Things change after that - I can no longer look at Diablo the same way after learning about his terrible, abusive and horrendous childhood. Now, so many things fall into place, like his rage, his reclusiveness.
The world has him wrong. If they knew what motivates Diablo, they too would look at him differently – not as a beast or devil they make him out to be, but as a wounded creature, terrified of being hurt by anyone.
Diablo was not born evil, he was moulded into evil.
As for Troy – no wonder he was always protecting me, I am his brother’s property and he has Diablo’s back.
Frankly, I have absolutely no sympathy for Jimo. The fucker deserved to die.
Christa – God I hate her – what she did to Diablo. But she is smart enough know how to handle Diablo; keeping him angry, guarded and paranoid.
As for Santana – now I really feel sorry for her. Christa must have put so much pressure on her to help control Diablo – keep him on a leash to ensure he never strays, yet he has – he wants me now. Santana must hate me because I came between her and Diablo and now she’s almost obsolete. Knowing what I know now I would like to tell her that I have no intention of taking her place. But would she believe me?
* * *
The FBI – gotta keep my eyes opened, peeled, so I can report to them, remember?
I see a man frequenting the ranch – spending umpteen hours locked away with Diablo. Senor Vito. He’s dapper, 60ish and seems to be giving Christa a peptic ulcer as she’s always threatening to kill the poor bastard.
Who is he? Why’s he stressing Christa? How come he’s Diablo’s new best friend? Diablo seems to lose interest in me these days – has Senor Vito anything to do with it? Imagine me reporting back to the FBI:
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but Diablo is no longer interested in me and spends all his time with an older man these days.’
‘You mean he’s gay? Big scary beast prefers older men, Payton?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Maybe you need more hi-lites. Some teeth whitening?’
‘If it’ll help.’
‘Maybe, it’s time to send someone pretty in place of you. Like Paris.’
Maria and Rosa appear to know what role Senor Vito plays but are mum about it, piquing my curiosity further.
I make mental notes about Senor Vito for the FBI – white hair, shiny shoes, gleaming buttons, a mole on his chin ... probably a big drug dealer – cocaine, crystal meth, crack – who knows?
* * *
About two weeks later, Maria accosts me. ‘Diablo, he want you to get dressed nicely. He taking you somewhere tonight, Senorita.’
‘Taking me whe…? Maria, listen to your English. You finally got it!’
She beams. ‘Of course Senorita. I teach you English all the time.’
Premature celebration on my part. Still progress, if you know what I mean.
‘Finally, I get to go somewhere, huh?’ I’m really bored most days and boring, I suppose. Diablo hasn’t been at the ranch for the last three days – gone with Senor Vito somewhere. Frankly, I’m wondering why he bothers to even have me here. I’m just sitting on his shelf like a trophy. I prefer to liken myself to an Oscar or a Golden Globe. ‘Where’s he taking me?’
‘I don’ know Senorita, but you will see, eh?’ She opens my closet and scans it. ‘He say you must look veeerrry nice.’
‘Oh he did, did he?’
She’s doing it again – she’s getting it right.
Remembering my mission, (because I chose to accept it) I start to stress over my dress and make-up. Tonight, I want to look breathtaking, fantastic, jaw-dropping. I want him to just stare and be at a loss for words the moment his bloodshot eyes rests on me.
Me – I’ll be cool, nonchalant, appear not to notice his ... his enthrallment. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea and the tighter my sweater becomes. My top is snug and sexy, my skirt is short, flared, allowing glimpses of thigh as I move.
I spend hours doing my hair and make-up and when I feel everything is almost perfect, I back away from the mirror and listen out for Diablo.
At around six, the men, as usual gather in my villa for dinner. But tonight they are edgy and keep looking out the window. They hover in the entrance instead of making their way to the dining-room, arousing my curiosity further.
Even Maria and Rosa are behaving oddly – giggling and talking in whispers. What the hell’s going on?
