by Cora Kenborn
I blinked at her. “Sure.”
“Oh, goodie.” She clapped wildly.
Murder is illegal. Murder is illegal. Murder is illegal.
Turning my back to them, I filled a shaker full of ice, tequila, triple sec, and a shit-ton of sweet and sour mix. Then, because the knife wound between my shoulder blades still hadn’t healed, I dumped a good shot and a half of simple syrup in and shook the hell out of it. Grinning like an idiot, I poured it in the glass, sifted in half a handful of salt and served it up.
“Skinny margarita, enjoy.”
I’d never enjoyed watching another person drink alcohol so much in my life. I’d heard people use the word ‘giddy’ before, but I’d never experienced its full effect until Chelsea slurped down every drop of that nine-hundred calorie concoction with a smile on her face.
Was it retribution for sucking my husband’s cock? Hell, no, but it was a start. Besides, I knew Davis just brought her in here to be an ass. He was still peeved over finding out about my fling with his fraternity brother and took great pleasure in being a jerk-off whenever possible.
As long as I bled his ass dry in court, he could parade his whore around as much as he wanted. Our divorce was final, but by the time my lawyer was done with him, all their dates would be at the drive-thru.
Sometime during my pissing match with Davis, Val slipped out. It was just as well. I needed to show more restraint with the men I took back to my apartment. Considering all the murder-suicides going on lately, a girl couldn’t be too careful.
I meandered to the sideboard and lined freshly washed chip baskets with wax paper, stacking them for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. I’d just gathered the lot in my arms when the house phone rang. Shifting the baskets to one elbow, I picked up the cordless receiver.
“Caliente Cantina, how can I help you?”
“Eden, leave the alarm off tonight.”
“Emilio? Where are you?” My boss never called right before closing, and he never left the alarm off. Too many hoods in the neighborhood would see it as an open invitation.
“Don’t worry about that, doll. I have a cleaning crew coming in first thing in the morning, and I won’t be around to turn the alarm off. It’ll be fine tonight.”
I shrugged, as if he could see me. “It’s your bar, boss.”
“How were sales tonight?”
“Not bad,” I answered, turning off the television. “Steady flow. Davis came in with his side-piece.”
“Odio ese pinche hijo de su puta madre pedazo de mierda! Que no mame!” he yelled, his native Spanish coming out in a tirade of insults.
I giggled into the receiver. “I don’t know what you said, but I’m assuming it had something to do with him being a piece of shit.”
Emilio’s low chuckle vibrated in my ear. “You’re one of a kind, Eden O’Dell. If I wasn’t married…” He trailed off, and I cringed at his use of my married name. It had been on my driver’s license when I’d applied for the job, and it’d just been easier never to correct him.
I’d have to fix that soon.
“Yeah, yeah…you’re too old for me, Emilio. You’d break a hip in the first two minutes.”
He snorted with a chuckle. “Hasta mañana, Eden.”
“Mañana, old man,” I joked, hanging up on him.
A little over an hour later, I’d switched off the main lights over the bar, leaving just enough on inside to deter would-be criminals. I closed the front door and turned the lock with thoughts of eviscerating Davis with the blunt end of the dead bolt key. The bite of the betrayal still stung as sharply as it did a year ago. Maybe it always would.
Even though it was close to one o’clock in the morning, the muggy thickness of the June air mixed with pelting rain hit me in the face as I power walked to my car. The summer would be intolerable if it was already this sticky. Southern humidity deserved its own special circle in Dante’s Inferno. It stuck in your lungs, ruined your hair, and made even the primmest of debutantes sweat like a two-ton pig fucking a donkey.
The inside of the Cruiser was no less than sweltering when I turned the ignition, flipped the air conditioner on full blast, and dug in my purse for my phone. After a few moments, I cursed to myself, remembering I’d let it bounce from my shoulder to the bar while being hypnotized by Val’s gold-flecked, chocolate eyes.
