Buried (Hiding From Love #3) by Selena Laurence Read Free Book Online Page A

Fuck, man. How can Mexico be worse than prison ?”
    And there it is, the crux of it all. As usual, David is too damn smart for his own good. And certainly for mine. I debate. Do I pull out RH Juan? Tell David to fuck himself, threaten him maybe? It’d send him and Beth on their way for good, I have no doubt. There’s no chance David will risk Beth’s safety if he thinks I’m violent or unpredictable. It’s what I ought to do. The smart, safe thing to do, because if he can ask the question—why is living in Mexico worse than living in prison—then he can search for the answer, and I can’t let that happen.
    But somewhere deep inside me, there is a seventeen-year-old straight-A student and soccer star clawing to be free. A young man who has a future and wants to claim it in spite of the odds that it’s already far too late. So I don’t pull out RH Juan.
    “You got to believe me on this one, hermano . For me , living in Mexico would be worse than being in prison.” Then, before he can say another word, I give him a quick tap on the shoulder. “Thanks a lot for coming by. Tell Beth I said goodbye. Take care, bro.”
    I head inside faster than one of my homeboys leaves the scene of a turf war.

    Most kids think they live under constant rules. Schools, parents, coaches, sports, games—they all have rules. It seems, when you’re ten or twelve, that your life is nothing but rules. At seventeen, I thought being an adult meant I’d finally be out from under the rules. I’d be free to do what I wanted, go where I wanted. Little did I know that, by the time I was eighteen, I’d be living with more rules to follow than I’d had in the rest of my life combined.
    Gangs may seem like they’re chaotic, disordered anarchy. They’re anything but. Some of the smartest men I’ve known are the higher-ups—the lieutenants and captains—in gangs. There are rules in gangs. Lots and lots of rules. And when you’re me, the rules are even stricter. From the very first day with the RH, I lived under a complex set of rules designed to get the most use out of me while affording me the protection I needed.
    I went from the rules of the RH to the rules of prison, which are even more complex because they involve the rules of the prison administration, the rules of the legal system, the rules of the prison guards, the rules of the prison gangs, the rules of the guy in the laundry who’s a lot fucking bigger than you and doesn’t feel like doing his share of the work. It’s nothing but rules day in and day out. And you’d sure the fuck better learn them fast or you’ll never make it without becoming someone’s old lady or a corpse.
    Now, at the halfway house, there are fewer rules, but enough to keep the place from blowing up. The rules about visitors are simple. You can have visitors outside and no more than two at a time. I’ve stayed inside the last couple of days to make sure that Beth can’t ambush me again. I feel certain that David is done with me, but Beth is another issue. She’s persistent as fuck, and I’m worried that she won’t give up without me doing something I’ll despise myself for afterwards.
    That’s why, when the house manager knocks on the door to my room and tells me I have a visitor out front, my gut clenches at the same time my heart speeds up and my palms start sweating. God, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to send her away, and I don’t want to hurt her. The mere thought of it is killing me inside.
    “Who is it?” I ask through my door.
    “Your priest,” the manager answers.
    I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, but I hear his feet retreating, so I know I have to handle this myself.
    I stand up, run a hand through my hair, and try to get my head on straight. I have to be firm with her. Just tell her in no uncertain terms that she can’t come back, that I don’t want her help. No matter how much of a lie it is, I have to tell it. After all, I’ve told far worse lies in