by Ophelia Bell
The photo shows a pair of men standing at the hostess counter in front. Even though they’re dressed like the locals, there’s a sharp edge to them that I would recognize even if I didn’t know their faces from the intel Zavala showed me.
“Amador’s men,” he says, confirming my own knowledge.
Ice races down my spine. At least Gustavo is unlikely to cross the border nowadays, so these men are only following orders from afar. They’ll be easy enough to shake, but it’d be a lot easier if I was sure they wouldn’t recognize me.
I rub a hand over my beard. “Please tell me the barber shop is next on your list.”
13
Callie
“How’s that little black dress working out?” Nina asks through a partition in the boutique’s dressing room.
I stare in the mirror at the black sheath I’m trying on, unimpressed. “I don’t know. I’m considering just skipping the party altogether if I can’t find one I like.”
“Your mom’s going to guilt-trip you if you don’t, you know. I might too, just a little. We’re both single for the first time in forever. I’d say you need to go so you can get laid, but since you already took care of that without my help, it’s your turn to be my wing-woman. I so need to blow off some steam.”
I chuckle at her desperate groan as I strip and hang up the dress, adding it to the growing stack of rejects. I stare at myself critically in the full-length mirror. My eyes are still red-rimmed after two days of spontaneous bouts of tears. I’ve mostly managed to avoid crying in public, but feel another wave of despair coming on.
The funny thing is that it’s only half over the break-up. The other half is from the profound regret I have for ghosting Mason after the fact and being unable to contact him to apologize. The best I can do is ask his cousin for his number when I get back to LA and just hope the guy doesn’t think I’m a huge creep.
I grab a blue dress of floral burnout velvet and yank it on over my head. Somehow neither black nor blue appeal to me, though maybe they’re appropriate considering how bruised my emotions are.
“I’m just so angry. At myself more than anything. I don’t see myself having fun this year; it’ll be a reminder of all the other years I got blown off for some stupid ski trip. It’s been four years since I had a date to this thing. Do you know I even asked Mason if he’d be in town through New Year’s? I’d just met the guy and could already picture being at the party with him. I guess that’s pretty good evidence of how done I was with Barnaby, but I still felt rejected.”
Nina’s voice comes back muffled. “You want my honest opinion?”
I don’t answer, knowing I’ll get it regardless. Nina only pauses for a breath anyway.
“I think you do need to get laid, to get them both out of your system. To take back some fucking power. Being single isn’t the end of the world. If it was, I’d have given up a long time ago. We’ll have fun, I promise.”
I pull off the blue dress and stand in my underwear in front of the mirror again.
“I used to think Barnaby just hated me in high heels.” I’m in heels now too, borrowed from the shelf up front to try on with the dresses. Standing here in nothing but panties and pumps, I stare more critically at my slender form. “Lanky” is probably a better word. Too tall for most men—Barnaby included, who’s an inch shorter than me, so I always wore flats when we went out together. In these heels, I top six feet. My workouts consist of running and swimming, and for the past five years, I’ve eaten most of my meals while on the move. It’s hard to put on extra weight if you never sit down, but it hasn’t left me with much in the way of curves, at least not the kind that Nina has. I wonder if the Aspen tart is curvy and big-breasted, then curse softly for even entertaining a comparison.
“If he did, that’s his problem. Any man secure enough in his masculinity would recognize what a fucking goddess you are and be happy to stand beside you. You turn men’s heads wherever you go.”
“I think you’re the one who does that. You’ve got great tits. Mine are . . . inconsequential.” I squeeze my small breasts and shove them together, creating the pretense of cleavage.
“Wits and tits, sweetie,” Nina sing-songs. “Anyway, it isn’t your tits that catch their attention. You’re just . . . I don’t know . . . graceful.”
“Like a giraffe.”
“So we’ll find you a tall guy.”