Groaning, I slammed the door and ran the length of the parking lot back to the cantina. Once inside, I shook off the droplets, scooped my phone into my hands, and dialed Nash’s number. If he was awake, maybe he’d be up for some company. When the call went straight to voice mail, I glanced at the ceiling as another idea came to mind. Walking toward the front door, I scrolled through my preapproved list of non-clingers, deciding who would suffice for an early Sunday morning screw. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I knew whose face I’d see anyway.
Damn you, Danger.
As I was about to dial, a crash and a muffled grunt echoed from the back. An electric shock shot down my spine while anticipation and dread chased its trail. My fingers went numb, as if preparing the rest of my body for the same sensation. Every instinct pleaded with my legs to turn and run in the opposite direction, but as if tethered to an invisible line, they moved toward the kitchen.
Locked somewhere between a dream-like state and morbid curiosity, my hands reached for the swinging doors. My pulse roared in my ears, my skin a vibration of energy ready to explode.
At the last moment, I glanced at a side table and grabbed a fork.
Sure, fork them to death.
Another loud crash masked the sound of the door being pushed open. Breathing heavily, I slipped through unnoticed, feeling my way around. The light was dim, and my eyes took a moment to adjust as I furiously scanned every corner for activity. They came to rest on a figure slumped in the corner, jeans tattered and stained, t-shirt darkened, hands behind his back and burlap sack over his head.
Gripping the fork until I lost feeling in my fingers, I quickly slapped the other palm across my mouth to stop the cries that threatened to tumble out. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to take a breath.
Before I could contemplate a strategy in my head, the back door opened again, and a man walked in, his boots making a loud clomping sound against the tile floor. Paralyzed by fear, I twisted my body into the shadows behind a chef’s cart. Hunched over and trembling, I glanced between the metal bars of the rolling cart as a steel-toed boot landed a swift kick in the hooded man’s ribcage. I closed my eyes, unable to stomach the seven that followed.
When the silence returned, I opened an eyelid a sliver as the steel-toed-boot man crouched down. “Hola, señor Lachey. We finally meet.”
Chapter Seven
Eden
Lachey.
As the words reconciled in my head, I opened both eyes and rose to my knees, leaning forward for a closer look. All I could see was the back of the intruder’s head.
This wasn’t real. Surely, I’d heard wrong.
“My men tell me you’ve had a problem paying us our money. You should know we don’t tolerate outstanding debt.”
Debt? What debt? Oh, God, what had my father done?
A muffled voice rumbled from inside the burlap. “Fuck you.”
The steel-toed-boot man laughed maniacally. “No, fuck you, Lachey. See, the boss is getting his ten one way or the other.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket and pressed a button, releasing the blade. “So, you can count them out on your stealing fingers, or we can just count your fingers.” He jerked the sack off the limp man’s head, as he proudly displayed his blade.
I clamped my hand over my mouth again. Time slowed as a fog drifted into my brain, distorting the connection between what I witnessed and what I could process as reality. As my vision swam, one word repeated on a tongue that never moved.
No no no no no.
His face was bloody, broken, and so familiar that I saw it in my own reflection.
Nash.
It took everything inside of me not to
call out to him. My brother barely hung on, and I hid behind a chef’s cart like a fucking coward. As I leaned against the metal, it shook with tremors from my body that refused to listen to reason or rationality.
What meaning did those two words hold when my brother lay broken no more than eight feet away from me, and I couldn’t help him?
The platinum blond chunk that always hung in his face lay matted and soaked in his own blood. His eyes were swollen and purple, his lip busted open and bleeding onto his shirt. Open cuts on his cheeks marred his skin. I could see the labored breathing from his chest rattling with each exertion.
Broken ribs.
Terror ate at my soul as I crouched in my confinement, tears rolling down my cheeks. My brain was a jumble of prayers, divided by shuddered breaths.
Please let him go. Please let him go.
