by Ophelia Bell
But with Sam at my side in front of the camera, I feel like I’m not shouldering all that burden. And for the first time, I’m actually looking forward to going home and going to work every day.
I’m in a haze of anticipation when we finish up for the evening and pack up our gear for the last time. We pause long enough for me to take a look at Sam’s fresh ink, carefully wipe it down, and proclaim it worthy of the contest.
The atmosphere in the convention hall is both weary and jubilant. It’s the end of another amazing event, and there’s a party starting in the arena for the registered ticket-holders in a few hours, and only the last crowd of attendees who stayed for the contest are still around.
Time gets away from me for a while and I glance up from taping up a box of swag, then stand, frowning.
“Where’s Sam?”
Vic’s in the process of carefully disassembling the sign while Mako’s stowing all our flash art into binders to ship home.
“Kid went to get in line for the best of show contest. It’s starting in . . .” Vic looks at his phone. “. . . ten minutes. We should head over soon.”
A giddy flutter fills my belly and I move faster, shoving wadded paper into the rest of the boxes, taping them shut, and slapping shipping labels on everything.
When all our gear and swag is packed and ready to get carted out by the shipping company, the three of us head in the direction of the stage.
Halfway there, I see a dark head near the front of the room rising above the crowd, and my heart leaps into my throat. God, just setting eyes on Sam now makes me feel like a fucking teenager. Part of me still feels like I’m somehow taking advantage of him as the older, wiser party. But being with him doesn’t feel like being with a horny kid. In a lot of ways, he’s more mature than Manny was.
He’s just Sam. And fuck me if he hasn’t gotten under my skin.
His gaze is fixed on me as I move closer. He’s standing in a long line of other contest entries, and someone taps him on the shoulder to urge him to move forward when he fails to close the gap between himself and the guy in front of him. He gives me a shrug and steps forward, but keeps watching me. I can’t stop looking at him either, because after my confession, I really want to move things along, but things keep getting in our way. He smiles when I reach him.
“What’s that smile for?” I ask, unable to stop grinning myself.
“Just happy to see you.”
I reach up and playfully ruffle his hair. The thick waves on top fall over his forehead and he rakes them back, leaving a dark, dangling strand that makes him look like Superman. This man is going to save my life, so it isn’t a huge stretch.
“You’re my hero, you know that?”
His eyebrows shoot up and his grin widens. “That’s nice to hear from a woman who isn’t my sister.”
“Win this thing,” I say under my breath, then stretch up to kiss him before moving away to take a seat.
The trio of judges are seated at a table up on the dais while the new tattoo owners step forward one by one to show off their recently acquired art. Our design has to win the Best of Day category before it’s eligible for Best of Show, and the judging takes time.
Dozens of stunning tattoos pass by us and the anticipation is killing me. Sam kept his shirt on with plastic still covering his back to keep the skin from sticking to the cotton fabric. It kills me that I can’t go up and help when he finally steps in front of the judges, but artists aren’t allowed to interfere in any way to ensure the judging remains unbiased. They’ve likely already seen the livestream of the process, but I’m not going to fuck this up by going up there to help him take off his damn shirt.
He doesn’t need the help anyway. He peels off his shirt, and a female convention volunteer appears more than happy to help when he quietly gestures to his back and asks her to.
The judges all blink and their eyes widen when he turns his back to them. The idiot finds me in the front row and winks, which elicits a round of catcalls and whistles from the crowd. The man does look damn fine without a shirt, especially with both arms and half his torso covered in body paint. The judges all bend over their score sheets and make notations, waving him along. He leaves his shirt off and practically swaggers toward me. Mako gets up and offers his seat so Sam can sit beside me, but he crouches in front of me instead.
“So you think we’ve got a chance? I couldn’t see their faces.”
“Hell yes, we’ve got a chance. They were impressed.”
The judges confer and finally announce the day’s winners. Mako lets out a hoot when Sam’s tattoo wins both Best Mash-Up and Best of Day. A larger crowd has gathered by now, the chairs in the room nearly filled in time for them to announce Best of Show.
I’m at the edge of my seat, wishing Sam hadn’t opted to sit a few seats down to make it less obvious we’re together. I turn and smile, my stomach turning a flip when he winks in reply. So many positive vibes are running through me at the moment, it’s as if nothing bad could possibly happen.
The feeling is only heightened when the MC takes the mic and says, “And now the moment everyone’s been waiting for! The Best of Show award goes to . . .” A pre-recorded drumroll sounds over the speakers as he rips open a sealed envelope and reads, “Toni Valentine and Sam Santos of Tendrils, San Diego, California! Will the owner of the tattoo and the artists please come up?”
Sam and I both leap out of our seats with triumphant hoots and Vic and Mako stand with us, whistling along with the cheering crowd. Sam hauls me into his arms, lifts me up, and spins around, the sudden embrace making me laugh.
The next few minutes are a whirlwind of activity as we head up to accept the award, which is a framed plaque nearly half my height with a brass plate waiting for our names to get etched onto it. We pose for photographs before relinquishing the award, which will get shipped to the shop once its engraved.