My eyes shift down to the caduceus etched into the inner well of my hipbone right at the edge of my panties. An unexpected jolt of arousal shoots through me when the memory of Mason caressing me there returns. He grazed it with his thumb repeatedly as though it had a texture, all while pounding his thick cock into me in that tiny little airplane lavatory. I touch the small, red tattoo delicately with a fingertip and note that it does have a slight texture, the lines raised in the faintest relief on my skin.
It’s been hard enough to bury thoughts of him, but those few minutes come back in a rush—how much he filled that small space, overwhelming all my senses, and filling me up in a way I’d never experienced before.
Mason was tall. Tall enough he’d still tower over me even if I chose to wear high heels. I clench my teeth as a fresh wave of regret and frustration surges through me.
“Fuck! Am I always going to make the wrong decision where men are concerned? I’m such a fucking idiot!”
I eye my tattoo again, a new sense of determination filling me, powered mostly by that anger. Nina is right; it’s well past time I took control of my love life.
I pull on the last dress and zip it up, then stare into the mirror. It’s a sheath of blood-red silk with a halter bodice that’s ruched along the midsection.
This is the one.
Mostly it just feels good. The bodice hugs and accents my meager offerings. My tits look amazing in this dress. I turn and eye the backless swoop and the span of silk across my backside. Yes, my ass looks fantastic too. The column of red silk extends to the floor, just clearing the tops of my shoes, and has a subtle slit up one side that isn’t visible unless I’m moving.
I step out of the dressing room for another view at a distance. Nina steps out of hers a second later in a pretty little black dress with a beaded, strapless bodice and lacy shrug.
“I’m thinking of going with a power color this year,” I say.
“That’s my girl! Does this mean you’re going after all?”
“If I buy this dress, I’m required to wear it to a party, aren’t I? And I can’t not buy this dress.”
She bounces and lets out a yip of happiness, her dark ringlets vibrating like little springs. Her enthusiasm has always been infectious, and her wisdom spot-on. I grin back, not speaking because I’m suddenly choked up over what an amazing friend Nina has been all these years.
We head to the counter to buy our dresses, Nina slyly snagging a red lace thong from a lingerie display and adding it to my pile with a wink. I pull out my wallet when the cashier reports the total, which is more than I’ve spent on clothes all year. But my sticker shock fades when I see a jagged-edged scrap of paper sticking out of the little pocket that holds my driver’s license. It’s the acknowledgments page from the back of the book I was reading—or rather, abandoned reading—on the flight from LA.
My heart does a flip and my mouth goes dry when I slip it out and open it up, only vaguely aware that my hands are shaking and Nina’s nudging me asking what’s wrong.
“Happy New Year, Doc. See you back in LA. Soon, I hope.”
—Mason
There’s no number, not even a request to meet, but somehow it’s enough. And while I know Nina and I are going to tie one on at this party, I have no intention of looking for another man to spend the night with.
14
Mason
My starched dress shirt itches, but I don’t move a muscle as I wait beside Booth in a small alcove surrounded by the three closed doors to the Brown Palace’s presidential suites. It’s an effort to keep myself buttoned down, because inside I’m jumping
out of my skin with the need to get this done.
Somehow Booth senses my agitation, even though I’m positive I haven’t given any signs. I’m the model of fucking calm and patience, a skill that’s served me well in the three years since I was conscripted into this assignment, but which threatens to abandon me entirely tonight.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “It’s not going to happen overnight. I hope you understand that.”
I grit my teeth. “Every day this takes, my odds of survival in this town get slimmer. Amador or Gustavo are going to catch up with me eventually. If I don’t make it back to Mexico, I don’t want to think about what happens to Zoe.”
He presses his lips into a tight line, his jaw flexing. “After that incident two days ago, we haven’t had any other issues. You and Zoe are both useful to Zavala, so he’ll protect his investment until he gets what he wants. But I requested a detail on us anyway, so don’t be alarmed if you see a handful of suits shadowing you until we leave town.”