At the sound of a car, everyone rushes to the window. Two men alight from the Jeep and walk slowly towards our villa - Senor Vito and another gentleman, a well-dressed one at that, whose swagger happens to be vaguely familiar.
I glance at my watch and frown. Where’s Diablo? Any more waiting and I’m gonna have to re-apply my lipgloss.
The men enter our villa and the room erupts.
It’s Senor Vito and … Diablo!
The dashing stranger is none other than my Devil himself, Diablo.
‘Ohmigod!’ I cry, my jaw dropping and ruining the cool, composed look I practised in front of the mirror.
He flashes me a long, cool look. ‘Payton,’ he says.
‘Your beard …’ I touch my chin, ‘it’s like, gone. Your face …you look like Troy.’ Actually he looks more handsome than Troy – fuller, more manly, rugged.
He lifts and drops his shoulders.
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Aftershave! You’re wearing aftershave?’
More shrugging.
I touch my eyebrows. ‘The rings ... your eyebrows ... they’re gone!’
More shrugging with a little shifting.
My eyes dart over his clothes. Immaculately dressed - navy pants, powder blue striped shirt, dark blue casual, but tailored jacket - expensive.
‘Wow!’ I whisper, openly checking him out.
Awkward under my scrutiny, he continues shifting in his expensive shoes and self-consciously touches his face. His dreadlocks are sleeked back into a neat ponytail, and I don’t see any of his tattoos right now. Even his eyebrows are groomed.
‘Wow! All my plans for a dramatic entrance disintegrate when I see Diablo’s transformation. His entrance cannot be topped. Never in a quadrillion years did I expect to see him looking like this – like he just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine.
Everyone’s complimenting him.
Even Santana – she stares and shakes her head. ‘Diablo …is really you, Diablo? You look nice.’
Diablo smiles and strokes his chin several times.
Some of the men get over the shock of seeing Diablo and start heckling.
I shake my head and smile. ‘Diablo you do …’
Suddenly we hear, ‘No! No! No!’ It’s Christa threatening to need a bypass sometime soon.
‘What you do Diablo?’ she screams. ‘No! no!’
Diablo’s face falls at her chastising.
‘Why you do thiiis? Huh? Why you shave and you … you … I am your mooother. You talk to me before you do thiiiis. You look terrible! What you do to me? You send me to my grave! You kill me!’ She turns to Senor Vito. ‘You! Youuuu!’
Senor Vito quickly moves behind Diablo.
Diablo’s shoulder droops and I see confusion in his eyes.
I quickly step forward and tug at his sleeve. ‘I think you look …’ I bat my eyelashes several times at him and smile, ‘handsome, Senor Diablo.’
His eyes crinkle and he blushes.
Thankfully, Pedro and Rocky lead a protesting Christa away.
The men resume their heckling and cackling adding to Diablo’s discomfort. Although he’s trying hard to ignore them, he’s distracted by their comments. Suddenly, he whips out his gun and points it randomly at the men and the laughter abruptly ceases.
‘Diablo!’ Senor Vito chides. ‘What are you doing? Put that gun away.’
I expect Diablo to shoot Senor Vito for chastising him but instead, he says, ‘Lastimoso ,’ and hastily holsters his weapon.
Looks of disbelief are exchanged between everybody - Diablo actually apologizing? Unheard of.
Seeing the gun in his hand reminds me that beneath the smart clothes and extreme makeover lies the bad-boy Diablo.
When my smile waivers, Diablo quickly moves towards me. ‘Shall we?’ he says in perfect English. I suspect he may be showing off. I like it.
’Um …eh …y …yeah!’ I allow him to usher me into his Jeep, which he is driving today. I’ve never been in a car with Diablo before so I wonder about his driving. In fact, I didn’t even know he could drive since he’s always on horseback. Wherever we’re going must be really important for him to take such pains with his dress and grooming.
