I SERVE UP our enchiladas with so little enthusiasm it’s like I knew the cow personally. Even the dab of Hernando’s secret sauce I suck off my fingertip tastes of dust. I remember I only have two plates to fill just before I slop a third portion down on the burner.
Cooper Hanson saved the day. That sucks major balls and so forth, but the glow of the henchman’s gun is still stamped on the backs of my eyelids. I’ve never seen a Normie come close to hurting a hero before.
It meant fuck all in the greater scheme of things. The good guys still won. But with one shot, that nameless, faceless henchman changed the rules of the game.
What if my offer from Hench is a chance to do the same?
No. I hand Lyssa her plate and sag down beside her, though I wind up chewing my lip as much as my dinner. If I join Hench, it’ll be for good reasons. Therapy! Work experience! This isn’t about revenge.
I’m still awake when Hernando clomps up the stairs in his big warehouse boots. I shouldn’t be, but my nerves buzz like I’ve downed ten espresso shots. One thing’s for sure: I can’t tell him what happened at Artie’s. He’d only offer to pay for my therapy, on top of every other bill. And he’d do it, too, even if it meant working around the clock.
The door creaks open and he creaks in: a lanky shoelace of a man with a yawn so wide it tempts lockjaw. Hernando’s always yawning. It’s practically a facial feature. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, as if exhaustion clocked him with two hard hooks. He doesn’t smile often, what with being tired all the time, but he tries when he sees me.
“Morning, mija.”
“Night, technically.”
“One o’clock; means morning. You should be in bed.”
“And miss your culinary critique?” I’ve already grabbed his leftovers from the fridge; I subject them to a blast in the microwave before I plate and present. “For your approval, chef.”
Hernando slumps on the couch, taking his plate with him. First mouthful—his eyes bug wide. He makes this big pantomime of swallowing.
I grimace. “That bad, huh?”
“You forgot the love.” He follows with a chaser of tap water. No booze in our house, not since the accident. “How’s work?”
I rock on the balls of my feet, tucking my hands into my armpits. “Fine. Good. Yeah, it was good. Did I mention fine?”
Hernando narrows his eyes, contemplating further interrogation, but (thank whatever you believe in) decides he’s too tired. “That makes one of us.” He checks our kitchen clock, the one that hangs beneath the cross. “Five hours before I head for the Mart. You’re off Sundays, yeah? Up for watching Lyssa?”
“I got you covered.” I’ll leave something in the fridge, say I’m out with Jav. Lyssa’s twelve; she doesn’t need supervision. Not that I’m biased, having latchkeyed since I could walk.
I push off the counter, shambling for my room. Hernando holds up a hand as I pass. I slap. Teamwork: the Jones-Garcia family motto. We do what it takes to keep our heads above water. I just hope Hench is a life preserver, not a shark.