by Logan Fox
Die, die, die.
She squashed the new chorus in her head and swung open her bedroom door. Bailey waited though, and she sighed as she flounced inside. He was just being a gentleman, of course—but tonight she felt stubborn as fuck.
It was the way they just expected her to curtsy and go where they pointed.
It was enough. She’d hear them out, consider all their advice, but it would be her making the decisions from now on out.
Even if it meant she made the wrong ones.
Because life was for living, not for being told how to breathe.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, as soon as she’d shut the door. Bailey wore a deep frown when she turned to him. He had slight wrinkles there, even when he wasn’t frowning, just because he did it so much. At least, with him, she could keep a pulse on his emotions. Finn and Lars were masters at keeping their thoughts and feelings hidden.
Well, except for tonight.
“Really?” Bailey snapped. “So I should have let him fall?”
“Not that!” she yelled and then immediately lifted her hand, trying desperately to calm herself. “You punched him.”
“He was—he was—” Bailey spluttered. “He looked about to fucking rape you.”
“He wasn’t,” Cora said, again had to lower her voice before adding, “But there’s something you should know. We did…we had sex. Me and Finn.” She pressed her eyes closed, the voice of her English tutor rattling like dry twigs in her head. “Finn and I,” she added softly. “We’re…” She shrugged. “We’re sleeping together.”
She had no other way to describe it. They weren’t an item—except maybe they were?—and they definitely weren’t dating. Not that she would know the difference. She’d experienced neither.
“You fucking serious right now?” Bailey asked. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded deathly concerned. “That man’s a monster, Cora. Was it…was it even consensual?”
She blinked at him, having to squint the closer he came. For a moment, she had no idea what the word even meant, and then…
He caught her hand before she could slap him.
“You have no right to question me,” she breathed. Iron straps bound her chest, and her fingertips felt like they’d been immersed in electrified water. “I am capo—”
“If you’re capo, then I’m the fucking pope,” Bailey snapped. “This whole thing is so ridiculous, I don’t even know—”
Cora shot to the tip of her toes, slid her hand behind Bailey’s neck, and kissed him.
It hurt—Finn had kissed her so hard that he’d drawn blood from the inside of her lip—but that pain faded the instant she tasted him. Another memory, one that had buried under all the others she’d hidden away, escaped and played in glorious 4-D across her mind; the day Bailey had smuggled a bottle of champagne out of the kitchen, and they’d slipped into the stables to drink them.
She loved the stables, of course, but knew he didn’t. When she’d asked him about it, he’d explained it was one of the few places in Swan Manor where there were no surveillance cameras.
Thinking back, that alone should have been a tell-tale sign. There were probably hundreds scattered through time. Things she should have noticed. The odd phrase, or bit of knowledge that would have seemed strange for him to know.
But she’d been a naive fool back then.
She still was.
Her father had sheltered her so much that she believed they’d been safe. He’d made her think that the cartel was annoying job that he was eager to retire from. A dangerous one, but only to him. As if getting shot was an occupational hazard.
When in fact it was a contagious disease. And he’d infected her by not leaving the cartel. Now she’d contracted that same propensity towards violence. She called to it like a siren, and it had stalked her every minute of every day.
But back then, she hadn’t wondered about Bailey’s loyalty. She’d wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. To have him touch her breasts, her stomach…to have his hand between her legs.
An early birthday present, he’d called the bottle of champagne. And it wasn’t even a knock-off sparkling wine—he’d obviously taken it from her father’s wine cellar.
The only contact she’d ever had with Europe was their wines. And even that had only ever been fleeting—an inch here and there, whenever her father celebrated something.
She’d gotten drunk pretty quickly. Too quickly, despite how Bailey had tried to restrain her.
He had seemed pissed off at her, himself, everything. At least, that’s what she could remember. Bailey muttering angrily about her being ‘just a girl’, and that ‘it wasn’t right’. Back then, she’d thought he was regretting giving her the alcohol.
Now?
Now she wondered if he’d been regretting his decision to spy on her. Or to be a part of the events that took place the next evening. The death threat, her being sent from Swan Manor.
Originally, he would have been the one to drive her.
True, she had eventually ended up in the same place, but…how different would her life be?
Would she be kissing him right now?
Or would she already be married to Neo, consummating a marriage she’d had no say in. No one but Bailey on her side, and nothing that he could do to save her.
He’d kissed her that night, the night she’d gotten so tipsy on the champagne. After helping her up the stairs, he’d carried her down the landing to her room. Kicked the door closed behind them. And then laid her on her bed.
While he’d still been crouched over her, she’d felt his lips against the side of her neck. Then her jaw.
His breath had warmed her cheek, and she’d turned her head because it was the nicest thing she’d ever felt and she’d wanted more.
He’d only hesitated for a second before pressing his lips against hers. Once, hard. Then he’d drawn back, touched her again, and urged her mouth open with hungry lips.