“Let’s have some fun, shall we, Lachey?” The steel-toed-boot man knelt beside Nash and in that moment, my world stopped. The voice connected with the face, and the tears rolled harder.
Emilio.
My boss. My friend. The man I trusted everyday as I sat alone with him in a darkened office of a dirty bar had beaten my brother near death.
“Screw you.” Nash coughed, blood creating a splatter pattern on Emilio’s white t-shirt. “I’ve had enough fun for one day, thanks.”
Emilio laughed, seemingly amused. “I have to admit, you put up more of a fight than most of my junkies.” He scratched his chin with the tip of his knife. “I like that, Lachey. You’ve got balls.”
“I’m no junkie, asshole.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I told you,” Nash wheezed, his breath coming out weaker by the minute. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I never touched your damn drugs.”
“They all say that too.” Emilio chuckled, his laugh hollow with impatience. “But see, Lachey, the problem is that I’m bored with you, and I’ve got other shit to do. So, let’s get this over with so we can both get back home, all right?”
The lump in my throat grew the minute Emilio wrapped a hand around Nash’s wrist as he struggled against him. Garbled curse words fell from my brother’s mouth as his hold on his mask of indifference slipped. The moment Emilio dragged him to the wooden chopping block and held the blade against the tip of Nash’s right forefinger, reality set in his eyes.
This was no mistake.
This was no joke.
This was real, and the only person left to protect him hid in the corner crying for her own pathetic life. I willed my feet to move, but the signal from my brain to my feet short circuited, leaving me paralyzed.
As the blade slammed down on my brother’s fingertip, the cry of intolerable pain filled the kitchen, bouncing from the walls and piercing my already broken heart. I wanted to vomit, but like a coward, I removed my hand from my mouth and covered my ears. His screams shattered me.
“Two digits for two g’s. That’s the trade, Lachey. Think about that next time you decide to arrange a deal for blow and disappear when we collect.” The clank of the knife hit the stark white tile floor, and my eyes popped open as Emilio moved toward the sink to wash the blood off his hands.
He could wash with bleach until his skin peeled off. The stain of my brother’s blood would never leave his fingers. My eyes would never forget.
Chapter Eight
Valentin
By the time I reached the heavy ornate door, it was already technically Sunday morning, and the humidity had me sweating so much I looked like I’d gotten caught in a freak rainstorm. I’d given up a long time ago trying to fight it with undershirts. Somehow mother nature centered a bubble around Houston with a climate siphoned straight from hell. Even as a boy living in Mexico City with high temperatures reaching one-hundred degrees, I couldn’t remember anything so sticky and disgusting.
Dios mío.
Entering the pretentiously decorated Irish pub, I silently chastised myself for my momentary lapse in judgment in going back to Caliente. Being there had been reckless and stupid. With what I knew to be occurring in only hours, I’d shown my face in a place I should never have risked visiting.
Not only was being there dangerous, engaging the bartender was suicidal.
One moment I sat in my office poring over the profits from the last commodities investment we’d exported, the next, I found myself sliding onto a dirty barstool in the shittiest cantina in downtown Houston.
“Can I get you something, handsome?”
I glanced up, still lost in thought. Somehow, I’d made my way through the front door of the darkened pub to an even darker wooden bar. As I took in the bartender’s tight, black Lycra shorts and half-tee that boasted the phrase ‘Naughty Irish Girl,’ I was sure turning the wheel into oncoming traffic would’ve been a better option.
“Probably not, but you can give it a try,” I told her, absentmindedly flipping my phone from end to end between my thumb and forefinger.
Her toothy grin faded a little as a tinge of annoyance crept into her voice. “I’m pretty talented with my hands, sugar,” she quipped, offering a smirk. “Why don’t you try me?”
Any other time, I might have taken her up on her implied offer. She was attractive enough, but tonight my mind swam with swirls of red and streams of snappy banter.
