by Rebecca Shea
With my application in hand, I take the elevators down through the lobby. The old man from last night is sitting at the concierge desk, and his eyes widen in surprise as I approach.
“I’m Emilia. I think we got off to a rocky start.” I extend my hand to him, and he takes it.
“I’m Fred. And yes, I would agree with you.” He gives me a toothy grin. “Now that we’ve established you’re with Mr. Estrada…” He pauses.
“Wait.” I start to frown. “I’m not with Mr. Estrada. I’m not planning to stay here very long.”
“They never do,” I hear him mutter under his breath just as the elevator pings behind us.
What does that mean? Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Saul stepping out of the elevators, and I turn my attention back to Fred.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Oh, nothing. Just be careful.” His smile is tight now as he glances behind me to Saul.
“Nice to formally meet you, Fred.”
“Nice to meet you too, Emilia. You let me know if you need anything.” He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head ever so slightly toward Saul. Fred must dislike Saul as much as I do.
“I will.” I move quickly through the lobby and out onto the hot sidewalk in hopes of keeping Saul as far away as possible. He knows where I’m headed, but I have no intention of keeping him close. A shiver runs up my spine when I think of him following me all the time. I rush across the two blocks of bustling downtown Phoenix, back to Café Au Lait. Pushing the doors open, I inhale sharply the heavy scent of coffee infiltrating the shop.
The place is insanely busy. Every table is taken; even the couches are full. I notice Jax, the guy from yesterday, behind the counter, along with a pretty, middle-aged woman in an apron.
Jax nods at me when he sees me, and motions for me to step up. “Emilia, right?”
I nod and smile. “It’s really busy. Now’s probably not a good time to drop this off, huh?”
“Good as any. It’s like this all the time.” He smiles at me. His brown curly hair is pulled back into a ponytail or small bun, and his jawline is sprinkled with day-old stubble. His eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners when he smiles, and his bright blue eyes dance under his dark lashes. “Meg,” he hollers. “This is Emilia.” He juts his head in my direction.
The woman behind the counter looks up from the coffee she’s making and smiles. “Give me just a minute,” she says as she pipes some whipped cream onto an order of steaming coffee.
I step back from the counter and right onto the feet of someone behind me. “I’m so sorry,” I gasp as I spin around. My eyes instantly meet a pair of chocolate brown eyes attached to the body of a strikingly handsome man. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as I apologize again. He’s standing with another man and both are dressed professionally, wearing dark suits and ties.
Both men smile politely at my clumsiness. “Don’t worry about it. There’s not much room to move around in here,” he says. His dark brown eyes are sincere, and I appreciate his kindness.
“There’s not. It’s so busy,” I remark.
“Well, it’s the best coffee downtown,” he says conspiratorially, leaning in.
“Is it?”
“It is. Totally worth the wait.” He smiles at me and extends his hand to me. “I’m Sam. Sam Cortez, and this is Trey Hoffman.” His hand grips mine firmly before releasing it, and then I shake Trey’s hand.
“Emilia Adams. Nice to meet both of you.”
Trey pulls a ringing cellphone from his suit jacket and excuses himself, stepping outside.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” Sam’s question catches me off guard.
“Oh, I’m just waiting to talk to the owner.” I nod toward the woman behind the counter.
“So, let me buy you a coffee while you’re waiting.” His dark brown eyes sparkle against his tan skin.
“You don’t have to do that,” I respond nervously, my fingers scratching at my collarbone. Would it be weird to let a man buy me a coffee when I just left another man’s bed? And what does that mean now that Alex and I have slept together? Should I not talk to other men? I shove those thoughts aside and smile politely at Sam.
“I know I don’t have to. I’d like to,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “I’ll have a medium dark roast and she’ll have…” He looks at me, waiting for my order.
“Same,” I answer shyly. First Alex and now this? If I’d known what a friendly place Phoenix was going to be, I might have considered looking for my father years ago.