That kiss had turned her on so much, she’d moaned and tried to grab his shoulders. And that sound must have been what scared him off, because in an instant he pushed away from her and took a step back, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth like he’d come into contact with a plague victim.
Her door had slammed so hard, she’d thought he’d broken it.
She’d wanted to go after him, to tell him it was okay, but her body was too heavy and reluctant to move. She passed out a few minutes later, her fingers touching her lips where she could still feel the tingling ghost of their kiss.
So when she moaned again now, in the present, it was no surprise that Bailey drew back from her.
He held her at arm’s length, studying her face with that frown puckering his brow. “Cora…what are you—?”
“Things are different now,” she said, her voice sounding too thick. She cleared her throat, and stepped closer to Bailey, but he took a step back to keep the same distance between them. “I’m not a girl anymore.”
“But you said you’re sleeping with him,” Bailey said. His gray eyes flashed over her face. His mouth was an unmoving, curving line. She’d always loved his mouth. He had a clearly defined Cupid’s bow that lent his lips a sensuous shape. His mouth had intrigued her since she’d been fourteen. And she knew he’d caught her looking at his lips.
So why the hell had it taken him six years before he’d kissed her?
“I am,” Cora said.
Bailey let out a small laugh. “So why would you…?”
She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes moved to his mouth. And she knew—like she’d known back then—that he could see her staring at his lips.
He licked them, and then turned his head away. “Cora—”
“Why’d you bring me that bottle of champagne?” she asked, taking a slow step toward him.
Perhaps he didn’t notice, or maybe the question had caught him off guard, because he didn’t move away from her.
“Champagne?” he asked, frowning.
“Champagne…
the stables…” She was finding it impossible to look away from his mouth. And it seemed to be making him more and more nervous. He crossed his arms over his chest, gave his lips another lick, and then wiped his hand over his mouth as if he’d just realized what he’d done.
“I didn’t know if I’d be at your birthday,” he said.
Back then, her birthday had been just over six weeks away.
A week and a half, now.
So he’d known she was coming here. But he hadn’t been expecting to be here with her.
“You were going to run?” she murmured, stopping when she was right up against him.
“I…I hadn’t figured that out yet. But I wanted to…I know you’d never really had champagne. Not more than a little, anyway. I thought…because of Paris…”
Of course he knew she wanted to travel Europe; she’d told him. Just like she’d told him she wanted to be a travel blogger one week, a photographer the next. A dancer. A show jumper. She couldn’t even remember all the things she’d wanted to be when she was young.
Could he remember? How much of that endless drivel of chatter had he stored away in his mind? How much of it had been passed on to Javier…to Gabriella?
“But you knew I’d get drunk.”
“No! I mean, I was going to stop you.”
“And who was going to stop you, Bailey?” She ran her hands up his chest, his neck, along his jaw. “Who was going to stop you?”
He knocked away her hands, his face going red. “I never—” he cut off with a choked sound. “I didn’t know until I kissed you, okay?”
She blinked at him, her hands stilling. “Didn’t know what?”
“That I love you.”
The words rang out like a bell in the room’s sudden silence. She stared up at Bailey with wide eyes, while he stared down at her with a small crease between his brows.
“You love me?” she whispered, pressing her hand to his face when it began to tremble.
Bailey gave a small nod, drawing his lip into his mouth before letting it slide out between his teeth. “I love you, Cora Sw—”
“You love her?” came a quiet voice from the door.
They both spun around, Cora gasping and Bailey choking on his words.
Lars stood in the doorway, his head at an angle and his mouth set in a straight, unsmiling line.
Dios mio, why hadn’t she locked the damn door?
44
For real
“And?” Lars demanded as he walked inside Cora’s room. “You love him back?”
Cora’s face crumpled. Not with tears, but with sudden despair. “What?”
“Do you love him?” he repeated, holding out a hand to Bailey, who stepped away from Cora as if sensing being close to her might bring certain death.
Fuck, maybe it would.
Lars knew he was a jealous man. He’d been in relationships before, back when he thought they were what adults were supposed to do about getting laid. Find a girl, date a girl, fuck a girl. Rinse, repeat. Because he’d never gotten to any point past fuck the girl. After his first threesome, he’d decided maybe that was because he was into guys.
Turned out, it didn’t fucking matter. No one held his attention long enough for him to have a sudden overwhelming urge for them to keep their toothbrush next to his in the bathroom.
Until now.
He’d come to Cora’s room because Finn had sworn he would if Lars didn’t. And Finn and Bailey were as good an idea as trying to put out an oil fire…with water.
So here he was, playing good cop, and he walked into this?
By now, of course, he honestly shouldn’t be surprised. Cora seemed to have a deep well of sexual energy she that didn’t know what to do with. But this Romeo and Juliet bullshit?
“I…I do.”
“Jesus, all you need is a priest and a bouquet, and you’d be able to screw Javier right up the ass.”
She looked mortified as shit about her pronouncement. Bailey, on the other hand, turned wide eyes on her. “You do?”