After our lunch the other day, we hit a barber shop, where I was more or less transformed back into the clean-cut sailor I’d been before my Navy discharge. Halfway through my shave, Booth’s phone started going nuts. When he called in, he learned that a trio of bodies had been found in an alley not far from our location, all of whom were identified as members of the Amador Cartel by the matching skull and rose tattoos on each man’s wrist. The killers were in the wind, but it wasn’t as if we didn’t know who’d done it. As much as I appreciated Zavala running interference for me, it didn’t exactly ease my mind. I’d be next if I didn’t deliver what he wanted.
I don’t have time to respond to Booth, because the door swings open and a slim, dark-haired young man in a tuxedo greets us. “Mr. Booth, Mr. Black. I’m Anton, Senator Longo’s assistant. The senator is ready for you. Please follow me.”
He leads us into a marble-floored foyer, through a comfortable living room with blue carpet and brocade furniture, and into an office filled with rich, dark wood. Behind the mahogany desk sits a middle-aged woman with neatly styled, shoulder-length blonde hair. When she looks up and gives me a friendly smile, I have the strangest flash of Callie’s face when I saw her walking through the door of Mom’s hospital room.
But this is no time to entertain romantic fantasies of pretty blonde doctors. Despite this woman’s smile, she has a steely, calculating glint in her icy blue eyes, only made starker by the faint crow’s feet at the corners. It’s the look of someone who knows how to get what she wants and isn’t afraid to piss people off in the process. Which is good, as long as she’s on my side.
She half-stands and gestures at the two chairs facing the desk, the deep blue fabric of her party dress rustling softly. “Mason, Wyatt, I’m thrilled you agreed to join me for the party tonight. Have a seat and let’s talk strategy for a few minutes. Do you have the intel?”
Trying not to let my impatience show at the whole song and dance, I settle into one of the chairs and reach into my inside jacket pocket for the flash drive, then hand it to her. She plugs it into the laptop in front of her, and I wait.
Booth hasn’t told me much about Senator Katherine Longo, only that she chairs a committee to combat cartel activity in both the US and across the border. They have allies within the Mexican government, with a special operations division comprised of multiple organizations in both governments.
Technically I’m part of one of their units, though Booth is the only other member I’ve ever met, that I know of. For all I know, they have other agents embedded with Zavala, but for Zoe’s sake, I hope I’m the only one capable of getting them the intel they need.
“Wyatt’s superiors have briefed me on César Zavala’s request,” Longo says. Her eyes scan the screen in front of her, her perfectly manicured finger carefully rotating the wheel on her mouse and clicking every so often. “It’s a big ask. Getting his brother released is the easy part. Convincing the administration to make allowances for his activity is going to be more difficult.”
I clear my throat, leaning forward in my seat. She meets my gaze and I hold it, ignoring another weird flash of familiarity. “The way I see it, you have no choice,” I tell her. “If you want Amador gone, you have to get in bed with Zavala. The alternative is the pair of them teaming up and becoming a fucking juggernaut. Keeping them at each other’s throats is better for everyone.”
She straightens, holding my gaze. “Zavala isn’t Arturo Flores, as I’m sure you’re aware. He can’t promise to instill any kind of code of honor in the men who work for him, to throttle drug and gun trafficking and maintain peace in an urban center the way Flores does with Los Angeles. Zavala offers us nothing but headaches in the long-term, which stand to get worse if . . . when we manage to take down Amador’s organization. He isn’t the only source of intel.”
There’s the barest hint of venom in her tone, similar to the cold rage I remember hearing when Flores first approached me during my recovery after nearly dying at Gustavo’s hands. This is personal to her, and I wish I knew how.
Flores has shared enough about his past with Amador to give a vague idea of the scope of their vendetta, and Mad, Celeste, and Leo have filled in the rest. His hunger for Vicente Amador’s head started with his wife’s death. Whether or not Amador killed Lola Flores, I couldn’t say. My gut says it’s far more complicated than that, but when it’s your loved one, it’s hard to see through the murk of other people’s agendas to the bare-bones truth.
There’s something similar at the heart of the senator’s apparent hunger to follow through. Did she lose someone too? If so, will it be enough incentive for her to make this happen?
