Marisela Morales 03 - Dirty Little Christmas - Julie Leto

by Contemporary Romance

  “Which means, mi hermana, that they will be so surprised and happy that they’ll forget how you didn’t tell them. Trust me, their memories aren’t what they used to be.”

  Marisela snagged the handle of Belinda’s carry-on bag and tugged, but her sister held on tight. She blinked uncertainly, as if someone attempting to carry her bag was as foreign as being greeted with a hug.

  “Belinda, por favor, you’re back home. You’re going to have to deal with mama’s bitching and you’re going to have to let me carry your bag.”

  “Why?”

  Marisela straightened and as she opened her mouth to snap back that she didn’t have to explain every single thing she did to Belinda, Lia cupped her elbow and whispered, “Breathe.”

  No matter how she’d tried to prepare herself for dealing with her sister after all these years, reality still struck her hard. Belinda infuriated her. Belinda annoyed the crap out of her. But Belinda was the only sister she had. Besides, her inability to grasp the fine points of basic social interaction was a breath of fresh air in Marisela’s smoky, shadowy world where everyone had an ulterior motive and ready cache of mistruths and lies.

  “Because I’m trying to be nice,” she replied simply.

  Marisela threw Lia the first of what she assumed would be a week or two’s worth of exasperated looks, but her best friend was staring intently at Belinda’s bag, her mouth partly open as if Marisela’s grab for the Louis Vuitton tote had shocked the hell out of her, too.

  “I’ve transported this bag successfully on my own since leaving my apartment in London. And since I’ve had that opportunity to rest during the transatlantic flight, I’m more than capable of carrying this added burden. I don’t understand why people insist on trying to make things easier for me. My condition alone should prove that I can manage an additional six-point-three-five kilograms of science journals, my iPad, prenatal vitamins, a bottled water, my passport, wallet, and assorted toiletries, all packed in pre-packaged containers holding less than one hundred milliliters.”

  Marisela let loose a string of curses, but stopped when her sister’s frown turned downright…Morales-like.

  She stepped back and rewound her sister’s tirade in her head. At the same time she reached the word that had set off the fire alarms in her brain, Lia squeaked.

  “Wait,” Marisela said. “Back-up. What kind of vitamins?”

  Belinda dropped her bag, undid the sash on her coat and flung it open. Lia emitted a gagging noise and Marisela nearly shit her pants.

  Now she knew why her sister had called.

  Why she’d insisted on coming home for the holidays.

  Not because she missed her family.

  Oh, no. That would be too easy.

  The puta had run home because she’d gotten herself knocked up.

  Three

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marisela said, more loudly than she should have, judging by the horrified reaction of the family passing by.

  Belinda pulled the coat closed. “Why would I go to such an elaborate ruse when I know the situation is less than desirable?”

  Marisela grabbed her sister by the lapel, not caring that she didn’t like to be touched. Clearly, her aversion to physical contact only applied to people like her parents and her sister and not to lovers, judging by her condition.

  “Because you like to mess with me?”

  Belinda narrowed her eyes. They might have been blue instead of brown, but her power to exude emotion with a glare was a well-known family trait. Their mother had perfected it, then passed the talent on to her daughters. But Marisela had never seen Belinda wield it with such intensity. The unrelenting ugliness shocked her, giving Belinda a chance to tug her coat from her grip and step away, where she nearly stumbled over her discarded carry-on.

  At once, both Lia and Marisela shot out hands to catch her, one grabbing each arm. Belinda seized up like a frozen popsicle.

  “Don’t touch me,” she seethed.

  “A little too late to say that out loud, verdad?” Marisela sniped.

  “Marisela,” Lia warned.

  Marisela ignored her. “What the fuck, Belinda? You’re supposed to be coming home to give Mami and Papi a Christmas they’ve been dreaming about for years and you don’t think to warn me that your real intention is to break their hearts to a thousand pieces?”

  Under her breath, Lia cursed, then grabbed her by the arm and squeezed so tightly, she cut off her circulation. Since her best friend rarely resorted to physical intervention, she wasn’t surprised when a pair of security guards approached.

  “Is there a problem here?” the shorter one asked.

  Marisela barely spared him a sidelong glance. She skewered her sister with a look that even she could interpret as meaning, stay quiet.

  “Of course not, officer,” she answered, pasting on a smile. “Just a family misunderstanding. It’s the holidays, entiendes?”

  “Right,” Lia said, jumping forward. “You know how emotions run high this time of year. Come on, girls. Let’s get home and um, open some presents.”

  Thankfully, the airport police lost interest in their squabble when a gang of college boys already deep into the holiday cheer broke into a rowdy rendition of Jingle Bells. After a curt reassurance from Belinda that she was fine, they wished them a “Merry Christmas” and jogged off.