“She’ll have the same,” he repeats, and I smile at Jax, who takes our order. “Go grab that table, and I’ll wait for the coffee,” Sam instructs as he pulls out his wallet to pay just as a group leaves, opening up a table. I weave through the crowded shop and wait for Sam.
“Here you go.” Sam hands me a cardboard cup with steaming coffee. It smells divine. Best coffee indeed.
“Thank you.” I pull the plastic cap off the cup to let some of the steam out.
Sam pulls out the chair directly across from me and sits down. He glances at my application in the middle of the table but doesn’t ask me about it. “Are you a student?” he asks, tearing open a packet of sugar.
“No. Not right now, anyway. Eventually, but I’m just looking for a job right now.” I drum my fingers across the application before blowing into my cup, hoping it’s cooled enough for me to sip. I can’t wait to be a student again someday soon. I feel like I’ve missed out on the college experience, always having to work and take care of my mom.
Sam nods, satisfied with my answer. “How old are you, Emilia?” He smiles when he says my name.
“Twenty-one, why?” I barely refrain from frowning. I don’t mind offering my age, but why would he care?
“Just curious.” He shrugs, nonchalant.
My heart thrums nervously as we sit quietly sipping on our coffee, the air growing thick with silence. “So, do you and Trey work together?”
“We do. We share an office and an addiction to Café Au Lait’s famous coffee.” He grins.
“Are you from Phoenix? I mean, originally?” I ask him.
“Born and raised,” he says with boyish pride. “What about you?”
“Just moved here from Illinois. Got tired of the cold,” I lie to him. I’m tired of explaining my pathetic life. And he’s a stranger. He doesn’t need to know.
“You moved to the right place to escape the cold. I think it’s supposed to be a hundred and fifteen today.”
“I like the heat,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Give it a year or two. You’ll change your mind.” He laughs.
Trey slips back inside and spots us. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m gonna grab a coffee to go, but we’ve gotta get back to the office.” He gives Sam a concerned look and offers me a tight smile.
“It was nice to meet you, Emilia. Good luck with your interview.”
“Thank you, and thanks for the coffee.” I lift my cup in a salute. “I’m sorry again for stepping on you.”
He winks, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “No apologies necessary.”
Then Sam and Trey disappear down the street, walking quickly, just as Megan slides into the chair Sam was just in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Thank you for being so patient. As you can see, we’re terribly understaffed.” She sighs.
Megan and I instantly hit it off. We fall into easy conversation. She’s convinced she can have me making coffee and serving pastries in no time. Thirty minutes later, I’m on my way back to Alex’s condo, now a proud employee of Café Au Lait.
Fred is occupied on the phone as I move quietly through the lobby, and surprisingly, I don’t see Saul. I exhale deeply, feeling a weight lifted off my shoulder. Money should start coming in soon, and I don’t have Saul breathing down my neck. Letting myself into the condo, I’m surprised to find it empty. Alex isn’t in his office, and Rosa is nowhere to be found. I find my way back to Alex’s offi
ce and turn on his computer monitor. I open the internet browser and log into my email address, sending off a quick message to Carter to let him know that I’ve made it to Phoenix and found a job. I even give him my new cell phone number, just in case. As I’m about to hit send, a hand slaps the glass desk, startling me.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” It’s Saul, and he’s seething.
I point at the screen to show him my email, but fear ripples through me, and I’m unable to form a coherent response. “Um, uh, I… uh…”
“Answer me,” he snarls.
“I was sending an email to a family friend. That’s all.”
“Get out of this office.”
My heart races a million miles an hour as I swivel in the chair and quickly hit send. I try to rush out, but Saul steps in front of me.
“If I ever catch you in this office again, you’ll be sorry.”
“Understood,” I mumble as I step around him.