“Añejo tequila. Straight shot, in a stem glass, room temp…” I glanced without interest at her nametag. “…Tiffany.” I had low expectations, but for the sake of drying my soaked shirt, I gave her a shot.
Giving me a wink, she clomped off in heels way too high for her uncoordinated legs to handle and began rummaging through a wasteland of bottles. I took the opportunity to evaluate my surroundings. Observation was a valuable skill my father instilled in me early in life.
A man could never be surprised if he was aware of danger before it struck.
The small room was dimly lit, brightened by only low watt overhead bulbs encased in terra-cotta shades. I found it strange décor for an Irish pub, but with the almost caricature Ireland memorabilia tacked to the walls, I had a feeling the place was anything but authentic.
My gaze bounced from man to man, inconspicuously searching for telltale signs of a shoulder holster, the outline of a gun protruding from a waistline, a nervous hand twitch, or a repeated glance toward the door. Every man in my father’s inner circle, at one time or another, had brought me to a cantina since I was fifteen years old. They taught me to notice the unnoticeable, see the unseeable, and recognize the markings of a guilty man.
“Here ya go, sweets.” Tiffany slid a highball glass in front of me, sloshing half the liquid on my hand. I didn’t have to taste it. I could smell it on my skin.
Blanco.
Shit tequila, aged less than a month…maybe two.
I’d rather die of dehydration. Grabbing a drink napkin, I wiped my hand and pushed the offending glass toward her. “Just a water, thanks.”
A confused look crossed her face, followed by annoyance. “You still have to pay for it.”
“Of course.”
“Whatever, dude.” Insulted, she moved down the bar, working her pathetic charm on some other unsuspecting man.
I should’ve known better than to order a drink no one in this town could seem to manage.
Except for her.
Cereza.
It was a dangerous move to know her name and even more so to give her mine. I had every intention of denying her request or even making up one. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d lied to a woman about my name. Since I never fucked the same woman twice, I never saw a need for such triviality as the exchange of names. My discretion was for their safety as much as mine.
Aside from the fact that she was the only bartender in Houston who could make a drink without fucking it up, I thought too much about her the past few weeks. I found myself gravitating toward women with long red hair and blue eyes. I’d fucked each of them, hoping to screw her out of my head.
It never happened. A man couldn’t crave quality steak
…salivate for it…then satiate his hunger with a cheeseburger from a drive-thru.
American women usually failed to hold my attention, but her strength and dominance surged all the blood in my veins straight to my cock. She was flashy, but her eyes hid a world of pain behind them. The pale blue color made a man want to break down her walls and discover her secrets while burying himself deep inside her body.
The same thin black tank top she wore did nothing to hide the curves that dipped into a trim waist, highlighting an ass I could sink my fingers into from behind.
That candy-red hair. Those smoky rimmed eyes.
Just thinking about her made me hard as a rock.
Immediately regretting the images flashing through my head, I almost excused myself to the restroom when a buzzing in my pocket distracted me. Pulling my phone out, I glanced at the number before answering in a hushed tone.
“Si?”
“Situation is handled, boss,” Emilio said, his voice slightly out of breath, and the sound of traffic roaring in the background.
“Bien.” Ignoring my intuition, I abandoned my native tongue and broke into English. “So, what have I gained tonight in assets?”
Emilio paused, as if choosing his words were of the upmost importance. “We got eight g’s between the safe, register, and night deposit bag, so we took two fingers, and…”
“Why do I hear hesitation in your voice?” I scanned the perimeter of the bar again. Something didn’t feel right in my gut. Experience taught me that my gut never betrayed me, but men did.
“Lachey isn’t what I expected, boss,” he explained, waiting for me to respond. When I remained silent, he continued. “My crew, who knew him, talked like he was a junkie and scared of his own shadow. You know, set in his ways…real pendejo.”
I grew tired of his hesitation. “For fuck’s sake, what happened?”
“He didn’t seem high. I don’t know, boss. Something just felt off.”