Senor Vito shouts out to Diablo and to my astonishment, Diablo rushes to open my door for me.
I smile my thanks. What a gentleman. Even if prompted.
Still in shock, I climb into the passenger seat. The Jeep is spotless and smells of leather polish – masculine. We drive in silence while I steal glances at him. I steel myself not to stare and fail miserably - I’m simply mesmerized by the stranger next to me. Actually, it’s like staring at Troy now - with dreadlocks. If I had my own way, I’d stop the car under some bright street light, lower my seat and just ogle him.
We arrive at the city centre and he parks outside a restaurant. I glance around for signs of a party or a wedding, but see nothing. He alights from the car, opens my door and leads me into a plush restaurant and immediately, we get a table. Still no sign of a function - where are the others?
Then I get it – it’s just him and me.
Diablo is taking me out on a date.
I’m stunned. Why? I think about all the horrible things I said to him at the rock pool – I didn’t like hairy men, I hated piercings, he was a lousy lay – cringe-worthy stuff, but obviously poignant enough to elicit an extreme makeover.
All this to impress me? Me – someone whose own father can’t love her enough? Impossible.
It must have taken hours in front of the mirror to achieve this look – hours being groomed and fitted and I know he must have hated every minute of it. Hell the man doesn’t even own a mirror.
The villagers are so wrong about him – he’s neither half-man-half-beast, nor is he a devil and stripped off all his camouflages and disguises, the hair on his face, the eyebrow rings – he’s just a shy, simple, ordinary guy. A vulnerable man with a past so horrific, he’s unable to sleep at night.
From the corner of my eye I notice people staring at Diablo and whispering. I guess they suspect it’s him but they’re unsure. I feel a tinge of dismay when I see the fear in people’s eyes. Diablo sees it too. He stiffens and glares at them.
‘Hey Diablo,’ I whisper, ‘stop looking around at all the pretty ladies.’
He smiles and shifts in his seat.
The waiters gush and proffer and Diablo starts fidgeting with his collar.
Some of the patrons are quietly sneaking out, I see. Seems like nobody wants to be in the same room with Diablo. Nobody dares, I suppose. I force myself not to let it bother me and focus on the wine list.
‘What wine would you like, Diablo?’ I’ve never seen him drink wine before.
‘Eh, wine?’
‘Yeah wine?’
He fumbles in his pocket and sneaks out a piece of paper which he holds under the table. He scans the paper, scratches the back of his neck, flicks his chin and quickly stuffs it back into his pocket. In a resigned voice he says, ‘You order.’
I smile at his nervousness and order some sparkling white wine. Within minutes we’re sipping the wine. Well, I’m sipping and he’s nervously gulping his and screwing up his face.
From time-to-time I catch him studying the piece of paper in his pocket under the table.
‘So ... like, this is a …um … a date, then?’
He looks to the side, the ceiling, to the side again, then smiles at me and shrugs.
‘Well, I’ll take that as a “Yes” and I like it.’
He’s smile widens.
To put him at ease, I try to make conversation. ‘Soooo … tell me about yourse ….’
‘You tell me ’bout yourself.’
‘Um, okay, how ’bout – um …how ’bout a question-for-a-question? You ask one and I ask one, huh?’
‘Si. You first.’
‘’kay ... lemmesee …what’s your real name?’
He hesitates.
‘You gotta answer all questions and you gotta answer truthfully,’ I warn, circling the rim of my wineglass with my middle finger. ‘Rules of the game.’
‘Okay, Okay. ‘Diago,’ he says in a soft voice, ‘Diago Cruz.’
‘Diaaaago,’ I mull. ‘That’s a nice name.’
‘My turn,’ he says, sitting forward. ‘Who is Him to you? He your boyfriend before he marry your sista?’
‘“Him”? Austin?’ Not the kind of question I’m expecting. ‘No, come on! That’s ... ’
‘You have to answer tru’fully - rules of the game.’ He’s got me there.
