Blurred Red Lines: A Carrera Cartel Novel

by Kenborn, Cora

  He pursed his lips, softly offering a tsk of his tongue as he slipped out of his chair. My eyes tracked every move as he stalked with the cunning of a panther and the eye of a wolf. Danger placed both palms on the bar and leaned into Frankie, whispering so low, when I strained to eavesdrop, I couldn’t even catch a mumble.

  As the he spoke quietly in his ear, Frankie’s lips uncurled, his face paled, and beads of sweat broke out across his greasy forehead. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve sworn he’d pissed himself too.

  Frankie mopped his brow, wiping the back of his hand on his shirt. “I’m…I’m sorry, Cherry. I meant no disrespect.”

  I tapped my index finger against my lips to keep from laughing. “It’s okay, Frankie. The cab is outside. Just go home and don’t be a dick to your wife, all right?”

  Nodding, he grabbed his friend’s arm. Together, they moved with speed I’d rarely seen out of those two fat fucks and slammed the door behind them. With the town drunks out of my hair, I turned to thank my dark knight, only to be met with a vast space of nothing.

  Jesus, again? What the hell was with this guy?

  Vowing to take the sting out of his rejection with a call to Brody after work, I concentrated on refilling drinks and restacking chip baskets. With only a few stragglers left in the cantina, my eyes roamed to the small flat-screen mounted in the corner. When rows of caution tape caught my eye, I grabbed the remote and turned up the sound as a pretty brunette anchor recounted the grisly details of what appeared to be the latest in a string of murder-suicides.

  “The Houston PD say a woman who killed her boyfriend and then herself late last night also had plans to murder his wife, according to a note she left next to their bodies. Luckily, the wife of the slain man wasn't in their Robindell home when the killer showed up with a gun. The investigation into the fatal shootings is ongoing, but prosecutors say it appears to be a jealousy driven murder-suicide. Allegedly, the woman, Daniella Morales, started an argument at thirty-four-year old Nando Fuentes’s apartment around six o’clock pm yesterday evening, only to return around midnight, shooting Fuentes in the chest, and herself in the head.”

  “Damn.” Lowering the volume, I shook my head along with a lady at the end of the bar with long dark hair sipping a highball of whiskey. I grabbed the rag and wiped down the bar again as I turned around. “That shit is happening too often, don’t you—Jesus Christ!” I jumped back, a scream lodged in my throat as chocolate eyes singed every piece of exposed skin, swooping down to devour what was left.

  He folded his hands confidently onto the bar. “We meet again.”

  “Do you always make a habit of sneaking up behind girls in bars?” I pressed my hand over my racing heart. “I thought you left.”

  His lip quirked. “Your problem is taken care of. Those idiotas won’t be bothering you again.”

  I placed a fresh napkin in front of him and snorted. “Those idiotas are harmless, especially Frankie. He’s all talk, and I could probably kick his ass blindfolded.” I noticed him still staring, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being tested. “But thanks,” I added quickly. “You saved me a chipped nail.”

  We stared at each other in silence, his hypnotic eyes seeming to bend me to his will. I hadn’t been rendered speechless in four years, much less dazed by the mere presence of a man. It unsettled me in a way that made me edgy.

  Forcing a break in the intensity, I concentrated on restocking the freshly-washed margarita glasses from the bin to the overhead slider. “So, what’ll it be?”

  The same smile that played on his lips earlier curled into a devilish grin. “Añejo tequila. Straight shot, in a stem—”

  My head snapped up. “Stem glass, not a highball, room temp, and if it hasn’t aged at least three years, shove it up the owner’s ass, right?”

  “Bien,” he laughed, throwing his head back, baring his perfectly straight teeth. “A man should watch out for a woman who forgets nothing.”

  I poured his drink and set it in front of him. “A man should watch out for me, period.” I watched him swirl the liquid, then take a sip, as if it would be disrespectful to the drink to shoot it. “I remember you,” I confessed, tilting my head to the side. “You’re very specific about your hooch.”