“Maybe he isn’t the only source, but he’s the best, and you know it. And I honestly don’t fucking care how dangerous or how big a pain in the ass any of those assholes are. Can you do it?”
She inhales deeply and turns back to the screen, clicking to open yet another set of files. Her expression retains its hardened scowl, her jaw clenched. Then she blinks rapidly and her gaze darts to me.
I swallow down the sudden flood of emotion, because I know she’s reached the pieces with my name on them. There are photos of me with Rafael and Emilia, scans of the fertility tests all three of us took, and the results of a paternity test proving who Zoe’s DNA really comes from.
The cherry on top is a photo of me cradling a newborn baby girl in my arms. It probably suggests a deeper relationship than I really had with them, but still paints a pretty fucking clear picture.
It’s all I can do not to start outright begging now that she knows the hostage Zavala has is my daughter. But then her expression softens and she takes a deep breath.
“I will do what I can. You have my word, Mason. I fly back to D.C the day after tomorrow, so you’ll have an answer sometime next week.”
Next week?
The open-endedness of her response propels me out of my chair. Hot anger boils up through my veins, spilling out in a torrent. “Next fucking week? Is that the best you can offer? Jesus Christ! Didn’t you see the files? The photos? I need to be on a goddamned plane back to Mexico now. I need to get her out of there. She’s my . . . she’s my own . . .”
Daughter.
I still can’t fucking say it out loud. I just sputter out and emit an incoherent roar instead, angry at myself as much as I am at her. I bend over the desk to point in her face. “You had better fucking come through for me, or so help me I’ll fucking destroy you.”
The senator rises from her chair, her eyes flashing. I realize then that she’s one tall woman, tall enough to look me in the eyes as she levels me with a stare, unflinching.
“You are not the only one in this who has lost someone. Your personal sacrifice would have been enough, but that little girl means everything when it comes to sealing this deal. All the other casualties of this fight against Amador have only become symbols. That’s all the dead can be for us after the fact—an excuse to carry out bloody vendettas that only wind up leading t
o more bloodshed. Claiming it’s for the dead is a hard sell, even when we’re up against the wall. But when there’s an actual innocent life on the line the way hers is? She is icing on the cake. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the current administration just eats up the idea of saving lives like hers to make up for past mistakes. If she didn’t exist, it would take me a month. But thanks to her, I can get you your answer in a week. If that still isn’t good enough, I hope you have a nice trip back to Mexico.”
Booth’s hand on my arm urges me back and I finally hear his voice over the buzz of rage in my head. He’s repeating what he told me outside the door, reminding me that I should have expected this response to begin with. I emit a frustrated breath and stand up straight again, raking my fingers through my hair, only to remember it’s practically buzzed again and feels strange, yet familiar under my fingers. It reminds me of what a cool head I always had, once upon a time.
The reminder sobers me, because for a split-second, I was on the verge of committing violence. I don’t want to be that man. I need to be better.
Exhausted, I slump back in my chair. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough few days.” I scuff my left palm across my still healing right knuckles, then raise fingers to my face, brushing them across the yellowing bruise around my eye.
The senator sits again too, heaving a sigh. She looks haunted as she regards me, hands resting on the arms of her chair. “Believe me, I understand your anger. There was a time when trading political favors seemed distasteful to me, when it felt like the antithesis of what being a public servant was all about. I learned my lesson the hard way that it’s the only way to get things done.
“Power is currency in my world, and between myself and Arturo Flores, we have more than enough to do what you’re asking. We also both have a very healthy understanding of what it means to be a parent in the midst of this. Even though using her as a pawn is not ideal, your daughter is probably the best piece of intel on this flash drive for the people who normal incentives don’t work on. A few are at the party tonight, and I plan to start working on them right away. The rest will get on board next week as soon as I have the opportunity to meet with them. For it to work, I need face-to-face meetings. It’s our best shot at getting them all to agree, and that can’t happen overnight.”