‘Okay, but … I mean, that question?’
‘Answer ... answer.’
I sigh. ‘Okay. Yes, he was my boyfriend before he married my sister - stepsister.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘You have feelings for ...?’
I take my time before I answer. ‘Well, sort off, yeah. Hey! My turn – are you a cannibal?’
‘What?’
‘Cannibal – means you eat ... ’
‘I know what that is. Noooo. I not a cannibal. Where you hear that?’
‘Eh ... um ... Facebook ...?’
He frowns. ‘What book?’
‘Your turn.’
‘Si. You go to university?’
‘Yeah.’ Thank God he’s off the “Him” topic.
‘What you study?’
‘Behavioral sciences.’
‘Mmm. What you going to do when ... you ... you grow up?’
I smile. ‘Hey, you’re speaking sentences. I’m like, impressed. Back to your question: Catch bad guys - like you.’
‘Like me?’
‘Exactly like you. Maybe even you.’
He slaps his wrists together and shoves them towards me.
I chuckle. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘I make it easy for you.’
‘Yeah?’ I take a napkin and bind his hands together with it. ‘You asked for it. Without the possibility of parole, too.’
We dissolve into fits of giggles as he breaks free of the napkin.
‘My turn – who is Senor Vito?’
He looks away, runs his hand over his mouth several times before he finally answers. ‘How you say it ...? He my ... eh ... coach, no?’
‘Coach? Like football ...?’
‘Football, no. Coach like, he teach me stuff ... how to English ... well, better ... ’
‘Oh, you mean like an etiquette coach? Teaching you manners ...?’
He nods several times. ‘Be a gentleman. How to ...’ he drops is voice, ‘how to treat women riiiight.’
‘Ah, that kind of coach. So, he gave you the notes you’ve been referring to all evening?’
A look of panic on his face. He takes a deep breath and hangs his head. Then he looks up at me and grins.
‘You’re busted, Senor.’
He smiles and brings the notes up to the table and crumples it in full view of me. ‘Too hard,’ he confesses and we laugh.
‘An etiquette coach, a makeover, notes to refer to - why? I mean, why now ... when ...?’
He sits forwards on his chair. ‘You teach me how to be good here,’ He slaps his chest, ‘and Senor Vito teach me how to be gentleman. Then I be ... perfect and you want me so much; you chase me all over Mexico, take me to dinner, beg me to stay with you forever.’
I burst out laughing. ‘You aim high. Really high.’
His eyes crinkle. ‘Why not?’
I’m having so much fun right now. More fun than I’ve had in months and I’m laughing out loud.
But yet, I still see the facial mutilations, the barbaric ways, the little lost six year old boy who has just witnessed both parents being killed and who’s suffering terrible abuse in the hands of his guardian. I see pain, torment, anguish and helplessness etched all over his face. All the things I myself suffered after my father brought home a new mother for me. But unlike him, I didn’t suffer any physical abuse, just mental.
We’re similar – both damaged goods. I’ve always tried to act tough, angry, bad in order to survive. He did too. Although his act was radical, extreme and deadly. It was all about the terrain – his was more sinister.
But the pain was the same. I remember wanting to die some days because I hurt so much. But Diablo – he probably didn’t have the luxury of that thought since he was responsible for Troy. He was must have been desperate to survive and live so that he could keep Troy safe.
He’s my abuser, my tormentor, my rapist, yet I feel the hatred inside me subsiding.
‘What? Why you sad now?’
‘I’m not …’ I clear the bubble in my throat, ‘I’m not sad. I’m just …thinking.’
‘Then think loud, Payton.’
‘Okay, I’m thinking – that sure was a lot of exfoliation you had.’
‘Exfol …’
‘But you look nice tonight. Very handsome. I wouldn’t have recognised you if I saw you on the street.’
He sits back and scratches his ear.