I’m still high from the win when the four of us leave, wandering back through the convention hall that’s largely broken down except for a handful of booths and displays, including one for a raffle of a shiny black and red Harley Davidson Low Rider.
“Hey guys, did you enter the raffle for this sweet ride yet?” Mako asks. “Last chance, ‘cause they’re about to take the tickets away to do the drawing. You guys think your luck will hold?”
I can smell the fresh new leather from here. “I love the way you think, Mako. You guys have seen the state of my bike back home. Plus I’m on a roll this weekend. Give me that pen.” I scribble my info on the entry form and shove it through the slot.
“Seriously?” Sam asks, sounding oddly surprised. “I mean, why wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, but looks oddly perturbed by my decision.
“What, you worried you’d have less of a chance? You’re my lucky charm, dude. You should enter too.” I punch him lightly on the arm.
“Babe, the fact that you give me the time of day makes me the luckiest man alive. I hope you win, but if you don’t, I’m here for you.” He speaks with mock concern, and I can’t help but laugh. The bike would be a pretty sweet bonus to an already amazing weekend, but I won’t be too heartbroken if someone else wins it.
We all head to the restaurant in high spirits despite exhaustion seeping in from what a long, busy weekend it’s been. I’m both eager to get back to my room with Sam and also hesitant to rush things. It’s our last night here, so I want to draw things out as long as possible. Our flight leaves in the morning, but we’re only carrying our luggage since everything else is getting shipped. All we have left to pack is what’s in our rooms, which gives us all night to spend worrying about nothing but each other.
“A group of artists are going out to a club. You wanna join?” Mako asks after all that’s left is the half-empty margarita pitcher and our glasses. He lifts his arms and wiggles in his seat. “A little dancing would top off the weekend right. Unless you two had a different venue in mind for a private dance. Which is all good too.” He wags his eyebrows at us.
I bite my lip and look at Sam. “You want to dance, or . . . ?”
He’s frowning into the distance, so I turn to figure out what he’s looking at so intently. It’s the woman from hotel staff who opened my door for me the morning I was locked out. She’s just standing there on the phone, but otherwise nothing seems odd about her presence.
“Sam? Everything okay?”
“What? Ah, yeah. Everything’s good. I think I’ll pass on dancing. I’m beat.”
“Shit, okay. I guess it’s just you and me, Vic.”
“Don’t stay out all night, you two,” I say, standing and reaching for Sam’s hand. He rises and lets me lead him out of the restaurant. “What’s up? You seem distracted.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, sliding an arm around my middle. “So, you down for a private dance again?” he murmurs into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine as I recall the striptease I did for him the other night.
“That can be arranged. I just need you to be prepared tonight.”
We’re halfway through the pool area on the way to our building when he stops short and pulls me around to face him. His eyes search mine, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. “Prepared . . . as in . . . prepared?”
“Yes, Sam. I mean exactly what you’re thinking. Let’s finish the trip off right.”
His grin widens. “Hell yes.” Then his face falls. “Shit. In that case, I need to visit the hotel shop.”
“You seriously didn’t pack condoms?”
“Didn’t want to jinx things. Being overprepared is a sure way to make sure the thing you want never happens, right? I’ll meet you upstairs.” He gives me a peck on the lips, then growls slightly and closes in for a deeper kiss, both hands braced against my cheeks. His tongue sweeps between my lips, a promise of what’s to come, and my core heats with anticipation. God, I’m so ready to be with him for real.
Then he releases me and lopes off back toward the resort’s main building. I step into the elevator and hit the button for our floor, but don’t feel the thing rise because I’m already floating.
22
Sam
I’m exiting the gift shop, baggie of condoms in hand, when I come face to face with the hotel manager again.
“Mr. Santos, do you have a moment?”
Warily I nod, even though I want to tell her to go to hell. “What’s up?”
“There’s an issue with the shipping labels on your belongings. Do you mind coming with me to clear things up? I tried to find the others, but they’re out of touch at the moment.”
That’s an odd statement, because I’m sure Toni’s up in her room, which seems like the most logical place to go looking for her rather than stalking me to the gift shop. But I follow her toward the convention hall anyway.
“Have you had a good visit?” she asks.
“Fine. What’s up with our labels? We’re shipping COD, so I can’t imagine what the issue is.” In fact, I’m the one who printed them, and I know they have all the info. But maybe Vic or Mako missed a box?
“You’ll see. This way.” She heads down a hallway, the long way around, and I pause.
“Isn’t the entry over there?” I ask, my spine prickling with dread. Something’s not right.
“Those doors are locked now that the event is finished. The space is only accessible via the staff entrance.”
She plasters on a forced smile that does nothing to ease my distrust. I take another step when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I fish it out, hoping it’s Toni simply asking where I am. But the message is from Mason, and it makes my blood turn to ice water.
“911. Long story, but DG has all intel. Amador knows who she is and where she is. TV is in danger. Get out if you’re still there.”
“Mr. Santos? Please follow me,” the woman is saying, impatient now. I look up at her and glare.
“Sorry. I have somewhere else to be.”
