Temptation Island

‘What you gonna do about it?’ His eyes flicked behind her, scoping the place. ‘Looks like you might be getting a little lonely in here.’ He reached out, attempted to touch her but she pulled away. ‘You saying you don’t want company?’

‘I mean it. I’ll call the police.’

He laughed. It was cold, dead, utterly without humour. Lori felt the push of wood against her back as she came into contact with the counter. Diego was close now, his breath in her face.

‘An’ how d’you think that’s gonna look? One Marquez boy not enough for you?’

Panic was rising, a steady, obliterating tide. ‘Please. I won’t tell anyone you were here.’

Diego narrowed his eyes. She could see the hard sinews in his neck, a trapped muscle pulsing like there was something living beneath his skin, writhing, contorting, trying to get out.

‘Oh no,’ he snarled. ‘Not until I get what I came for.’ This time, he grabbed her chin, the impact of it so hard, so sudden, she bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Are you gonna be a good girl and tell me what happened that night? Think carefully, now, ‘cause I don’t want no mistakes.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you do. You were with Enrique. You were with him the whole time, the whole damn night. He never left your side, not once.’

‘That’s a lie. You know it is.’

Diego tightened his grip. ‘D’you think Enrique gives a fuck about the truth where he is right about now?’

Hate burned in Lori’s eyes. ‘You’ve done nothing for Rico,’ she countered. ‘You never have. All you’ve done is hurt him and ruin him and take away any chance of a life he might—’

This time Diego pressed his iron-hard body against her, pinning her in place. She could feel every contour, heavy as a brick, inescapable, suffocating. He made a sound of teasing disapproval, shaking his head with grim amusement. Up close she could smell him—the scent was of rotten sweat and something sharper, more astringent, like vinegar.

‘No, no, no,’ he taunted, ‘you’re not listening. This is how it works. I ask you for something, Loriana. You give it to me. Easy. Shall we try again?’

‘I’m giving you nothing.’

‘Then I won’t spare you nothing.’ Diego lunged for her—to kiss her, to take her by the throat?—but she was too quick. Darting from his grip, she ran. She went for the door, forgetting she had cleaned that morning and the floor was still slick with wet. Her feet vanished from under her. Uselessly she reached out to break the fall, spraining her wrist, and when her chin hit she felt a warmth of blood escape, so quick, as always blood was, as if her skin were an eggshell, or a balloon filled with water, thin-membraned and fit to rupture. A heavy foot landed across her back, pushing down on her lungs so that it hurt to breathe.

She heard the click of a cigarette being lit. Seconds later, the door opened, tantalisingly close to Lori’s desperate, upturned face, but at the same time impossibly far away. For a brief moment she imagined help had come.

It hadn’t.

Three other men walked in. Her ears felt cloudy so it was difficult to understand what they were saying. Her mouth tasted thick, the smell of antiseptic in her nostrils.

‘She causin’ you trouble?’ One of the boots nudged her lightly with its toe, then, when she didn’t protest, a bit harder, like a child prodding a frightened animal with a stick.

Diego hauled her up, holding Lori to him, her arms behind her back.

‘Let me go,’ she whimpered, making a futile attempt to break free.

One glance told her that wasn’t going to happen. Circling her was Diego’s gang. She looked from one to the next, with each pinched, expressionless face feeling hope dwindle—then, worse, a shoot of fear that blossomed and spread, climbing into her throat. The way they were eyeing her, sharply, greedily, and with a satisfied reticence that she had not the experience to consider but knew instinctively put her body at risk. One had a long, thin ponytail down his back. He licked dry lips.

‘Try again,’ said Diego, menacingly quiet in her ear. ‘And get it right this time or we are gonna fuck you up so bad that when you look in the mirror you won’t even know who’s lookin’ back. You got that, chica?’

‘Rico didn’t show,’ she spluttered. ‘It’s the truth. I don’t know what more you want.’

Diego tugged her backwards. Pain shot up her arm. ‘Give it to us, Loriana.’

She knew what they wanted. An alibi. The words that would set Rico free.

He was her boyfriend. The man I’m supposed to love. But she couldn’t.

‘I can’t lie for him,’ she choked. ‘I can’t.’

‘Aw.’ Diego arranged his mean features into something like pity. ‘There was me thinkin’ you were his girl.’ Roughly, he pushed her. She landed in the scrawny grip of the guy with the ponytail. ‘Girls do right by their men, wouldn’t you say, boys? But then if you ain’t his girl, then we ain’t gonna treat you like his girl. We’re gonna treat you just like what you are—a dirty fuckin’ whore.’

The scrawny grip was wrestling her. Violently she was thrust into another pair of arms, then another, and another, passed between them, playing with her like a kitten on a string, making her dizzy, her vision gather and dissolve like ink in water. The shoving got more and more forceful, she was conscious of hands seizing parts of her, wrenching at her with ferocity. She heard her dress tear. Someone kicked her, pulled her hair.

‘Stop,’ she begged. ‘Please, please, stop!’

‘Nah—not till we’ve had our fun.’ She didn’t know who spoke. Through the ringing in her ears she thought she heard a belt buckle being unclasped.

‘You heard her.’ A new voice. ‘Stop.’

Lori was thrown to the floor. Through red panic a splinter of blue appeared, like water poured on flames. A hot current travelled down her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling, thousands of needlepoints, each tip like fire. She became aware of her breathing, low and shallow, and her frantic heart.

Diego spoke. ‘This ain’t nothin’ t’do with you, man. Back away.’

The stranger moved. She heard the clean smack of his step as he approached. Smart, controlled, precise. ‘Wrong. Let her go.’

Lori raised her head, taking the newcomer in in pieces—the oil-black shoes, the expensively tailored suit pants, the way a strip of crisp white shirt emerged from each sleeve of his jacket. His suit was the sharp, thousand-dollar sort she had seen on models in magazines and on businessmen who dealt in money and gambling and sex with their secretaries. He was tall. One of his hands was visible. Strong knuckles. His hair, the colour of sand after the tide’s been in; his precise profile and square-sharp jaw; his mouth. In his right earlobe he wore a flat black stud, which was ill-matched with the attire and spoke of something exotic.

The man regarded her directly and with a gaze that was bluer than the colour itself, light blue of a kind that seemed artificial. She saw his top lip was scarred, a jagged groove that ran like lightning, almost ugly, through his philtrum.

‘You got no business comin’ round here,’ warned one of Diego’s gang. They were hesitant with the stranger—they outnumbered him and yet they did not make a move. ‘Walk away now an’ no one gets hurt.’

The man reached down to Lori and held out his hand. With the gesture, his sleeve lifted a fraction and she saw a thin band of leather encircling his wrist.

‘Get up,’ he told her.

Diego was quick but the stranger was quicker, bringing Lori to her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. Smoothly, swiftly, he positioned his body in front of hers, simultaneously catching Diego’s punch in one of his fists.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

Diego’s eyes flashed a caution. One of his guys freed a gun. The weapon was raised.

‘We ain’t gonna tell you again,’ growled Diego. ‘Walk away. ’

One of the crew lunged but the man seized the strike, twisting the elbow back at such an angle that the body crumpled to the floor.

‘My arm!’ the guy howled. ‘My fuckin’ arm, you’ve broken it, you sonofabitch!’

A second swing; the audible rush of swiped air as he evaded the blow, landing his own fist squarely in the throat of his assailant, who performed a sickening pirouette and was slammed back against the wall with a force that made something crack.

The next she knew, they had the gun. The last of Diego’s crew still standing was making a run for it. ‘Fuckin’ get outta here, man!’ he urged his chief. ‘Fuckin’ let’s go!’