Kierney Scott - Blurring The Line

Beth stood up and straightened her T-shirt. At some point in the night it had ridden up above her navel. She instantly regretted the sudden movement as the room spun around her.

“Morning, Gatita .”

Beth scowled at the name but immediately wished she hadn’t. How could such a small movement hurt so much? “Aspirin. I need some aspirin…and I need to call my sister.”

Beth covered her eyes with her hands. Why was it so bright? She did not need this assault on her retinas. She could feel him staring at her again but she was too sore to care. He could study and judge all he liked. Thank God it was Saturday and she did not need to make an appearance at the office. She was going to be spending the next twelve hours on her couch, watching made-for-TV movies and promising herself she would never drink again. “I need to call a taxi.” Beth’s hands went to the back pockets of her jeans. “Damn it, I left my phone at home.” It seemed the sensible thing to do last night but this morning she wished she had it.

She leaned over and reached for the hotel phone.

Torres stopped her. “I’ll take you home.”

Beth held up her hand. “It’s OK. I’ll just get a taxi.”

Torres took the phone from her hands and returned it to its cradle. “We slept together. It’s the least I can do.”

Beth’s head shot up. Surely they hadn’t! She wasn’t that drunk. Her heart picked up speed, but then she noticed the small curl to Torres’ full lips. He was teasing her again. He really needed to stop doing that.“Very funny.”

“I try.” Torres stood up and peeled his shirt off. He folded it before laying it on the back of a chair. “I need a quick shower. Give me ten minutes.”

Beth nodded because she couldn’t speak. She tried not to stare but she could not look away. In addition to the tight ropes of muscles that encased his body, his torso was also covered in the scars of an old burn. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew about the injury, but she wasn’t fully prepared for the degree his skin had been ravaged. And she wasn’t prepared for the large Santa Muerte tattoo that covered the entire left side of his chest. It reached from his shoulder down below his ribs. The artist had incorporated the worst of his scar into the design. Santa Muerte: Saint Death. Many gang members, especially Los Zetas, gave homage to the saint. She was thought to protect them and keep them safe while they inflicted misery on others. If there were a patron of drugs and murder it would be Santa Muerte.

Beth flinched. Why did Torres have this tattoo? He didn’t have it when she recruited him. She knew for certain because there was a detailed description of every scar and mark on his body in his file. The DEA had collected the information in case he was killed in the line of duty. Los Treintas had a nasty habit of decapitating their victims and sending the heads to their families as a warning. Two years was a long time. Long enough for him to become fully immersed, long enough for him to become sympathetic to the Zeta cause? If he had, Torres was a threat, to her, to finding El Escoprion, even to himself.

Beth opened her mouth to speak but shut it again. She needed to pull him in. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her conscience screamed that this was her fault. She was his handler. She was supposed to support him and debrief him, make sure he was handling everything. And shit if she had not messed that one up. She accepted his grunts and nods as communication and assumed he was doing fine because nothing ever bothered him. Shit, why hadn’t she noticed this before? She had let herself get so focused on El Escorpion and now they were paying the price. Not all details should be overlooked.

She tried to take a deep breath to fill her lungs but a stronger force was squeezing out all the air, making her breath come in small pathetic pants. Beth closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. “How long has it been since you talked to Frazer?” She tried to sound relaxed but her voice sounded strangled.

Torres’ dark eyes were impossible to read past the cold anger that roiled behind them. He had changed again, going from the smiling teasing man she had seen glimpses of last night, to the terrifyingly emotionless man she knew. The change was so sudden and fluid, like a switch being tripped. Everything about his appearance changed, even the soft lines that fanned his eyes when he smiled, turned cold.

“Why do you think I need to see the psychologist, Beth? Do you think I have gone native? Think I get off on watching the boys make el guiso ? Am I thinking about it right now? Stuffing a body into a nice 55-gallon drum, adding just enough diesel so it burns slow. I know you love details. Ask me, Beth. Ask me how long it would take to burn you down to nothing.”

Beth tried to look away but Torres grabbed her chin and held her firmly in place, his dark eyes burning into her with venom only matched by the ugliness of his words. He scared her. There was no shame in admitting that. She would be a fool not to be scared of him. By choice, she only knew the beginning of what he was capable of, and that was enough.

“Ask me, Beth!” he demanded.

“No,” she whispered. She forced herself to look at him.

“What do you weigh? 140 lbs? Five hours. I would add a little iron, keep it burning nice and hot, and that’s it, in five hours it would be like you never existed. Your life, your identity gone.”

Beth’s joints went slack. She fought the urge to scream and tell Torres to shut up. She didn’t because she knew he was talking about Archila. He had never spoken about it with her before. She only knew the details through the police report. Torres knew all the details though, because he had seen it happen. He had seen Archila shot in front of him before Martinez turned the gun on Torres, shooting him in his left shoulder. Beth’s gaze went to the tattoo again. Under the ugly marking was proof of an uglier crime.

Beth’s back straightened. Fear told her to keep quiet but something else compelled her to tell him, “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped them. Archila knew that. That’s why he told you to go after you were shot. You couldn’t have stopped them. He was already dead, the moment they found him.”

Torres dropped his hand from her. “Don’t,” he warned between clenched teeth.

But Beth didn’t listen. The pain she thought she saw in his eyes made her continue, her compassion trumping her fear. “It’s not your fault Archila didn’t adjust when he got home from Iraq, and it’s not your fault he got involved with Los Zetas. He made his choices.”

“And I made mine?” Torres shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant.” Beth shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t good at this part. She didn’t know what to say to make it OK. “Look, it’s normal to feel some guilt about what happened in Iraq and in Mexico. You survived, that’s what’s important. Why don’t you talk it through with Frazer? I know he can see you this week. Come in.” She realised she sounded like she was begging, but it was because she was. Torres needed to come in from the field. The DEA had gotten enough from him. She had used him enough. They had found Martinez, the man who killed Archila, and it was a dead end.

Once Torres was properly debriefed, he could stay with the Administration or he could go back to carpentry, or do whatever he wanted. He just needed to be away from Los Zetas. She needed him to see that.

“This,” Beth gestured to the tattoo, “this isn’t you. And this won’t bring Archila back. This will only get you killed.”

Torres shook his head. “I haven’t gone native, Beth. You’re alive right now because of this.” Torres slapped the design. “The reason you weren’t killed last night is because of this. You don’t want details, Gatita , but this one you need to know, I hate this.” His voice was low, shadowed by emotion she had not heard from him before. “But I hate what is under it even more and that is why I am going to find El Escorpion. So take a good hard look at it, because this is what is going to save us both. And, no Beth. To answer your question, no I don’t want to see Frazer.”