‘I would have looked twice at you and thought you were fly, but I wouldn’t have recognised you. Had it not been for ...’ I point to his forehead, ‘those lines …’
He gingerly touches the lines.
We sit in silence for a while, taking turns to sneak glances at each other. But every time I look up, I catch him staring. I remember my mission, but tonight I’m a little tongue tied and frankly in awe of the handsome gentleman in front of me, even though he’s nervous and unsure of himself. But strangely, seeing him this nervous makes me a little protective over him and I wish I was not wearing my necklace with the listening device. But I can’t help thinking that he didn’t compliment me once, yet I too took great pains when dressing.
He downs another glass of wine, sits back and drums on the table.
We grin a little more at each other. Then we study the menus and grin at each other over them.
I order a steak, medium, while he flounders over his choice.
‘Order for me,’ he finally says, slapping the menu onto the table and eliciting frightened looks from the wait staff.
I suspect he’s having problems reading the menu – something to do with his lack of formal education. That makes me even more protective over him.
‘What does your etiquette notes tell you to order?’
‘Eh, chicken.’
‘Chicken? Why chicken? ’Cos you like it?’
‘Nah. Easy to cut. Fish – you need different knife …fork. Meat – rare, medium ... too much trouble. But chicken - is ... foolish? That’s the word?’
‘Foolproof, you mean?’
‘Si. Yes.’
‘Really? Wow.’
I order him a steak with prawns. ‘That’s my second choice,’ I say. ‘I ordered steak as well. Medium, same as mine. Should be okay. If it’s not, you can always kill the chef and take his apron and hat. Or walk over and just steal another patron’s food. That’ll add to tonight’s entertainment.’
He smiles. ‘No. Tonight Imagood. A gentleman.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that.’
‘Watch this, Diablo,’ I whisper and shut the menu hard.
The wait staff jump. We giggle. Then we sit back and resume our gazing at each other until our food arrives.
The moment we finish eating and I put down my fork, he wants to leave – run out of here. I want to linger and spoon but I guess he’s fed up with the stares he’s getting. Well, not spoon – use a spoon.
We do not receive a bill and he makes no attempt to ask for one. I’m unhappy about that. I want to teach him about paying for things, doing the right thing and stuff like that. I’m supposed to teach him how to be good, remember?
I lean forward and whisper, ‘Diago,’ I’m using his real name.
He leans forward. ‘Si?’
‘Can I call you Diago?’
He frowns. ‘Call me Diablo.
‘I like “Diago” better.’
His eyes dance, his jaws set and his breathing gets raspy. ‘Diago is dead. Diablo lives,’ he says in a curt voice.
I shake my head slowly. ‘No, Diago is very much alive.’ I cock my head to one side and smile at him. ‘’Sides, I really like the name “Diago”. It’s so cute.”
‘You like it?’
‘Yes!’
He smiles, drops his shoulders and nods ‘Okay. Si.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
‘Um ... you um ... welcome, Payton.’
‘Wow Diago, your etiquette classes – they’re like, paying off – big time. But Diago, you have to pay the bill,’ I say and jerk my head towards the waiters.
He looks up at the waiters eavesdropping on our conversation. They give themselves away by shaking their heads from side-to-side, terrified to accept money from the infamous Diablo.
Diablo looks at me again, a confused look on his face. Then he turns to them and rattles off in Spanish and the waiters fall over each other drawing up a bill.
‘That’s good. Now don’t forget to leave a tip.’
He sticks his face close to mine and whispers, ‘“Tip”?’
For the first time, I’m actually seeing his eyes. They’re hazel, pretty and not in the least bit bloodshot tonight. Cucumber slices or teabags – whatever - they’re bright tonight.
‘Yeah. Years ago, I worked as a waitress and I relied on them for essentials like booze and weed …’
He smiles.
The bill arrives and I think it’s the first time he’s ever been given a bill. He peers at it, fishes out his wallet, peels of a couple of notes and leaves it on the table, ignoring the protests from the wait staff. He’s about to put away his wallet, when he pauses and throws a few more notes to the pile on the table.
