Truth or Dare: Betrothed

Truth or Dare

Betrothed #3

Cynthia Dane

BARACHOU PRESS

Truth or Dare

Copyright: Cynthia Dane

Published: February 17th, 2018

Publisher: Barachou Press

This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

Keep up with Cynthia’s latest releases by joining her mailing list! Behind the scenes,exclusive bonus scenes, and a FREE STORY!

Truth or Dare

Chapter 1

Where do you think we’re getting the money for that?

Maria’s nine-year-old son hung his head over the card table. You, he muttered.

That’s right. I pay for everything around here. Maria went back to her dinner. Her son, Rodney, had barely touched his. He sat down the moment she returned home from work, but his mouth did nothing but run with hyperactive fantasies of buying the latest Nintendo gaming system. That’s what happens when he has one rich friend. Okay, so the kid wasn’t rich, but his grandparents were, and they had bought him one of those witches or switches or whatever for Christmas. Let me tell you, we don’t have much leftover every month for video games. What’s wrong with the toys you already got?

Rodney sighed. "I’ve been playing them for years, Mom. There are only so many secrets I can unlock in Transylvania."

Well, make more secrets. Maria poked the cold refried beans spilling from her tostada. The things I eat so we can save money. This was nothing like her grandmother’s tostadas, but what could Maria do when one of the only jobs she could get was at a fast faux-Mexican place? Only job I can get where speaking Spanish is a boon… and no college degree required. All the good it did her when she realized the family that owned the place spoke with a Colombian dialect and they barely understood each other half the time. Five native Spanish speakers and we’re all yelling at each other in English. I see you on that Minecraft thing. How many downloads did your last mod get you again?

The boy sheepishly grinned. Five thousand.

"Five thousand? Look at my son. So smart. He’s gonna run the gaming world one day."

It’s hardly anything, Mom. My friends get way more downloads for their mods. Like a million more.

"You’re a nine-year-old boy who does video game things so well that grown adults in Portugal are downloading your mods. What did you call them? Something about life?"

Quality of life, Mom.

We could all use more of that, eh? Now eat your dinner.

She didn’t like telling her son he couldn’t have things he asked for every week. Not just the games, either. If only it were expensive electronics and nothing else! (The boy still didn’t have a cell phone, and although he was nine, Maria hated knowing her son couldn’t call her in an emergency. She was a single mother with two or three jobs at any moment.) It broke her heart when Rodney clamored for school supplies and the stores had stopped running their sales. It didn’t matter how many coins she dragged out of the depths of her wallet. If there weren’t enough for a notebook, Rodney didn’t get one.

Yet what was she supposed to do? They only had her to rely on. No other family. His dad had died several years ago, and his grandparents on both sides of the family had either disappeared or moved back to their home countries. (Or, in his paternal grandmother’s case, was deported.) Maria gave up having a car so she could afford school clothes every year for her growing boy. They ate crap from her night job because there was no money for fresh food – let alone in the food deserts by Gresham. Even with a bus ticket, it was a fifteen-minute ride to the nearest Safeway or Freddie’s. Sure, there was Guillermo’s Corner Market a ten-minute walk away, but the man price gouged as if he didn’t care if he never sold a single cracker again.

They would make do, though. They always would.

Sorry, Mom. Rodney pushed his food away. Not as hungry as I thought.

What’s wrong with it?

Nothing. Not hungry.

Save it for breakfast.

Maria kept a careful eye on her son as he put his dinner in the fridge and went off to get ready for bed. How long until he wants his own room? They had shared one-bedroom apartments since he was born. Maria’s approach to co-sleeping with her son was always, We’ll have another bedroom by the time he’s old enough to need one. That should’ve happened four years ago. Now the rents had gone up so high that there was no hope of affording a two-bedroom, let alone a bed for Rodney. He still slept with his mom most nights, but there were also many mornings when Maria woke up and found her son curled up on the couch, a game controller in his hand. He probably preferred that to sleeping next to his mother.

Maria cleaned up the card table and tossed the food wrappers into the trash. Shit. It’s overflowing. When was the last time she took the trash out? Was Rodney still too small to get the bag into the dumpster on his own?

