COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 11 | Little Goddesses

trigger warning - gore :P

There's a full-blown party going on in this otherwise deserted landscape. Men sit at several tables drinking and playing cards. A young guy pours shots behind a counter. I see only one woman. Blonde hair and dark roots, she's wearing even more jewelry than Eris and a tight red dress, accentuating her clearly artificial breasts. Along the walls hang various paintings. In the dim light I can't see them well—only the men surrounding them, inspecting them closely and talking excitedly in Spanish. Gold and silver chains hang off their necks. Tattoos cover some of their arms. There's old and young, light-skinned and dark-skinned, fat and muscled. The one thing they all seem have in common are the massive watches adorning their wrists.

The place smells dusty—it was probably just a safe house for drugs before they decided to turn it into this. Are they all Mexican? I have no idea. My question is how they got over the border without the DEA going for their throats. Or maybe they're local gangsters. Just how involved are gangs with the cartels around here? I should ask William.

The moment Eris and I walk in, all eyes turn to us. Some of the men smile, waving her over to their table. Even with her meager height she takes up half the space in the room, chin held high with pride. They've been waiting, waiting for her. She doesn't even tremble while my chest tightens, panic bubbling through my body. I underestimated her, writing her off as this air-brained party girl with exaggerated cockiness, good only at ripping off classical art.

But she has every reason to be cocky. With the gun in the pocket of her jeans, the golden handle with the diamond Virgin of Guadalupe sticking out, she commands attention.

Two men approach us. One of them is the guy with the slicked-back hair and polo shirt from earlier. He has a cigarette between his lips, the smoke stenching up the room. The other is a short, chubby guy with no gun on him that I can tell. He has a baby face, and I'd guess he was twenty at most if it wasn't for his receding hairline.

They greet Eris with cheek kisses and hugs like they're family, and then they look at me.

Eris tells them something in Spanish, and I can only make out my name and the word Canada. She's introducing me. Is she telling them I'm her enemy, a fellow artist, or just some random girl from school? I'm dying to know.

The polo shirt guy switches to a heavily accented English. "Ah. So you are Diosita's artist friend."

I'm thrown off, almost disgusted by the word friend, but instead of dwelling on that I ask, "Diosita?"

"Just what they call me," Eris says.

"What does it mean?"

She leans in closer to whisper into my ear, "Little goddess. Just like you, pendeja."

I try not to cringe at her proximity, the air too hot. If people gave her that nickname it must mean she's respected—a prophecy for what she can become. Panic thrums in waves down my chest, my legs, Eris' whisper echoing in my head like a broken tape.

Calm down, I order myself. Just pretend they're judges in an art contest; pretend that you're important. With that, I give polo shirt guy a fake smile. Did he ever buy my father's paintings? Did Marcus ever come into direct contact with these people? Did Iker ever take him, like Eris is taking me now, to these art shows in the middle of fucking nowhere?

"Persephone," she drawls, pronouncing it how one would in Spanish, and the room feels even hotter, scorching. "This is one of my godfathers. Alfonso."

Polo shirt guy shakes my hand. His palm is rough and calloused, like he used to do field work before he became whatever he is now. Smoke from his cigarette blows my way. It stings my eyes, and I try not to cough.