Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  “What the hell?” My voice is barely audible. Rough. Brittle. Like my Tío Mateo sounded after taking a bullet to the chest a couple of years ago.

  But I didn’t get shot. This is Camden, New Jersey, not Mexico City.

  Blowing out a queasy breath, I dig my elbow into the mattress and sit up, my body accompanying my chattering teeth in a symphony of tremors. When a sudden wave of nausea hits, I swallow hard, unsure if I’m going to black out or defile my bed.

  Breathe, Lola.

  Dios mío, I must have had more to drink than I thought.

  As my spinning head settles, I recall the single Bacardi and Coke I nursed all night. I was reckless, not stupid. I only allowed myself one drink, but I remember stumbling up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway. Someone was with me, but I can’t…

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “Argh, fuck!” Grabbing my head to stop the sound of my alarm from shattering my eardrums, I roll over, a sharp pain radiating across my abdomen as I search for my phone. “Shut up!” I growl. Dragging it off the nightstand, I hit all the buttons at once, praying one will stop the incessant noise.

  Finally, silence.

  Tossing it on the mattress, I flop back onto my pillow, when it hits me.

  “Shit! Santi…” I’m supposed to meet my brother for lunch. Adrenaline spikes through my veins as I throw my comforter across the bed. It isn’t until my feet hit the floor that I realize I’m naked.

  Dread fills my chest as I force pieces of last night from behind the distorted opaque window clouding my mind. How did I get home?

  Slowly, more jagged memories work their way out of the fog and into the light.

  No, no, no. I couldn’t have.

  Troy Davis.

  His hands.

  A bed.

  “Get ready, baby. I’m gonna treat this pussy good.”

  “No…” I breathe again, searching between my legs for signs of my worst fear. But there’s no blood on my thighs, and I don’t feel violated.

  That’s when a dark crimson stain catches my eye. The one smeared across the inside of my white comforter. It mocks me, daring me to come closer.

  So, I do.

  But as I twist toward the stained blanket, I draw in a sharp breath as another stinging pain shoots from my hip. Slowly, I glance down to see what could’ve caused such an ache.

  What I see turns my blood to ice.

  I’m bleeding all right, but from something much worse than a dick. Midway between my navel and left hip bone, someone carved a letter into my skin.

  No, not someone. Troy Davis.

  A fucking S.

  I scream out of anger and frustration. I don’t have to guess what that letter stands for. It speaks for itself.

  Slut.

  That motherfucker has no idea what he’s done. One word…one whisper from me, and I can’t count the number of ways he’d suffer, or the pieces of him that would end up scattered across all five boroughs.

  And then I’d end up right back in Mexico behind the iron bars I just escaped.

  That’s why I’ll keep Troy’s assault and desecration to myself, as will every single one of my friends if they know what’s good for them.

  As far as they know, I’m María Diaz, the child of Cuban immigrants. They smile their plastic smiles, flip their blonde hair, and link arms with me, all while pretending they don’t know exactly what I’m capable of.

  They do. They just choose to lock it behind their gated suburban lies.

  Fear is a deceptive spiritual guide.

  However, I shove everything away to deal with later. Always later. I can’t afford to let the great Santi Carrera, my big brother, and the heir apparent of my father’s empire see weakness.

  Because God forbid I have a say in anything.

  Santi left me alone in Mexico City two years ago to come to America and take control of our family’s New Jersey’s cocaine distribution. No one asked me what I wanted.

  Stay in Mexico and marry a nice boy, Lola…

  Well, fuck that.

  Since my brother left, I’ve moved heaven and earth to follow him. Including somehow convincing my overprotective parents to let me attend college in the heart of a warzone.

  Making my way to the bathroom, I turn on the shower full blast. Before the water is even hot, I step inside, letting it wash away my sins. Even the ones I don’t regret.

  At least they were finally mine to make.

