.
Rage.
Those marks were mine before they were his. My choice. My skin. My night. My mistake if I wanted one. These men looking at them makes me feel like somebody opened a bedroom door they had no right touching.
“Keep staring,” I say. “It’ll give him a reason to start with your eyes.”
Toro smiles faintly. “You believe that gringo will save you?”
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t know.
Because sí, I do. I believe that stubborn gringo knows roads better than prayers, and I hate how much of me is already waiting for the sound of his bike.
Toro lets go of my jaw.
“That’s good,” he says. “Belief makes the fall hurt more.”
Boca walks to a table set up near the roses. Burner phones. A laptop. Camera. A folded Saints Outlaws shirt. A woman’s compact. A roll of silver duct tape. A knife.