  He took another sip, licking an escaped drop of tequila from his plump lip. “A man in my position needs to be very selective about many things, señorita.”

  Suddenly it wasn’t just my face that flushed. Every crevice in my body seemed to burst into flames. A very illogical, depraved part of my brain wanted to vault over the bar and straddle him while he licked the rest of the tequila off my chest.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Taking a breathable step backward, I put some space between us and nodded as the pretty woman with long hair smiled and left for the night. “Well, does that selectivity finally include your name?” I asked with a smirk. “I mean, if you’re going protect my honor and all, shouldn’t I thank you properly?”

  I’d just broken my cardinal rule of not asking names for the second time with the same man. This guy worked some serious voodoo magic on me.

  He glanced around the empty bar, studying me a moment before extending a bronzed arm and answering. “Val.”

  Fine. So, I knew his name. That didn’t mean he had to know mine.

  “Cherry,” I replied, shaking his hand.

  Fuck.

  In an unexpected move, he tugged my hand closer and kissed the tips of my knuckles. “Ah, Cereza. Perfect. El color del fuego y pasión.”

  I had no clue what the hell that meant, but my panties were begging to find out.

  I must’ve looked confused because he chuckled again. “Your name, Cereza. It’s the color of fire and passion. It suits you.”

  “Long time, no speak, big tipper.” I kept my gaze lowered, busying myself with mindless side work. Fear refused to allow direct eye contact. I’d fought for almost a year to regain the upper hand when it came to men. I’d be damned if I’d give it up now.

  “You really don’t forget anything, do you?” he mused, folding his hands together on the bar.

  My mouth opened to tell him he could find out for himself after my shift ended when the chime on the door jingled, and my stomach dropped to my toes. Snatching my hand from his hold, I smoothed it over my pinned hair and cursed the plain cut off jean shorts and black tank uniform. The look screamed anything but refined. It screamed ‘chip slinging bar bitch.’

  “We’re closing in twenty minutes, Davis.” I kept my voice calm and civil, even though every instinct implored me to slam a wine glass against the bar and hold the jagged edge against his mouse dick.

  “The sign still says open, Edie, and you always did make a mean margarita.” Giggling ensued beside him, and I gripped the edge of the bar to keep my hands away from the glasses. “Chelsea had a craving for one after the movie and just wouldn’t settle down until I gave in.”

  Chelsea craved a lot of shit you had no business giving her, you cheating fuckwad.

  Val’s face hardened as I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Excuse me, I need to deal with some unfinished business.” I gave him a weak smile, and his chin dipped in acknowledgement. It was the only sign he gave that he’d heard me as his focus returned to his tequila.

  So much for a night of casual sex and dirty Spanish.

  Turning to face Davis, his annoying All-American hero good looks focused on my ex-best friend, and I wanted to throw up the chips I’d eaten. Chelsea had obviously been killing what brain cells were left in that vapid hole inside her skull by frying her skin into shoe leather at her mother’s tanning salon. She sported a nice shade of Oompa Loompa from her peroxide blond hair down to her aerobicized ass. By the way her clothes hung, I’d wager a guess she’d been eating a steady diet of chia seeds and air lately. Of course, being with Davis, that was a given. Davis had a strict no chub policy. During our three years together, I chewed diet pills like they were Pez.

  “One drin
k, you guys. Then I have to close up.” The day couldn’t possibly end any worse.

  “I’ll have a Bud Light in the bottle, not a glass,” Davis instructed, as if I couldn’t recite his order by heart. “And what kind of margarita do you want, baby?”

  Chelsea giggled again, flipping her mahogany hair over her shoulder. “Edie, can you make a sugar-free, skinny margarita made with just lime juice, no sweet and sour and no salt?”

  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 thugs 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.”

  “Bien. How were sales tonight?”

  “Not bad,” I answered, turning off the television. “Steady flow. Davis came in with his side-piece.”

  “Odio ese pedazo de mierda!” 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. “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.

&
nbsp; 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.”