She was about to call her son into the kitchen when a loud, threatening knock sounded on her door.

One day, when she could finally afford therapy, her counselor would tell her that she had PTSD. Most of it stemming from the life she lived before her son was born, and most of it manifesting when thunderous noises cluttered her life. A heart-stopping pounding on her front door? If it wasn’t the cops come to take someone away or to upturn her apartment, it was…

She stayed still. Nobody claimed to be the cops, but she also knew from experience that they didn’t always announce themselves. Just knocked. Banged. Busted in and demanded to know where the drugs were while men like her ex were arrested.

Maybe I imagined it… Regardless, Maria would save the garbage for the morning. No way was she going out there tonight.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

Stay in the bathroom, Maria snapped at her son, who poked his head out of the bathroom door. Lock it up and do not unlock it until I tell you to. She snatched her phone out of her purse and tossed it to Rodney. Remember what I told you.

Her son aged five years in the span of that second. He latched the bathroom door shut, his finger probably already over the 9 on Maria’s keypad.

Who is it? she bellowed from the kitchen.

Open the door, Alvarez. You know why we’re here.

I ain’t got any money!

We only wanna talk! Open the door!

She approached it, but did not dare open it. "Like hell you do! What do you want?"

Maria had the fright of her year when the handle jiggled. That’s it! I’m getting a chain lock first thing in the morning! It was probably against her lease. She did not give a fuck.

Because that was two of her ex’s old buddies breaking into her apartment.

Antonio had been a big ol’ romantic, but his lack of understanding the more insidious natures lurking within his fellow man had led him to getting mixed up with one of the biggest gangs back in the day. It never suited him. He wasn’t like that. Antonio was a man who went to community college classes in the morning, work in the afternoon… and made deals on behalf of his street family at night. He had promised to officially get out when Rodney was born. He was gonna marry Maria. Their humble but loving life was gonna be the start of something grand.

Then the bastard died. Killed in a drive-by because he dared to want out.

Maria! The man’s accent finally came out when he addressed her in Spanish. Where’s the fucking money?

It wasn’t Mexican dialect. Nor was it Salvadoran, Honduran, or Venezuelan, the three other dialects she heard the most in her grungy East Portland neighborhood. It sounds… Bolivian? Paraguayan? Maria didn’t have much time to ruminate, although a Bolivian accent made her think of someone she hadn’t recalled in many, many years.

I ain’t got no money. Maria opened her arms wide. "Do I look like I got money to you? You know Antonio left me with nothing."

He had something. He still owes us.

It’s been seven years! The rumor was that Antonio had made the biggest deal of the decade when he died. Maria didn’t know the truth behind it – only that he was probably killed to prove a point, and because someone thought he had stashed money somewhere. If only! Maria would have loved to have seen a couple hundred grand, or however much everyone said he had when he died. She didn’t know where it was. Hell, she didn’t know if it existed.

Could pay for Rodney’s college, let alone his school supplies.

You think we forget because it’s been seven years, Maria? She still did not recognize this man. Did he used to run with Antonio and his buddy? Or was he one of the higher ups back then? Now? Were they so bored now that the cops were more up in their business that the only thing they could do was harass a woman who was never in their gang? Harass her son? It’s the sort of shit they love to do. They knew she didn’t have the money, but if they could get a couple dollars out of her – in protection money, of course – then it would be a good night and they could get McDonald’s on the way home to play those video games Rodney begged for every week.

The world was so unfair.

We want the money. The only man who talked now motioned to his friend, who pulled back his T-shirt to show the piece in his waistband. Consider this your final warning. We’ll…

Police sirens wailed and lights flashed in the distance. The men glanced at each other before running out and diving into the nearest alleyway.

Maria let out a giant sigh of relief. She quickly closed the door and propped a folding chair beneath the handle. Even when the police officer showed up thirty seconds later to ask about the call her son made, she spoke through a crack in her window instead of daring to open the door. Not because she thought the gang members were that dumb, but because she trusted cops as much as she trusted her ex’s old crew.

When the cop left, Maria asked