Mad Dog

by Ophelia Bell

  I just hope when I get to Maddox he’s willing to help.

  13

  Maddox

  Only an hour has passed since my brother loaded the crates of guns into the back of a black van and drove off into the darkness. It’s late enough on a Sunday night I should just go to sleep, but I’m too antsy to sit still. The relief of having those things out of my goddamn garage is tempered by the worry that something’s going to go wrong, even though J.J. swore up and down that he knew what the hell he was doing. He’s an even-tempered, calculating son of a bitch, so I have no doubt he can hold it together if he needs to, but he’s not the only one involved.

  I’m rearranging my tools for the third time when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m instantly on guard. He said it would be at least a couple hours before I heard from him, so it’s too fucking soon, but it’s too late for anyone else to call.

  His name lights up the screen and I curse, then punch the screen and put the phone to my ear. “You better fucking tell me it’s done, man.”

  He barks a bitter laugh. “I wish, brother. I had to bail the fuck out in the middle of the goddamn deal. Something went wrong. I’m not even sure what happened, but I cut tail and ran the second I heard the first gunshot. I’m coming back now, so be ready to cover this shit up.”

  I grit my teeth. “This was not part of our arrangement.”

  “Dude, I don’t have a fucking choice. I just need to stash this shit until I can get ahold of Gustavo and find out what the fuck happened.” He mutters the last words under his breath, and my hackles instantly rise.

  “Gustavo Delgado? Is that who you were doing the deal with? What the fuck, J.J.?”

  “He’s the only one local with a connection to the Amador cartel. I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you who my buyer was.”

  “Jesus fuck, dude. Not on the goddamn phone, okay? I don’t need any feds up my ass. We’ll talk when you get here.”

  We hang up, and I shove my phone back into my pocket with a curse and pace the floor for the next fifteen minutes. Finally, I hear the rumble of the van’s engine and the tires in the alley outside. I open the garage door, and J.J. backs in and kills the engine. I’ve already got the rear door open and have one crate halfway out by the time he comes around to grab the opposite end.

  We stack the half-dozen crates in the back corner in silence and replace the old tires around them, then he takes the van and parks it down the street. When J.J. gets back, his jaw is set, his lips pressed into a grim line, and he shakes his head.

  “Want to tell me what the fuck happened out there?” I ask when he steps back into the garage.

  He rakes his fingers through his hair, stares at the stack of tires, and shakes his head. “No fucking clue. I can’t reach Gustavo either. All I know is I was about to help Amador’s men unload the guns when someone fired a shot, and all hell broke loose. Now the fucker isn’t picking up.”

  Headlights flash across the wall, and J.J. ducks for cover behind my truck. My own survival instincts make me follow, and I peek out through the cab as a black Mercedes pulls into the alley and rolls to a stop as if the driver isn’t sure where they are.

  J.J. lets out a harsh curse, slipping his hand to his back and pulling out a handgun he had tucked in his waistband. “That’s Gustavo’s car.”

  “Does he know this is where you were storing the guns?”

  “No. I told him they were in a warehouse by the docks in Long Beach. Didn’t want to take any chances with him. He has no reason to show up here tonight as far as I know.”

  An SUV pulls in behind the Mercedes and stops. The driver’s door of the Mercedes opens, and Celeste Flores steps out.

  “What the fuck?”

  J.J. glances at me. “You know her?”

  “It’s Celeste.”

  His eyes go wide. “As in Celeste Flores? Motherfucking Arturo Flores’ daughter? Jesus Christ! I’d be better off facing the goddamn ATF!”

  His objections barely register over the certainty that something is very wrong. She’s pale as death, and when she turns and steps into the open garage, there’s a streak of red across one cheek.

  “Maddox?” she calls in a brittle voice. “Maddox, we need your help!”

  “Stay here,” I whisper to J.J., and I’m out from behind my truck like a shot. In a handful of strides, I have her in my arms. “What’s wrong?” I ask, cupping her face in both hands and rubbing the red off her cheek. It’s blood—fucking blood.

