Mad Dog
Page 33
“I’m on it, but I’m not an idiot. I know there’s more to it than that. Care to enlighten me, or is your vocabulary too limited? Do we need some flashcards or do you communicate via smoke signals?” I jest, but I can’t help but wonder if he means heel, like I’m a dog and he wants me to behave, but I’m not about to ask him that.
He doesn’t even react, just stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. “When you can walk, we will talk.” Then he leaves the room.
The truth is, as thrilled as I am not to be dead, I’m exhausted and I hurt all over, but I’m not about to flood my system with any more pain meds than I need to take the edge off. I don’t trust Arturo Flores for a second, but I can’t exactly tell him no. He saved my life and he controls my brother, whether Maddox knows it or not.
Plus, he’s set me up in some pretty sweet digs for my recovery. I didn’t see where he took me, since I was in the back of an ambulance for the trip, but I know it’s within an hour of LA, by the beach, so my guess is Malibu.
I have an ocean view and a pair of private nurses who work in shifts. One is actually pretty cute, but they have a male orderly who bathes me. Too bad I’m not into dudes like my brother or I’d have a lot more fun. Maybe I can ask the cute nurse for a sponge bath for Christmas. Or even better, maybe I can request the pretty doctor who first saw me when I was brought into the ER a week ago, though I can’t help but wonder if she was just a dream. Even if she’s real, my dreams are probably a safer place for her than my reality.
The doctor I do have, Dr. Yao—fucking hilarious name for a doctor—visits daily to check on me and says I’m healing well, but my legs still aren’t quite working. They will. I have feeling in them. I guess there’s just swelling around my spine or something that’s preventing me from walking yet. When Gustavo shot me, the bullet just missed my heart but grazed a vertebra badly enough to nearly paralyze me. But hell, I’m alive, so that’s something.
I just don’t know what the hell they want with me. I can guess though. I got in deep enough with Zavala over those three months I ran guns for them that I have some solid contacts, and I know they’re big enough rivals of Amador that they’re intent on destroying him and taking over his territory. Organizations like them are ruthless and devious, employing just as much subterfuge to get what they want as the fucking CIA. I know they have intel on Amador—on how he works, and what he wants—and I’m pretty sure that’s what Flores is hoping to get from me.
Except with J.J. Santos officially dead, I’d have to get in as my alter-ego, the name I used to keep a measure of distance between my family and my job. Zavala only knows me as Mason Black, who, by necessity, isn’t the man with the contacts at the Naval Weapons Station.
Thanks to Amon and Flores any trace of J.J. or cartel contacts who can ID me on sight are gone. I predict they’ll come to me with the second request as soon as I’ve recovered. And I have to say I’m looking forward to officially being someone new, even if it means running headlong into a new shit storm. I’m also more than ready to fully embrace my new identity. I chose the name for two reasons: One, because I hate my real name and the man who gave it to me; and two, because I’ve always been the black sheep, so it suits me well.
As of today, Julian Santos Jr. is dead. Long live Mason Black.
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Mile High (Mason Santos)
Valentine’s Day (Sam Santos)
The Devil’s Daughter (Elle Santos)
Marked Man (Marco Santos)
About Ophelia Bell
Ophelia Bell loves a good bad-boy and especially strong women in her stories. Women who aren’t apologetic about enjoying sex and bad boys who don’t mind being with a woman who’s in charge, at least on the surface, because pretty much anything goes in the bedroom.
Ophelia grew up on a rural farm in North Carolina and now lives in Los Angeles with her own tattooed bad-boy husband and six attention-whoring cats.
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Mad Dog
Copyright © 2020 by Ophelia Bell
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Published by Ophelia Bell
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