I’m already dialing as I sprint back toward the elevator, but out of the corner of my eye I see her glaring as she lifts her phone to her ear. Just barely, I catch her say, “Hurry the fuck up, he’s coming.”
Mason picks up on the first ring. “Delgado has the intel, which means so does Amador. Please fucking tell me you guys are on a plane out of Mexico.”
“I wish, brother. We don’t leave until tomorrow.”
“You have eyes on Toni? Is she okay?”
I wince. “Not at the moment, but I’m heading to her now.” And what the fuck? I’ve been glued to her all damn weekend, and the moment I leave her side is when things go shit-shaped? “Wanna tell me what happened?”
“Zavala’s compound was hit hard last night. Our sources say Zavala and his brother are both dead and Delgado’s taken control. The whole goddamn cartel is falling in line under him. He knows whatever Zavala knows—knew. So we have to assume that Amador knows too. Brother, be careful. You might not be able to help her if they take her.”
“The fuck I won’t. I can try. I know everything you know, remember?”
He’s silent for a second, and I impatiently watch the numbers rise in the elevator. Why the fuck did we have to have a room on the fourteenth floor? “There are a few things you don’t know, Sam, but I’m not at liberty to share. I made a deal with Delgado to keep my family safe. He won’t touch a hair on your head. Toni, on the other hand, wasn’t part of the deal.”
My blood roils. “What the fuck do you have on him, J.J.?” My slip back to his old name earns me a curse. “Mason, for fuck’s sake, whatever it is, fucking tell me.”
“It’s the reason he took out Zavala. That’s all I can tell you. You have to know I will do anything to protect you. This is no different, because if you knew what I know, he would tear you to pieces.”
“I’ll tear you to pieces if he hurts her, you hear me? Fuck!” I hang up and shove the phone back into my pocket, then squeeze through the elevator doors the second they start to open.
When I round the bend to our hallway, the woman from downstairs is already there, slipping out of Toni’s room. What the fuck kind of black magic is that? She must’ve come up a service elevator.
“Hey!” I yell, and she looks up in shock, then turns to flee. I catch her at a dead run and tackle her against a wall. “Is it Amador? He’s here, isn’t he? Tell me!”
“You’re too late. His men have her already.”
“Where?” I shout, grabbing her by the hair and pressing her face hard against the wall. She just laughs.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Cursing, I grab her master keycard and run back to Toni’s room to make sure. The room’s in shambles, the mattress askew, the lamps knocked over and broken, the mirror over the dresser smashed.
Rage and panic war inside me as I run back out. The woman’s still dazed, but is making her way down the hall. I catch up to her and drag her back into the room amid incoherent protests. I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do, but she has to know something. I grab two of Toni’s belts from the scattered mess and strap the woman’s wrists to the desk chair.
“You tell me how to find her or I’m throwing you off that fucking balcony, you got it?”
“Why the fuck would I tell you anything, pendejo? You’re just some lovesick idiot. Forget her. She’s long gone now.”
I scrub my hands over my face and pace to the door and back. The rage bubbles up and I shove my face into hers. “You will fucking tell me where she is!” I bellow. She lets out a squeak and cringes against the chair. I haven’t struck her, but I’m on the verge of using violence to get what I want, no matter how distasteful an idea it is to hit a woman. I back off, panting and clenching my fists.
She shakes her head, her voice a quavering whisper. “Amador’s men took her. That’s all I know. T-There’s a burner in my pocket with one number. Probably goes to another burner, but my contact always answered on the first ring. That’s all I’ve got.”
She angles her bound right hand to point to her jacket pocket, so I fish in and pul
l out a cheap flip phone. As she promised, there’s one number programmed, so I dial as I stare her down.
“What the fuck do you want?” a deep voice barks. “We got what we came for. You’ll be paid as agreed.”
I frown. That accent is distinctly American.
When I don’t immediately answer, the man says, “Marina, are you there? What do you fucking need?”
“Where are you taking her?” I ask in a hoarse voice.
“Fucking hell. You’re the boytoy, aren’t you? Just let it go, man. Stay the fuck out of Amador’s business and live, got it? You get tangled up in this mess, you won’t survive.”
“I have leverage,” I say, racking my brain for any morsel of the intel I committed to memory just for this eventuality. “Amador . . . I know things. I know things about him. About his business. About his history with Flores.”
The man is quiet for a second, then says, “Who the fuck is this?”
“My name is Sam Santos. I know Toni is Arturo Flores’ daughter. She doesn’t even know that yet. No one does. No one except my family and Flores himself. Now Amador knows, right? That’s why he wants her, isn’t it? I know more . . .”
“Listen, kid. I’m going to give you instructions. If you want to see her again, you follow them to the fucking letter, got it? But I warn you, you go down this road, there’s no going back, and it’s not going to be an easy ride.”
“I understand.”
Five minutes later I shove the phone into my pocket and head for the door, on a mission to do whatever it takes to make sure Toni’s safe. Behind me Marina yells, “You gonna let me go, pendejo?”
All I hear is a string of profanity in Spanish as the door clicks shut behind me.