I make a show of thanking the wait staff for their services tonight. ‘I’ll definitely be back,’ I say. ‘My compliments to the chef.’
Diablo watches me silently, a fascinated look on his face.
‘And I’ll bring Diablo with. I’ll be sure to tell all my frie …’
Diablo suddenly yanks my arm and almost drags me out of there. ‘That’s ’nuff thanking,’ he grumbles.
As we walk back to the Jeep, our fingers brush a couple of times. He holds my hand, then quickly releases it.
I don’t react and eventually, he takes my hand in his and we walk hand-in-hand to his jeep. It’s nice holding his hand – it’s large and coarse, but warm, roomy. The same hand he used to strangle me. And shoot me. And throw me off the cliff. And rape me. Why didn’t I mind? How could I not? I know – I’m really fucked up. Surely you know me by now?
As we walk, his hand eventually progresses to my waist. I don’t mind. It makes me feel secure and almost contented. Realising I’m not rejecting him, he holds me tighter and slows down. We drive back to the ranch in silence but he hangs onto my hand while he drives, making me smile. Sweet.
We’re outside our villa. Diablo helps me out of the jeep and walks me to the main door. The night is over and I’m sure he is relieved - he can now relax and go back to his unrestrained self.
‘You tell Senor Vito that I said, he’s done a great job and that you were like, a perfect gentleman. Everything about the evening was great, special and I like, really appreciate the effort you put into it.’
He shifts in his shoes, then scratches the back of his neck, then his chin, then jerks his neck from side-to-side. His discomfort amuses me.
I lean over, kiss his cheek lightly and stand back. We stare silently at each in the dark.
Suddenly I’m nervous – does he expect to spend the night with me? If he is, how do I handle it?
He reaches up and gently tucks strands of hair around my ears and finally cups my face with his large coarse hands. As his hands reach my face I spot little round scars on his palms – Jimo’s cigarette burns!
My eyes well up with tears and I quickly look at the ground.
Gently, he raises my face to see my eyes. With a smile, he plants the lightest of kisses on my forehead. So light, I can barely feel it.
I scratch my brain for something to smart-alecy to say. Probably for the first time in my life - Zilch. My mind has deserted me. Must be something to do with his closeness.
We just smile at each other in the wavering moonlight.
Suddenly, we are startled by thunderous applause. Like two kids busted, we jerk apart.
We have a hidden audience hiding in the shadows, waiting to see how
our date went. Kissing each other goodnight is apparently a good sign.
‘Cállate!’ Diablo roars into the dark and the applause abruptly ceases.
I giggle into my hand, while he gives me a sheepish smile. Now that we have an audience, I want to run into my room and shut the door.
‘Goodnight Diablo,’ I whisper as I open my door.
‘Goodnight, Payton,’ he whispers.
I shut the door on him and hear his footsteps recede.
Moments later, I hear voices outside. I peep through the blinds and see Santana talking to Diablo. After a few moments they disappear inside his room.
Somewhere inside me, I feel a strange flutter - a feeling I have difficulty explaining. If I really try hard, I’d probably call it, disappointment. And that confuses me. I hastily brush my teeth, rip of my clothes and slip under the covers wanting to fall asleep immediately.
But I lie in bed wide awake and post-mortem the evening, step-by-step. I think about how Diablo cleaned up for me, looking so dapper and handsome, his shyness over dinner, his kiss brief kiss goodnight, Santana.
This barbed feeling in my chest – it will not go away. I mean, he goes through such lengths for me, then spends the night with Santana. How is that possible?
It’s like the evening was just a show. Like he was trying to prove a point - he could be better than I thought he was, as good as Austin. My eyes are misting up again so I thump my pillow imagining it’s Santana’s head. How could I lower my guard? How could I allow myself to become so soft and vulnerable?