by Logan Fox
Gabriella led them to a booth in the back, where she ushered them into their seats like a pair of sheep while Javier’s sicario and two other men took a booth diagonally opposite them. Then she sat, smoothing her clothes and looking around as if a waiter was supposed to have been ready to take their drink order already.
True enough, a waitress bounded over from across the other side of the room, moving as fast as she could without running. Her pad and pen were already poised when she reached Gabriella’s side.
“Afternoon, ma’am. It’s so good to see you—”
“A jug of sangria.” Gabriella didn’t seem to notice how the waitress flinched at being cut off.
The waitress disappeared with the order while Gabriella handed a menu to Cora.
Ana didn’t get one.
Cora glanced from Gabriella to Ana, shifting a little in her seat. There was a third—and even a fourth—menu on the table…was this Ana’s punishment? Had she stepped into some weird alpha female situation?
Her skin prickled with awkwardness.
Movement across the room caught her eye. A few tables away, a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses sat by himself. He faced her, and his seat was a few behind Gabriella’s guards, so she had a clear view of his face.
So it was impossible not to notice him staring at her.
She shifted a little, feeling heat on her cheeks.
Not because he was staring, but because he was so damn good looking. Despite the glasses—or perhaps because of them—his hazel eyes sparkled with something. Not quite mischief, but—
“See anything you like?” Gabriella asked.
Cora felt her blush intensifying. “Uh…” She cleared her throat and pointed at one of the pizzas. “This deep dish sounds amazing.”
Ana put her hands on the table, gripping them together so hard her knuckles went white. “It really is. I’ve had it before.” And then she sealed her mouth like she’d never speak again.
Gabriella ignored everything, her sunglasses still on her nose as one golden fingernail trailed down the menu.
Cora tried to focus on her menu again as well, but now she swore she could feel the weight of that man’s eyes on her. She propped her menu up on the table and hazarded a quick glance over the top of it. Her eyes darted back instantly; he had a can of energy drink poised in front of his mouth, but his eyes glued on her.
She shifted in her seat, cleared her throat again, and willed her cheeks to cool down.
What the hell was wrong with her? So a handsome man was looking at her, so what?
Okay, he wasn’t just handsome—he made her mouth go dry how hot he was.
Which was wrong on so many levels. Firstly, because he was at least ten years older than her. Secondly, because she had three amazing, if slightly pissed off, men waiting—
Gabriella snapped closed her menu so abruptly that both Cora and Ana started, and set it down.
“So, Cora, do you have a boyfriend?”
Making words with a dry mouth was pretty damn difficult. “A…boyfriend?” she managed.
“A boyfriend…a lover.” Gabriella finally took her sunglasses off, and Cora wished she hadn’t. Those dark eyes pierced through her, pinning her like a butterfly to a cork board.
“Uh…”
She couldn’t even begin to fathom how to answer that question. Here she was, right, making eyes at a complete stranger, right, while the two men she’d very recently slept with—together!—waited for her to come back.
And none of that mess even took Bailey into account.
Who, apparently, loved her.
And who she, somehow, loved back.
So yes, she had a boyfriend. In fact, she possibly had three.
Gabriella cocked her head a little, and let out a small sound that could have been surprise. “What a pity,” she murmured.
Their sangria arrived, and the waitress set it down before flipping open her pad and taking down their orders. Cora ordered a pizza and Gabriella an Alfredo pasta.
“And—” the waitress turned to Ana, but Gabriella cut in before Ana could answer.
“She’ll have a green salad.”
“Not a Greek salad?” the waitress asked.
“Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber.” Gabriella gave the waitress a thin smile as she handed her the menus. Then she poured them each a glass of sangria and sat back in her bench with a small sigh.
Cora took three big gulps of the sangria. And then a fourth because she’d happened to look up and the man was still staring at her.
Now, apart from his eyes, she’d noticed that he had a particularly sensuous mouth. Like Baileys, almost. Except Bailey had never worn such a look of predatory interest before. Bailey just always looked about to smile. This man…he looked about to pounce.
Cora dropped her gaze, and was determined to keep it on the table, or hands, anything except the man.
He wore a suit. Was he a CEO or something? He certainly had an aura of authority around him. Or maybe that was just the way he stared at her as if he knew she’d do whatever he said, and drop a curtsy before doing it.
Ana drained her glass a few minutes after Gabriella had poured it for her. The waitress came back with a fresh jug, but Gabriella put her hand over her glass when the girl tried to top up her half-empty glass. Ana had no reservations—she held her glass out and was already sipping it while the waitress was busy topping up Cora’s glass.
“Your father was such a handsome man,” Gabriella said. She seemed to have a habit of plucking conversations from thin air. It was almost as unnerving as those hazel eyes on her; when in the hell was this sangria going to kick in? She felt as nervous as Ana, and she was sure she had no reason to. Firstly, this was a trial run of whatever grand escape plan Gabriella had come up with. Secondly, the man couldn’t touch her. He probably wouldn’t even be able to come near to her, not with Gabriella goons sitting a table away.
Like an idiot, she made eye contact again. But this time, the man looked away.