“Be careful, Emilia,” I hear him say from the room as I leave. “What you know can get you killed around here.” What can get me killed? I panic as I race toward the room I’m staying in. Every bone in my body is telling me to stay as far away from Saul as possible.
I SWERVE MY Range Rover to the side of the quiet neighborhood street and park under a tree. My car stands out in a neighborhood like this. Every house on this street is essentially the same cookie cutter design, all stucco with red tile roofs and painted tan. I pull my Glock from the center console and tuck it into the back waistband of my slacks, out of sight. I scan the street in front of me and behind me through the rearview mirror before quickly exiting my vehicle and striding down the street to one of my stash houses.
This house is being used to hold close to a million dollars’ worth of marijuana. I rarely make an appearance at the houses. This is usually left up to my father and his crew, but alas, here I am. Fuck. I wipe a bead of sweat that is trickling down my temple. Pulling the phone from my pocket, I press the number for one of the guard’s burners to alert him of my arrival.
I knock quietly, and Salvatore answers. “Hola.” He flicks the lock on the steel security door, and I step inside. The putrid smell of the bundled marijuana instantly hits my senses and I inwardly cringe. Some like the smell—me, I hate it.
“Kush?” I ask as I circle bundle after bundle of premium marijuana. I know the answer to this, but I need to verify. We import only the best—always have. Which makes our product highly sought after, compared to our competitors’ shit.
“Si.” Salvatore nods, the scar on his forehead deepening with his scowl.
I set my hands on my hips. “I don’t like all of this in one location. Have Roberto move half to the house on Sunset tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitates, then adds, “And, while you’re here, I wanted to let you know we have a little problem with one of our guys…”
“Who?” I bark at Salvatore. My patience in dealing with personnel issues is wearing thin.
“Manuel.”
“What about him?”
“He’s, ahh… dipping into the goods at the house on Wheeler.”
“Shit.” I rake my hands over my face. Of all the fucking days. “Do we have anyone we can replace him with?” My mind races to count the men I have that aren’t incarcerated.
“No. Everyone’s still locked up.”
“Shit. Okay, I’ll handle Manuel. Get half of this moved tonight. Any other updates? Nosy neighbors? Anything else I need to be aware of?” I’m ready to get the fuck out of here. My Glock is digging a hole in my back.
“Nah, everything’s been quiet. So far, so good.” Sal shoves his hands into his front pockets.
“Good. We don’t have any room for fuck-ups, Sal. I mean it.”
He nods respectfully. “Yes, sir.”
I clap my hand onto Salvatore’s shoulder as a goodbye gesture. At the door, I peek through the peephole to make sure no one is outside before I slip back into the arid night. Two little girls ride past me on their bikes and smile, and I feel a hint of guilt knowing that I’ve brought my shit to their neighborhood, a neighborhood where they should feel safe, but at any minute could erupt into a goddamn warzone with one of our competitors or the feds. I swallow back my self-anger for bringing this into their world.
I slip out of the neighborhood and onto the freeway, heading over to the drop house on the west side. I hate these houses. I hate what we do in these houses. From the age of twelve, my dad was grooming me to run his business. He showed me everything—taught me that drugs, guns, and smuggling people into the States was the way to fast money. I despise this business. Gripping the steering wheel, I crawl along the freeway in rush-hour traffic, distracted by an incoming text from Emilia. As traffic stops, I glance at my phone.
I got the job!
I can actually see her excitement in the message and envision her giant smile. That sweet fucking smile I could stare at all day long. I respond quickly before tossing my phone into the cup holder.
Congrats. Celebrate tonight? Dinner?
I don’t wait for her to respond. I’m not giving her a choice.
A few minutes later, I pull into an older neighborhood with rundown houses; a more appropriate place for the shit we do. Cars are parked on the streets, in driveways, and all over front lawns. This neighborhood already looks like a war zone because it is. It’s also easy to keep a drop house in a neighborhood like this because no one gives a shit about who’s coming and going.