  Control and freedom are two words I’ve craved but have been denied for years. Equal opportunity may be a right in the States, but things aren’t so cut and dry where I’m from.

  Not that women don’t hold power in my world. I’m just not part of that exclusive club.

  I’m Valentin Carrera’s daughter. The king’s innocent cielito.

  His little sky.

  I’m much too fragile to be tainted by the blood staining the hands of every member of my family. Ay Dios mío, I couldn’t even cross the border and go to college without two huge bodyguards and my fucking brother lurking behind every damn tree.

  Maybe that’s why I did it.

  After stepping out of the shower, my mind spins like a Tilt-a-Whirl as I rush to throw on a pair of loose-fitting shorts and the least wrinkled shirt I can find. No time for makeup.

  Like that won’t look suspicious.

  I bite my lip while towel-drying my hair. My rebellion last night was stupid, but exhilarating. I’ve kept a low profile since arriving on campus, so when my friend Nicole suggested we blow off some steam, I was all in.

  Party? Hell yeah. Booze? Bring it. Rich boys? Even better.

  Then she said his name.

  Sam Colton.

  Slipping on a pair of sandals, I grab my phone and car keys and rush out the door, my hangover and stinging skin already forgotten. Instead, my head fills with a permanent smirk and a pair of soulless dark eyes.

  Eyes so black I’m not sure there’s a beginning or end.

  Just infinite night.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I keep a check on the time as I race across the parking lot toward my white BMW. I’m halfway there when a cool breeze licks down the back of my neck, causing my steps to falter.

  My father’s words ring like a church bell in my ears. Always trust your instincts, cielito.

  “Is someone there?”

  Of course, no one answers. The majority of the campus is still sleeping away their hangovers. Still, my feet refuse to move, cemented to the ground by a fatal curiosity.

  I know all about the statistics of campus assault. I’m a prime target. Young girl alone… No one around to hear her cries for help… It’s a thought that should terrify me, but it doesn’t.

  It excites me.

  There’s something familiar in the air. Something forbidden and dangerous, yet tantalizing and enticing.

  Tightening my hold around the key fob, I hover my thumb over the panic button. “That’s it,” I mutter, shaking my head. “No more alcohol.”

  After settling behind the wheel, I lock the door and let out an unsettled breath. Son of a bitch, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.

  Stalked.

  Hunted.

  As if my every move is a choreographed step in someone else’s dance.

  “You’re losing it, Carrera.” Starting the ignition, I turn to back out of the parking spot, when the wound on my stomach stings under the crude bandage I fashioned earlier. The corners of my mouth turn down, my momentary euphoria tanking at the bleak reminder.

  I should’ve suggested we go to another party, but I didn’t. Even though I knew better. Even though I’ve been cautioned.

  “Stay away from Sam Colton, chaparrita. He’s dangerous.”

  I rolled my eyes when my brother issued his warning. How could the hottest, most popular boy on campus be the most hazardous to my health? What the hell did he know about Sam that I didn’t?

  Temptation is a baited trap. Last night, I crept closer, knowing the second I touched
the forbidden treat, a hair trigger would snap my neck.

  But there’s something about Sam… Something so fucking mesmerizing it’s worth the risk. Danger is the most addictive drug, and Sam Colton has me hooked.

  Chapter Four

  Lola

  “Not hungry?” My brother raises an eyebrow at me from across the small table.

  I glance down at my untouched plate. “I don’t like pizza.” Ugh, why did he have to pick an Italian restaurant? Thanks to our father, that asshole has more money than all of New Jersey combined, yet here we sit in some godawful strip mall pizzeria.

  “Bullshit. That ham and pineapple stuff is your favorite.”

  My stomach lurches. “Santi, please,” I whisper, placing my napkin on my plate, and gracias a Dios, blocking the layer of grease from sight. “Will you lay off already?”

  “No.” He tosses me a smug smirk.