  She lifts a shaking hand and grips my wrist. Her hand is covered in blood too. “Leo,” she whispers, her eyes wide and terrified. Her grip tightens, and she pulls me to the car. The second I register who is in the passenger seat, I’m already running before I realize it. I yank the door open and tear off Leo’s seat belt.

  He’s unconscious, his chest soaked with blood. I lean down and peel the sodden pile of paper towels or whatever they are away from the wound in his shoulder. The bleeding has slowed and he still has a pulse, which is a small blessing.

  “Julian!” I bellow, calling my brother the way our mom might if she were trying to get his attention.

  My brother appears at my side along with two other men—the Quiñones twins, grim-faced and just as bloody as Celeste. Between the four of us, we get Leo into my lift and up to my apartment. Once we lay him on the bed, J.J. disappears with the twins, and I direct Celeste to head down to the shop for my med kit. While she’s gone, I strip Leo’s shirt and drench the wound in hydrogen peroxide, heedless of the mess I’m making of the bed.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened to you?” I mutter. His eyelids flutter, and he murmurs something unintelligible.

  Now that I can see it clearly, the wound itself isn’t that alarming. Sure, it’s a gunshot, but it’s nowhere near any major organs. The wound pierces his right shoulder just beneath the clavicle. There’s a dime-sized hole through one of his tattoos, but the rear of his shoulder is devoid of an exit wound.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Celeste asks, depositing my med kit on the bed. J.J. and the twins reappear, hovering just beyond the folding screens that separate the bed from the rest of my studio apartment. J.J.’s expression is grim as fuck.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. He’ll be fine as soon as I remove the bullet. Just give me a hand with this.”

  She obeys my commands without question, retrieving the supplies I need from the med kit and handing them to me one at a time. Thankfully, the bullet is easy to extract, and I drop it into an empty coffee cup sitting on my nightstand, then irrigate and stitch up the wound.

  Once Leo is patched up and dosed with morphine and antibiotics, Celeste helps change out the sheets and blankets, and we tuck him into my bed. I wash up in the bathroom, mentally preparing myself to hear what happened. The fact that Gustavo was involved in J.J.’s gun deal points to all this shit being connected, and the back of my neck prickles with dread.

  It’s Celeste and Leo, so there’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to keep from getting involved. Not to mention my own brother thought it would be a good idea to sell guns to the fucking Amador cartel.

  Taking a deep breath, I exit the bathroom to the sight of Celeste seated on the edge of my bed, her bloody hands wrapped tight around Leo’s hand like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go. She’s covered in blood, the blond ends of her hair stained red and matted. The collar of her shirt hangs wide, the fabric ripped and ragged, and the jacket she threw to the floor earlier has dark stains around the cuffs. I rest a hand on her shoulder and squeeze.

  “He’s going to be fine. Why don’t you get cleaned up? Use my shower. Help yourself to clean clothes from my dresser.” I gesture to the sturdy wooden chest of drawers in the corner.

  I squeeze again, and she takes a long, shaky breath, nods, and stands. She steps mechanically into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.

  J.J., Benny, and Baz are seated around my crappy fifties-era dining table, staring at their beers when I walk in. J.J. gl
ances up when I pause at the end of the table, then tilts his chin toward the twins. “They’ve got something they need to show you.”

  Benny stands abruptly and chugs his beer. His face is streaked with tears that cut through the dried blood he didn’t wash off. The haunted look means Leo wasn’t the only casualty tonight.

  When we get down to the garage again, J.J. has moved my truck out, and the two cars Celeste and the twins arrived in are parked inside with the garage door securely closed. The Mercedes’ leather interior is a mess, but I’m not prepared for what’s in the back seat of the SUV.

  “Jesus fucking Christ! Why didn’t you tell me someone else was shot?” I tear open the door and lean in, frantically searching for a pulse in the unconscious man’s neck. My body sags in defeat when there’s none to be found. I close my eyes and exhale. “He’s dead.”