Thank god, it had all just been her imagination. He had no interest in her, platonic or otherwise. Her mind had gone and scrambled itself for no reason.
He drew out a notepad, flipped it open, and began writing something down.
A note? For her?
Her chest grew tight. The ambiance in the room grew to a buzz. What was he saying? Was it a phone number? She couldn’t take it. Wouldn’t take it. This was ridiculous. There was something wrong with her.
He turned a page, glanced up at her again, and exchanged his pen for what looked like a pencil.
This time, he wasn’t writing. He was drawing.
Her?
Cora gulped down another three big sips and set her almost empty glass down before she could finish it.
“… and I see so much of him in you,” Gabriella was saying. “But you do have your mother’s eyes.”
That at least drew her thoughts off Mr Artist-CEO. “You knew my mother?” Perhaps Javier had just told her about Naomie; she can’t remember ever having seen Gabriella. Then again…maybe they’d met before Cora had been born.
Gabriella ignored the question. “It’s probably best you’re not seeing anyone,” she went on, taking a tiny sip of her sangria. She seemed intent on staying sober, and never minded about how much either Cora or Ana drank in comparison. “Soon you will have men falling at your feet.”
“I will?” Cora blurted out, the words mingled in a laugh. Dammit, sangria made for loose lips. She blushed, glancing askance at Ana, and then, for some inexplicable reason, the man in the booth.
But he was gone.
Cora jolted, and leaned out of her seat to scan the restaurant. Where had he gone? She hadn’t even seen him stand. She ran her gaze over the seats in the restaurant, and then through the windows that lined the street.
He strode behind the four cars parked outside the restaurant, little more than a blur how rain pattered against the windows.
As she watched, his shape changed, growing shorter. He was
bending—maybe tying his shoe. He put a hand up, grabbing hold of the bumper of Gabriella’s SUV as if to keep his balance, and then he disappeared into the rain soaked afternoon.
“…can’t resist a powerful woman.”
Cora spun back to the table, blinking hard at Gabriella as she scanned her mind for what the woman had been on about. Men. They’d been talking about men.
Gabriella touched some of the curls carefully styled to frame her face, as if checking they were all still in place. “If you had a lover, he would be jealous with all the attention you’re getting.”
Cora laughed, but it came out sounding hollow and fake. Dear God, had she seen the man sketching her? Did she have eyes on the back of her head or something?
“I—I don’t think—”
“Do you know how to tell if a man loves you, Elle?” The tone of Gabriella’s voice was very sobering.
Obviously, the woman was psychic. It was, after all, the only reasonable explanation for this strange turn of the conversation.
Cora blinked at her, and splayed her hands on the table on either side of her glass, waiting. Beside her, Ana sat up straight as if she also wanted to know what pearl of wisdom Gabriella was just about to dispense.
One gold-lacquered finger went up. “He would be willing to lay down his life for you.”
A second joined the first. “And he will always be as eager to make love to you as the day you first met.” Gabriella’s eyes flickered to Ana so fast Cora might have imagined it. “No matter how many women he has to warm his bed in between.”
The waitress arrived with their food and set their plates in front of them; serving Gabriella last. “Are you still fine with—”
“Another jug, thank you,” Gabriella cut in with a dismissive wave in the waitress’s direction.
The waitress brought another jug almost immediately, as if it had been ready to go.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, until Gabriella began enthusing over her dish. Cora tried to chime in, but the sangria and the strangeness of this day had turned her brain to mush. Ana picked at her salad with utter reluctance, eventually deciding to try one of the cherry tomatoes. Her face twisted like it was sour and she wanted to spit it out.
“You don’t eat enough vegetables, Ana,” Gabriella said. “Be a good girl and finish your plate.”
Then Gabriella rose, smoothed down the thighs of her designer jumpsuit, and took her handbag with her to the restroom.
Ana barely waited for the door to close behind Gabriella’s swaying ass before spinning to face Cora. “God, I hate her,” she whispered furiously.
Cora’s eyes widened. Then she pushed her pizza toward Ana. “Quick—grab a slice before she comes back.”
Ana’s eyes widened. She grinned at Cora, grabbed a slice of pizza, and wolfed it down. Cora smiled, going back to her food, but her appetite had vanished along with that mysterious man and his wolfish eyes. Ana had just wiped the grease from around her mouth when the door opened and Gabriella strode out again.
“Thanks, Cora,” Ana whispered.
Cora glanced across at her with a frown. It was the first time Ana had called her Cora.
Gabriella sat with a soft sigh, twirled some pasta around her fork, and then topped up her glass to the brim with sangria. “A toast,” she said, holding out her glass.
Cora hurriedly wiped her hands and raised her glass. Ana did the same, glancing nervously from Cora to Gabriella. But Gabriella stared straight at Cora, her eyes gleaming. Even her lips perked into a rare smile as she gazed across the table at Cora for a long moment.
“To the new capo of El Calacas Vivo,” Gabriella said, just loud enough that the sicarios sitting across from them could hear. They too raised their glasses, but without taking their eyes from whatever exits or entrances they were guarding.
