Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler
you.” She smiled, but he saw that her mouth trembled. “You always keep your promises. You always have, ever since you were old enough to make them to me.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you can be so honorable, coming like you did from Willy and me.”
She made a move to lower her hands; he caught them. “I’ll take care of you someday,” he said fiercely. “You won’t have to put all that crap on your face, you won’t have to work the way you do now. I’ll take care of you,” he said again. “I give you my word on that.”
Chapter 5
“Victor, darlin’, I’m off.”
Santos tore his gaze from the small black-and-white TV on his dresser to glance at his mother. “See you.”
She hooked her purse strap over her shoulder. “You going to get up and come give your mama a kiss?” He made a face, and she laughed. “I know, you’re too grown-up for that now.”
She crossed to him, bent and planted a light kiss on the top of his head, then threaded her fingers through his hair. “You know the rules, right?”
He tipped his face up to hers and arched his eyebrows in exaggerated exasperation. “How could I not? You repeat them every night.”
“Don’t be a smart ass. Let’s hear ’em.”
“Put the chain on,” he said in the sassiest voice he could manage. “And don’t answer the door for anybody. Not even God.”
She rapped her knuckles against the top of his head. “And don’t leave the apartment. Except if it’s on fire.”
“Right.”
“Don’t you look at me that way.” She narrowed her eyes, all traces of amusement gone. “You think my rules are a big joke. But take it from me, there are some real creeps on the streets. And if the creeps don’t get you, the state will. Merry, from down at the club, lost her kid that way. Social Services found out she left him alone at night and took him away.”
“Yeah, but Merry’s a doper and her kid’s only six.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “It’s not going to happen, Mom. You worry too much.”
“Is that so, Mr. I’m-fifteen-and-know-everything?” Hands on hips, she leaned toward him. “When I was your age, I was damn cocky, too. I sure as hell never imagined I’d have to make a living by shaking my tits and ass for a roomful of strangers. I didn’t even know women like me existed.”
She shook her head, her expression sad suddenly, resigned. “That’s one of the things life teaches you, darlin’, one bad choice can screw up your entire life. Remember that the next time you think you know everything.”
Santos knew the mistake she was talking about—hooking up with Willy Smith, getting pregnant by him. Her family had disowned her, and Willy had taken to using her for a punching bag. Bad choice, all right. A real doozy.
He swallowed hard. “I’ll be careful, Mom.”
“You do that.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips, lightly, lovingly stroking. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, Victor.”
He opened his mouth to say the same to her, then feeling silly, he swallowed the words. “You won’t,” he said instead, covering her fingers with his own, squeezing them. “You’re stuck with me.”
She smiled and motioned with her head toward the front door. “I’ve got to go. You know how Milton is if I’m late.”
Santos nodded and followed her to the front door, watching as she walked down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked back at him, smiled and waved. A lump in his throat, he returned her smile, then closed the door. He reached for the safety chain, then stopped, taken by the urge to run after her and give her the hug and kiss she had asked for earlier, taken by the sudden and overwhelming need to hold on to her, the way he hadn’t allowed himself to in a long time, to hold on to her and tell her he loved her.
What would he do if he lost her?
He opened the door and started into the hall, but caught himself short, feeling more than a little bit silly. He was too old to cling to his mother the way a baby would, too old to need her coddling and reassurance. He laughed to himself. All her talk of losing him, all her worries and warnings, had momentarily unnerved him. He laughed again. Next, she would have him believing in the bogeyman and the kid-eating monster in the closet.
With a snort of amusement at his own imagination, Santos fastened the chain, and made a beeline for his room. He dug his shoes out from under the bed, put them on, then sat to wait.
He checked his watch. He would give his mother a tenminute head start before he left to meet his buddies. He met them every night at the abandoned elementary school on Esplanade and Burgundy, at the northern edge of the Quarter.
His mother’s words filtered through his head, the ones about Social Services, about her fear of losing him, and he pushed them away. His mother worried too much; she treated him like a baby. He had been meeting his friends this way for the entire summer and weekend nights during the previous school year. He always made sure he beat his mother home; he, like all the kids, steered cleared of both the cops and trouble. And as he had promised his mother, he was always careful. He had never even come close to getting caught.
Exactly ten minutes later, Santos unlocked the door again and headed out into the hallway. Moments later, the hot New Orleans night enveloped him. He muttered an oath. Nine-thirty at night and it was still hot.
Santos brought a hand to the back of his already damp neck. That was the thing people didn’t get about New Orleans summers, the thing that made those long months nearly unbearable—it never cooled down. Sure, other places got hot during the summer, some got hotter. But those places got some relief when the sun set.
New Orleans remained at the boiling point, May through September. In August, they were all nothing more than human crawdaddies. The tourists he talked to acted so surprised by the heat. Invariably, they asked how he stood it. New Orleanians didn’t “stand” the heat, they just got used to it. To his mind, there was a difference.
Santos lifted his face to the black sky, and breathed deeply through his nose. The air may not have cooled, but in the last few hours it had changed, the Quarter with it. He found the difference both subtle and glaring—like the difference between natural light and neon, between the scent of flowers and perfume. Like the difference between saints and sinners.
Indeed, the shoppers and businesspeople had disappeared with the day, making way for the night people. Night people came in two varieties, those who lived on the fringe, and those who lived on the edge. Fringe people were people like his mother, ones who didn’t quite fit into the standard, all-American, Norman Rockwell mold, though they wished they did. Those who lived on the edge did so by choice, because they liked the life.
Music, bluesy and sad, trickled from an open balcony somewhere above him, from another the sounds of sex. Santos jogged past them, ducking down an alley, choosing the less-traveled streets, careful to avoid the paths his mother might choose, careful to avoid being seen by anyone who might report back to her.
From a corner restaurant came the clatter and clank of pots and pans, the enticing smell of boiling seafood. Santos passed behind the restaurant, then wrinkled his nose as he dodged a particularly ripe garbage bin. Nothing like a day or two in the heat to transform crabs and shrimp from enticing to sickening.
The school in sight now, he slowed his pace. It wouldn’t do to be seen running in this neighborhood—with the amount of poverty and crime here, the cops were always cruising the area, always on the lookout for a young male fleeing the scene.
Santos circled around to the back of the school. After making sure nobody was watching, he ducked behind a row of wildly overgrown oleander and sweet olive bushes. There, as he knew he would, he found a window propped open with a brick. He hoisted himself up to the ledge