  “They know,” J.J. says in a subdued voice. “Chest wound, dude. Straight through the fucking heart from the looks of it. He was dead before they got him into the car.”

  I look down at the man’s face. The inked design that covers his throat is familiar. I gave this man that tattoo, listening to him go on about how proud he was of his brother and how his relationship with his girlfriend was meant to be. Not long afterward, he tried to recruit me to join La Valla.

  “Manny Reyes.”

  That’s what Leo whispered earlier. Manny. I close my eyes, swipe a hand over my face, and let out a wretched groan. Leo’s brother is dead.

  Behind me, one of the twins emits a sob, the pair clinging to each other. Then my gaze cuts to my brother leaning on the roof of the car. My jaw clenches involuntarily, and he flinches.

  “I had nothing to do with this,” he says in a low voice. “You have my word. I didn’t even know they were there.” He darts a look over his shoulder at the twins, who are wiping their eyes and doing their best to put on brave faces. Poor fuckers. They shouldn’t have to be involved in this level of shit at their age. “What do you want to do?”

  I’m about to retort that it isn’t my goddamn decision. He’s the one who got us into this mess. But I don’t know that. The twins don’t seem to register that J.J. had anything to do with it, and from the blood covering them both, they were in the thick of it, while J.J. doesn’t have so much as a drop on him.

  I’ve always been the one my brothers deferred to when we were kids. Whenever Dad was deployed, they’d ask me for input before they’d ask Mom anything. If I said not to bother her with some inane request, they wouldn’t.

  Like it or not, this is my mess now, and I know who I need to call, but I need to have one more conversation before I do.

  Rounding the car again, I gesture to the twins. “You boys get cleaned up in the bathroom in my shop. Try not to get blood everywhere if you can. Then come upstairs and I’ll give you some clean clothes.” They jump into motion at my commanding tone, then J.J. follows me into the lift.

  “I have to call Flores,” I tell my brother. “Can any of his men ID you?”

  “It was dark, and the only men I dealt with were Amador’s once I was there. I was behind the van the whole time, brother. I didn’t even see who fired the first shot. Nobody looks at the delivery boy.” He gives me a wry smile that fades when I don’t find the humor in it. He sighs. “Gustavo was the only one who knew me. The guys I was about to hand off the guns to weren’t familiar, and we didn’t exactly exchange business cards.”

  “Leo and Celeste didn’t see you then?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t even know they were there.”

  “Then as far as anyone’s concerned, you’re just here visiting. We were here all night working on my truck. No one needs to know that was you out there tonight.”

  “You sure you need to call Flores?” His voice pitches higher than usual, betraying how terrifying a prospect that is. I can’t disagree with that sentiment at all.

  “They’re his men. His daughter. He’ll figure it out one way or another, and I’d rather not be the asshole who kept secrets from him again.”

  “Fair enough. But I don’t know if we should invite him down here when the evidence of my involvement is stacked in the corner of your fucking garage, man.”

  “You just need to get rid of the van, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stash the money somewhere else too.”

  “The van is handled. I’ve got a guy picking it up as we speak. It’ll be in pieces spread around a dozen different junkyards by morning. I’ll take care of the money now.”

  He grabs his jacket and motorcycle helmet from the table just inside my apartment. “So much for Elle’s college fund,” he says as he steps back into the lift.

  “I think she’d forgive us.” If there’s any chance of Amador coming after my brother for either the guns or the money, we need to make sure we’re prepared.

  He offers me a salute, then closes the gate. The motor whirs as it takes him down, leaving me alone with two people I was sure had disappeared from my life for good.

  14

  Celeste

  I should be rehearsing what I’m going to tell Papá when I call him, but my mind is caught in an endless loop, replaying the last hour. I barely register my shaking, blood-covered hands as I turn on the shower. Steam billows up and I step in, clothes and all. Everything I’m wearing has blood on it. I have to wash it off. Have to clean away the chaos of tonight because there is something at the heart of it all that I need to return to. Something Amador said. I just can’t remember now.