  I scrunch my nose in disgust. If we weren’t in a public place, I’d punch that smirk right off his face. Instead, I glare at him. “I’m sick, all right?” Crossing my arms, I slump into my chair. “I think I have the flu.”

  “You smell like last call.” My big brother leans forward, the gold flecks in his eyes glittering with accusation. “The only thing you have is a hangover.” I jump as he slams his fist onto the table. “What have I told you about the consequences of drinking around strangers?”

  “That I could have fun?”

  Santi’s fist tightens, the vein in his temple pulsing with every grind of his teeth. Christ, he’s the spitting image of papá. “You’re testing me, chaparrita,” he warns darkly.

  I cringe at the sound of his childhood nickname for me. Shorty.

  “You could risk getting hurt,” he continues, pausing on a slow inhale. “Where did you go last night? Felipe is getting his balls chopped off because of you.”

  My jaw drops. “What? Why?”

  His eyes flash with an unforgiving truth no border walls can contain. “He’s one of your personal guards, Lola. Papá’s direct link to you besides me. What did you think would happen when you ditched him last night?”

  Oh fuck.

  That’s just it; I didn’t think. Our father is merciless enough, but when it comes to me, he’s inhuman. For some reason, I flip a switch in him even mamá can’t control.

  Felipe is a pain in my ass, but he doesn’t deserve papá’s wrath.

  “I’ll call papá.” I reach for my phone, my hands shaking so badly, I nearly knock over my water. “I’ll tell him it was my”—I draw in a sharp breath as the tender flesh beside my hip burns—“my fault,” I finish weakly.

  Keeping my eyes lowered, I try to pull up my father’s coded contact in my phone. Why won’t my hands stop shaking?

  I’m not afforded another attempt. Santi’s bronzed hand darts across the table and slams on top of mine. “That’s not how it works, and you know it. Actions have consequences, Lola. Unfortunately, Felipe will pay for yours.”

  I nod. It makes me sick to my stomach, but he’s right; this is the way of our world, and no amount of pleading will change it.

  As the pressure on my hand releases, I jerk my phone to my chest. Bad move. White, hot, pain tears through my body like a greased bobsled.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  It’s not a question.

  “Yeah.” I wince, shifting in my chair. “Our father is about to castrate a man, and I’m about to throw up my spleen. Not a good day for vital organs.”

  Awesome, Lola. Crack a joke. That’s always helpful.

  He ignores my insolence. “Every time you move, you wince and clench your fists. You’re hurt, Lola. So, I’ll ask again. Where were you last night?” he demands, jabbing a finger at me from across the table. “And don’t fucking lie to me.”

  “I sort of had a date.” Technically, it’s not so much a lie as a bent truth. “It didn’t go so well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He gave me a drink, and then it’s all a big blur.”

  Santi’s restrained anger explodes, his palms hitting the table at the same time his feet hit the floor. Glasses rattle and tip over onto the floor, shattering into jagged pieces. “You let some asshole roofie you? How fucking stupid do you—?”

  The entire restaurant falls silent as eyes shift toward us. Fuck, this is the last thing either of us needs. “Santi,” I plead in a low tone. “Please don’t. Not here.”

  His gaze shifts to the left before he slowly sinks back into his seat. But I don’t take my eyes off him. Just because the dragon isn’t roaring, doesn’t mean he’s not still breathing fire.

  “Name,” he says flatly.

  “Santi…”

  “Name, Lola. Don’t make me seek it out myself.” He issues the threat calmly, his nostrils flaring like a raging bull restrained in front of a red flag. “I promise you won’t like what happens.”

  I believe him.

  “Troy Davis.”

  Please forgive me.

  Santi pulls out his phone, and within seconds has someone on the line. “It’s Carrera. Find a student named Troy Davis. Bring him to the docks and then wait for me.” Without another word, he disconnects the call and pockets his phone.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He holds my stare for one too many skipped heartbeats before speaking again. “You’re a fucking Carrera, Lola. You should know better than to let your guard down. Do you know how many assholes in this town would take a blade to you just to get to me? To get to papá?”