“Okay, enough,” Lars cut in, before they started smooching and swearing their eternal love to each other right in front of him. He hadn’t had much to eat at dinner, but he would definitely retch up something if they started up that shit again. “Don’t you two think we’ve got slightly more important shit to deal with than this?”
“Hey, what’s this got to do with you?” Bailey blurted out, as if he’d suddenly grown a pair of balls. He moved Cora aside with the back of his hand and took a step closer to Lars.
Maybe even a second pair of balls.
Lars laughed, pointing a limp hand at Bailey and craning past him to lock eyes with Cora. “You hearing this shit?”
She looked away.
That single gesture hurt more than the slap she’d laid on him, what seemed so fucking long ago now. Something inside him grew tight and cold and hard.
Fuck, maybe he did have a heart after all, because she’d definitely just sucker punched something.
“So that’s how it is?” he asked, taking a step back.
“Lars—”
He lifted a hand. “You can be glad it was me that walked in on this shit.” Bailey got another stab in his direction. “Finn would have killed that motherfucker.”
With that, he spun around and strode out the room. He heard Cora calling after him, but then an urgent whisper from Bailey. But he couldn’t make out individual words…not with how his blood roared in his ears.
Who in the fuck had he been kidding? His MO was find, fuck, fuck off.
When he burst into his and Finn’s room a minute later, the man looked up from the armchair he sat in, the one closest to the window. He stiffened when he saw Lars, his knuckles going white how they gripped the chair’s armrests.
“And?” he asked, before Lars even had a chance to shut the door behind him.
His anger had fizzled into something cold and sluggish. He gave a casual shrug, and said, “Fuck this idea of a test run.”
Finn had told him Gabriella’s idea had been to do a trial run, testing to see how much Javier would pay attention to everyone’s comings-and-goings when she was out with Cora. Neo would stay at the villa, but join them the next time they went out.
He gave less a fuck about Neo than he did for Bailey. They could get themselves out.
Finn sat forward, expression grave.
“We do this thing for real tomorrow,” Lars said as he stripped off his shirt and kicked off his shoes, “or we don’t do it at all.”
45
Charlie
The morning was dreary with the imminent promise of rain. It might have rained in the night; Marfa had a damp smell to it when Kane parked his Jeep outside the town’s only hotel and climbed out.
He shook out his unruly brown hair before smoothing it back again. He’d shaved this morning, put on his work suit. Being a DEA agent meant looking the part. No one respected something with stubble and uncombed hair. And he’d need every inch of the agency’s authority behind him this morning. He was breaking the law by working a case when he’d been suspended; something the cop inside of him fought against. But the man inside him, the one that new Plata o Plama to be the parasitic scourge that it was…that man refused to stand down.
The Marfa hotel had a chubby girl with a tired smile working front. As soon as she got a good look at Kane though, she slid off her stool to welcome him. Even her smile got brighter the closer he came. A smile that cracked when he slid his badge and a sketch onto the desk.
“Officer Price with the DEA. Need to ask you some questions.”
The girl’s dull green eyes darted down to the badge, then back up to him. “Let me call the manager,” she said, reaching for the nearby phone.
Kane touched his fingertips to it before she could lift the receiver. “How long have you been working here?”
Her eyes became fidgety. “A few months.”
“Have you seen this man?” He tapped the drawing.
Being suspended,
he couldn’t exactly rely on the department’s sketch artist to render a drawing for him. Sketching came naturally to him, though; he’d whiled away countless hours as a kid, filling sketch book after sketch book with his portraits.
She shrugged after barely having glanced at the sketch. “I only work mornings. I should really call—”
“Look again. Take your time.”
The girl frowned hard at him, and turned those same confused eyes to the drawing. “I…I can’t really—”
“Might have booked under the name King. Ring a bell?”
“King?” She scrunched up her face, giving the drawing another quizzical stare before shrugging. “I guess I can check.” Now her eyes almost seemed reluctant to leave the drawing. It was obvious she’d seen the man, but why was she so guarded in admitting it.
She wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something rotten, gave him a quick look, and sank onto the stool in front of the computer. A few clicks later, she gave him another wary look. “There was a King who booked in a few weeks ago.”
“Use this credit card number?” Kane asked, opening his notebook.
The girl sat back with a short sigh. “Look, mister, I really shouldn’t be—”
He tapped the badge. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time. Just check the credit card number.”
She squinted at the notepad. “I can’t—is that a seven?”
He snatched it away from her, pointed at the computer screen, and began to read. “3664.”
Her eyes went wide, and she turned stiffly to the computer, giving her head a slow nod.
“5820.”
She nodded until he’d read the whole number. “That’s the one,” she said.
“Which room?”
“305.”
“I’ll need to take a look.”
“It was three weeks—” she protested.
“Look—” he ducked his head, and touched a finger to her name tag where it had been pinned just above her small breast. “Charlie. I don’t want to have to haul you in for questioning.”
“Me?” she squeaked, eyes going wider. “But I didn’t—”