  Closing my eyes, I lean under the water, hoping the scalding heat will sear away everything but what really matters. I have no idea how much time passes. All I know is I’m still staring blindly at the tiles, the blood swirling down the drain at my feet long gone, when there’s a knock at the door. Then the latch clicks open.

  “Celeste, are you okay in there?”

  I blink at the sound of Maddox’s voice, so familiar, yet so different than when we were young. It’s deeper, both rougher and gentler. I croak something that sounds like his name. Simply speaking those two syllables dissolves what little control I have over my despair, and it floods out of me in a torrent of sobs.

  “Jesus,” he mutters and steps into the bathroom, opening the shower door and gathering me into his arms. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  His tight embrace and stroking hands over my back give me leave to let go. I’m suddenly eight years old again and my mother’s dead. I didn’t want to come to dance class but Papá made me. Then at the end he disappeared, and I was all alone except for this sweet, tender boy who found me weeping in the locker room, gathered me in his arms, and held me close. He was there for me when no one else was, even at that age.

  I cling to him until I have nothing left. I don’t want to let go, but he grips my shoulders and holds me back, peering down into my face. “Sweetness, you’re going to be okay. Let’s get you cleaned up, all right? I’m going to get you undressed.”

  He squats down and grips my heel, urging me to lift my foot. I lurch a little, then brace my hands on his shoulders as I register that he’s trying to take off my boot. For a second, I’m confused, but I follow his lead because my brain doesn’t have the capacity to make decisions of any sort, and it feels safe letting him make them for me.

  Deep down, I know there are too many decisions I’ll have to make very soon, but right now, I’m content to just do what he wants. He gets my other boot off, followed by my thin socks, and tosses them in the corner of the shower. Then he stands and works on the buttons of my blouse. I stand numb and silent, arms hanging at my sides as he peels the shirt off me. It lands in a sodden heap on top of my boots. He tugs at the button of my jeans.

  The tickle of the zipper over my pelvis wakes me up to a new awareness. It’s the opposite of safe but just as certain an escape. The hot water pounds against my back as his strong fingers tug and peel my jeans down my legs. His short hair glistens with moisture, and his faded black T-shirt is soaked through, adhering to his muscled s
houlders and back.

  I stare at his left arm as it flexes. The water flowing off it accents the inconsistent texture beneath the ink that hides his scars like a second skin. The scars extend all the way to his shoulder, the dusky point of one jutting out of his collar at his neck like some foreign creature has taken up residence beneath his skin and is slowly spreading, infecting him from the inside out. Something about it makes me feel a kinship to him I never did before, a bone-deep understanding of what it is to feel the need to hide our deepest, most damaged pieces.

  He deposits my jeans on the pile with my other wet things as he stands, then reaches for a bottle on the ledge. When he turns, I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, letting it fall to my feet.

  His gaze slips down to my breasts and he stills, jaw flexing. His strong throat ripples as he swallows, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Celeste . . .”

  Before he can object, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, my tongue driving desperately between his lips. A rough groan escapes him and his arms slip around me, holding me tight against his hard body. His wet jeans do nothing to obscure how aroused he is, the sensation of that bulge awakening an acute throb of need between my own legs. His hands glide down my back, one landing on my ass, squeezing as the other shifts between us and he cups my breast, thumb gliding across my hard nipple. I gasp at the pleasure, breaking the kiss and meeting his eyes. “Please.”

  His gray eyes are molten with desire, his body tight with tension, every muscle beneath my hands hard with restraint. I want him to break the way I’m broken, to give in and fall into desperate oblivion with me, escape the grief that awaits us outside that door.

  He glances at the door, and I know I’ve lost him. Whatever passes through his mind then makes him shut down with a shake of his head. He closes his eyes and steps away, bending over to pick up the shampoo bottle he dropped.