  I recoil at his words. “I think one already did,” I whisper.

  His eyes narrow into deadly slits. “Show me.”

  “Here? No!”

  “I won’t ask twice. You can show me, or I’ll have Tito show me.” He tilts his head to his left, where my other beast of a bodyguard sits.

  So that’s who he was looking at…

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss, calling his bluff.

  “Try me.”

  “You let that man anywhere near me, and papá will shove a gun so far up your ass, you’ll burp bullets.”

  His razor-thin lips tip into a disturbing smile. “You think papá won’t sanction my commands? Think again, chaparrita. I’m king of this city. You’re just the insolent child who ditched her guard, went to a Santiago-affiliated party, and got herself roofied.”

  “Asshole.” I glare at him, refusing his request, when his words blaze through my mind, leaving a scorched trail of deceit. “Wait, a what party?”

  “Exactly,” he scolds, folding his arms, his biceps straining beneath his button-up shirt. “You have no idea the danger you’ve put yourself and this family in.”

  His words are like a punch to the chest. “I don’t understand. How?”

  Of course, he doesn’t answer my question. He never does. This is Santi Carrera’s world; we just live in it.

  “Show me, Lola,” he repeats, his jaw clenched.

  Cursing under my breath, I tap the camera icon on my phone with more force than necessary.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you what you asked for.” As discreetly as possible, I lift the hem of my shirt and lower the elastic waistband on my shorts, quickly snapping a picture. Gritting my teeth, I shove my hand across the table. “They say a picture says a thousand words… Well, how about a letter?” I snort at my own joke as he takes my phone. “That dickhead jock gave me a scarlet one. Carved an S for slut right next to my hip.”

  My heart stutters as fire sweeps up my brother’s neck, igniting an all too familiar bloodlust in his dark eyes.

  “It’s not that bad,” I whisper, shrinking into my seat. “Once it heals, I’ll get a tattoo over it. It won’t even show.”

  “The S is not for slut, Lola,” he says in a clipped tone.

  A few precious beats pass.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  Santi stands, his expensive dress shoes hitting the tile seconds before a roar rips from his chest. Flipping the table, he sends
it flying across the restaurant, and then storms out the door.

  What the fuck just happened?

  I glance toward Tito, who simply shrugs and pulls a wad of bills from his pocket.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake…

  It’s not smart or rational, but I run after my brother. It only takes half a block to spot him leaned up against the side of a building, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

  By the time I reach him, I’m gasping for air and pissed off. “What the hell is wrong with you? And since when do you smoke?”

  “Since about five minutes ago; right about the time I realized my sister started the next phase of this fucking war.”

  “What?”

  Leaving the burning ember tucked between his lips, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for. Taking a long drag, he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds up a picture. “Look familiar?”

  My knees nearly buckle. No. That can’t be right. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Nora, my dock hand. She was on my payroll. One of my inside plants who I compensated very well to clear all my shipments. And that thing she’s on,” he says, his middle finger tapping the rectangular thing beneath her, “is a metal slab at the medical examiner’s office. Another man on my payroll was about to perform Nora’s autopsy when he sent me this photo. And that, dear sister,” he hisses, jabbing the same finger toward the center of the screen, “is the same scarlet letter carved into her chest.”

  I can’t breathe.

  “S isn’t for slut, Lola. It’s for Santiago.”

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Dropping the half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement, Santi stomps it out with the heel of his shoe while shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I told you to stay the fuck away from Sam Colton!”

  “I have! What the hell has he got to do with this anyway?”

  “Mamá.”

  The word is like another deep slice to my skin. Our father has sheltered me from most inner workings of the family business, save one. Mamá’s role in the eighteen-year Carrera/Santiago feud is something that even the great Valentin Carrera could never hide.

  Not when the ripple effect lasted well into our childhood.