Gabriella dropped her voice. “May she always have someone to protect her, someone to warm her bed, and someone to throw something at when she’s pissed off. Even if they’re not all the same man.”
Cora laughed; she would have died trying not to. And then Ana laughed. Which, strangely, made Gabriella laugh too.
48
Hisp. F (18-22)
Kane knew the instant he locked eyes with the Hispanic girl who’d just sat down that she was important to his case. It could have been the fact that the men with their party—those that chose not to share their booth, but take one diagonally opposite them—were so obviously their protection. It might even have been the fact that the older woman was Mexican too—and looked rich enough to buy the entire town of Marfa if she wanted to.
The blond girl with them was a puzzle, but one he wasn’t in the least interested in figuring out, despite her pretty mouth and her long legs.
No.
The so-out-of-place girl with her walnut skin and midnight hair…she riveted him.
It took her several minutes to notice him. She didn’t look ditsy—not like the blond sitting beside her—but it looked as if she had something on her mind. Her attention floated away from the menu she’d been studying, and brushed against him.
A thousand volts of invisible current shot through his body.
She wasn’t just important to his case, she was central to it. Which was impossible, because how the fuck could a girl be at the center of his investigation?
Was it because he felt he recognized her? Or was it the fact that she called to him on some level?
The ephemeral tug between them was so strong, he had to force himself to root to the chair so he wouldn’t go over and introduce himself.
After that initial eye contact between them, she seemed incapable of keeping her eyes off him.
Was it possible…had she made him?
He took out his notebook and penned the name of the restaurant. Above it, he wrote three entries.
cau. F (25-30)
blonde hair, blue eyes.
hisp. F (45-50).
black hair. ? eyes.
hisp. F (18-22)
black hair, br. Eyes.
And then, because that simply wasn’t enough, he flipped the page and began sketching.
49
Glad you asked
Finn hated rainy days. He couldn’t recall much of his childhood, but rain he remembered. Not the weather so much, but the fact that it trapped him inside.
He’d been an explorer as a kid, especially during the time him and his mother had stayed with his uncle on the horse farm. The sun had bronzed him at an early age, and kept that color on his skin year after year. Even in winter, he looked like he’d just come back from a tropical vacation. Sunlight had charged him back then. Energized him. Nature had inspired him. He’d immersed himself in the outside world there, laying on the grass as he studied the slow crawl of a caterpillar over the lawn, mesmerized by hypnotic undulation of its legs as it moved.
Until his uncle had chased them from his farm one day. They’d found a one bedroom apartment in lower Boston. There, every day, it rained.
He was a prisoner in that cold, drafty apartment. When his mother had caught a cold, it became even worse because he was too concerned to leave her alone.
He’d tried buying her medicine, but her handbag didn’t have a single dollar inside it. No one was interested in buying their shitty furniture. He could pilfer some food from a local grocer when he dared leave her alone, but soon she refused to eat.
Together, their vitality dwindled. It was as if the rain washed away their will to live. As if losing sight of the sun had destroyed their spirit.
Although his beast had only reared its ugly fucking head in Syria, perhaps the prepubescent pup had already been stumbling around in his mind back then. Because when his mother didn’t wake one morning, something came over him. He’d destroyed the room she lay in. Torn apart the filthy sheets. Then moved his vengeful fists onto the scarce furniture scattered through the small living room and grimy kitchen.
They’d broken like matches in his hands; even at sixteen he’d been big for his a
ge.
Finally, he’d taken one of those torn off wooden legs and smashed every window in their apartment.
Glass had still been raining down on the street outside when the cops pulled up. By that time, he’d been on a rampage for over half an hour.
He hadn’t even known he had a sister back then. He’d found out a year later when social services had tried tracking down his father. Seemed he’d pulled a disappearing act some months after Finn’s mother had passed. Heather had been in the system less than three months before she’d been placed with a family. Perhaps because she’d been the quiet one, the subservient one.
Maybe that was why she’d turned to drugs. Someone as easily cowed as her couldn’t stand up to the addiction of something as powerful as heroin.
He’d missed her release from rehab what would have been two weeks ago. Had she found someone to take her home?
Or was she already using again?
His presence didn’t seem to influence how quickly she went back to her dark lover; sometimes, he seemed to chase her toward her addiction.
Maybe his misery affected her. He’d never been able to regain his vitality after his stint in that dreary apartment with the permanently rain-washed windows.
He’d found out later that they’d only been in that apartment for a week. That his mother had died from pneumonia that she must have contracted more than a month before.
“With that look on your face, I’m kinda glad Cora’s not here.”
He looked up at Lars, slowly taking the cup of coffee he offered. He hadn’t moved from his window seat; there’d been no point. As soon as he’d seen Cora off, they’d come back to the room.
As determined as they’d been last night—after Lars had told him what had happened in Cora’s room—they hadn’t been able to persuade Gabriella to turn this trial run into the real thing.
Lars had woken up his usual chipper self, although he’d looked pretty grim when they’d gone to see Cora off. Maybe it was just show; he’d alternated between trying to get him to eat something and getting him to leave the room every hour on the hour.
