Always Room for Cupcakes (Cupcakes 1)

“Show me your tits,” he said next.

As I moved to comply, the guy on the other side of me muttered, “Jefe,” which got Hector’s attention.

Hector turned around, saw what was going on in the backseat, told me to “Put your shit back on,” and started screaming at ugly as sin in rapid-fire Spanish.

I didn’t know how long we’d been driving, but when my shirt was back to rights, we slowed down and then the van stopped.

“Get out.”

I followed the tattle-tale guy out of the van, then waited to see where we were going next.

Hector took me by the arm and led me in to an old warehouse, looked over his shoulder and gave the guy behind us some sort of instructions in Spanish, and I heard a gun fire.

I glanced behind me to see what had happened, and watched with disinterest as ugly as sin dropped to the street behind me. Dead.

Turning my head back, I let Hector guide me inside without making a peep.

We walked into the dark warehouse, through a large open area, then into an office of some sort. We kept going through another door into a large bay that was sectioned off. There was a light in the distance, and we headed toward that.

When we turned the corner and into the lit space, I saw three folding chairs. One was empty. One had a gun, a saw, a sledge hammer, and pliers laying across it. And, in the last one sat a barely conscious, obviously beaten, Moose.

“What’d you do to her?” Moose asked, his voice hoarse as if he’d been yelling, or screaming.

His head was rolled to the side, his hands tied behind his back, and he had his good eye trained on me. His other was swollen shut.

Unsure of what I should do, and distracted by an overhead light that’s fluorescent light kept blinking and buzzing, I stood there waiting for instruction, my attention moving from Moose to the light above me.

“Hey, Red.” Hector snapped his fingers in front of my face, pulling me away from the flickering light and back to him.

“Don’t call me that,” I said automatically.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, bitch, now go pick up the pliers then sit in that chair.”

I didn’t flinch when he yelled in my face, rather just moved to do what he’d told me to.

When I was in the chair, pliers in hand, I looked at him expectantly.

“Use the pliers to break your finger.”

I lifted my left hand, spreading my hands out in a fan before looking back at Hector in question.

“Pointer,” was his response.

Placing the pliers around my finger, I began to squeeze, feeling a faint twinge of pain. I looked back at Hector, who yelled, “Do it!”

I put more pressure on the handles as Moose started pleading, “No, no, Lila, don’t do it.”

“Break it,” Hector ordered.

I squeezed the handles with all my might then jerked my right hand up as I pulled my left down, twisting as I did. I felt the white-hot pain at the same time I heard the satisfying sound of the bone crush beneath the pliers.

I bit back a wave of nausea and was aware of the sweat running down my face; still, I looked up at Hector and waited further instruction.

“Good, Red,” He said, and I felt the sudden urge to turn the pliers on him and take out an eye. Hector must have read my intent, because his face hardened and he bit out, “Don’t even

think about it. Put the pliers down.”

I tossed them down, the clang of metal hitting the floor echoing in the room.