I dial Manuel’s phone and tell him to expect me in a matter of minutes, then, just as my dad taught me, I park down the street and keep my head down as I approach the house. Loud music blares from a house two doors down, and sheets and blankets are makeshift curtains for the house next door. While my house is old, I make sure to keep it looking decent with ample window coverings and a manicured landscape. The less attention I draw to these houses the better, another lesson from my dad.
I knock twice and the door flies open. Manuel inhales sharply on a cigarette and steps aside to let me through.
“Boss,” he exhales along with a puff of smoke.
I scowl at him. “Put that out. No smoking in the house.”
He flicks the cigarette out the front door, then closes it behind him.
“How many are here?”
“Thirty, maybe forty.”
“Jesus Christ, Manuel. I said no more than twenty per house.”
“Eh, we picked up some extras. The extra cash is nice.” He laughs and shrugs.
I grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall, speaking in a scarily quiet voice. “The more we have, the more likely we’re going to get noticed. Move some,” I bark at him.
His eyes flash with fear. “The other houses are full, boss.”
“Get rid of them,” I order. “Drop them off at the bus station or a park; just get rid of them. I want no more than twenty. Do you understand?” I let go of his shirt and step away.
He smells of sweat and cigarettes, and everything about him disgusts me. I hate dealing with these assholes.
“Yes, sir.” Manuel takes a deep calming breath.
“And women. How many are women?” I told the men not to smuggle women. There’s too much risk and liability. I don’t want women or children harmed as we transport them across the country.
“Three, maybe.” Manuel shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
My eyes narrow on him. “And how many have you been fucking?”
He stands quietly. God-fucking-dammit.
“You’ve been told before.” I have to clench my fists to keep from caving in his face. “You do not touch the women. Why is that so hard for you?”
“Hey, they’re willing. It’s not like I’m forcing myself on ‘em.”
I lower my voice. “Don’t. Touch. The women. Comprende?”
He nods frantically. “Yes, sir.”
“And clean this place up. It’s a fucking mess.” I can hear pots and pans being shuffled in
the kitchen, and I glance at Manuel.
“Pablo,” he promises. “He’s getting food ready.”
I back slightly away, but keep my eyes narrowed. “You make sure they’re well cared for. No one goes hungry or gets hurt in one of my houses.”
“Your father was never this demanding,” Manuel mutters sulkily.
I grit my teeth. Well, if my father were here, then I wouldn’t have to be. “I’m not my father. I’m running this show right now. You answer to me. If you have a problem with that, let me know. I’ll take care of it right now.” I reach into my waistband and pull the gun out.
Manuel’s eyes get big and he holds up both hands in defeat. “No problem, Alejandro. No problem.”
“Good.” I put the Glock back in its place. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I want this place cleaned up. No more than twenty and no women. Understood?”
“Si.”
Back in my car, I lock the doors and rest my head back, closing my eyes for just a moment… until I remember that I’m a fucking target sitting here in the dark with my eyes closed. I hate every single part of this business—I hate being a criminal. Pushing the ignition button on my car, I throw the gear in drive and speed out of this shitty neighborhood.
THE DOOR SLAMS unusually hard behind me, and I find Rosa in the kitchen, chopping fruit and humming to herself.
“Mijo,” she says when she looks up and sees me. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a really long day.” I rub my temples and realize how exhausted I am.
She slices strawberries at expert speed and tosses them into a ceramic bowl. “Emilia told me you were celebrating tonight, so I didn’t make dinner. I just wanted you to have something for breakfast. I’ll be late tomorrow morning. I’m stopping at the grocery store on my way over. Is there anything you need me to pick up?”
What would I do without Rosa? “Not that I can think of. If I think of anything, I’ll call you. Thanks, Rosa.”
“Have fun tonight. Oh, and mijo.” She leans in conspiratorially. “I really like Emilia. We got to spend some time together today. She’s a good girl.”