  Ten minutes ago, that might have been a possibility. Now? Marisela could already hear her mother’s wails while her father promised to take the next flight to England to shoot every man with a penis in London. As most men had dicks, it was a good thing Marisela was the only person in the family who owned a gun.

  Infuriated, she spun toward the escalators, counting on Lia to make sure her sister reached baggage claim in one piece. She could barely see straight. She needed to wrangle her temper before she could figure out what the hell to do.

  Belinda wasn’t a teenager. She was over thirty, had a good job with a software developer and had been living independently—apparently more independently than anyone had thought—for a while. But no one in the family had visited London. They checked up with her via phone calls, texts, and recently, video-conferencing. They’d trusted the program that had placed her with her company right out of college. They worked twelve to fourteen hour days, still paying off the loans they’d taken out for Belinda’s special schools and doctors.

  They’d done everything in their power to ensure their older daughter had every advantage in life. And how had she paid them back?

  By getting herself pregnant.

  With a baby.

  Marisela marched past the baggage conveyors, shouldering through the crowds, blind to the computerized screens that indicated which belt delivered the luggage from which flight. She didn’t care if Belinda found her stuff. She didn’t care if Belinda’s crap had fallen out of the plane somewhere over the damned ocean.

  She still had her baby.

  Madre de Dios, a baby! A squishy, soft, cooing, helpless little infant with her blood was about to enter this world—via her emotionally ice-cold sister—a sister totally incapable of caring for a child.

  The realization socked Marisela in the gut. She stumbled onto the nearest flat surface—an unused baggage belt at the far corner of the airport. As she pulled in deep breaths, an airline employee made a beeline toward her as if to warn her away from the restricted area, but one pointed glance and the woman diverted off course.

  Too bad Marisela couldn’t solve Belinda’s problem so easily.

  What the hell was Belinda going to do with a child? She couldn’t love it. She couldn’t take care of it. That she could take care of herself up until now had been a combination of constant professional intervention and luck, which clearly, she’d run out of. And their parents? They couldn’t take on a baby at their ages.

  Which left Marisela, who snorted so hard at the idea, her sinuses burned. She loved los niños as much as anyone, but her maternal instincts were satisfied in random, brief encounte
rs at parks and grocery stores. Tiny baby fingers, chubby thighs and endless supplies of drool were like that green rock to the superhero in the red cape—they sucked all her powers away.

  Marisela’s anger surged. Belinda had no business coming here like this, ready to pop with some asshole’s bastard kid, forcing a humiliating choice on their Catholic parents only two days away from Christmas. Of all the self-centered, arrogant, egotistical crap her sister had ever pulled in the name of her fucking syndrome, this was the worst.

  This time, Marisela wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

  She tore her hands through her hair. What the hell was she going to do? Put her on a plane back to London to deal with this shit alone? Take her home and implode their family on the most holiest holiday of the year? Her hand fisted. She spun, aiming at the nearest wall when her cell phone rang.

  She cursed, wrenching her shoulder as she checked her fist before it collided with the wall. She spun and stretched out the cramp, then answered the relentless ring.

  “What?”

  “Where are you?”

  Marisela looked up. “By number 15.”

  “Well, get your culo over to number 11. Belinda’s got a big-ass bag and I’m not lugging it all over the damned airport while you have a temper tantrum.”

  “I’m not having a temper tantrum.”

  “Have you punched anything?”

  Marisela shook her fingers out of her cramping fist. “No.”

  “Then I stand corrected. But I know you like the back of my hand, so don’t deny that you’re on the verge. How about if you don’t lose your shit again in proximity of the airport police, okay? They aren’t going to be so forgiving this time and with Titan shut down, making your bail two days before Christmas might be more trouble than its worth.”

  “Alberto would get me out,” Marisela muttered, wondering if her old boss—the one who’d had to fire her after she’d kicked the crap out of one of his bail jumpers—would really come through, holidays or not.

  “He retired six months ago,” Lia snapped. “Look, I know you’re freaking out. I am, too. I thought for sure I’d be pregnant long before your sister. I mean, what the hell? How did she get luckier in bed than me?”

  Marisela snorted. “What makes you think this happened in a bed?”

  “Ew! You’re not really picturing your sister having sex, are you?”

  “No,” Marisela said, but then she shivered and rolled her shoulders as she tried to banish the sudden barrage of pornographic images from her head. To have sex, a girl had to feel passion. Desire. Need. Except for the stimulation she got from mathematical puzzles, Belinda experienced none of those things.

  At least, that’s what their family had always been told by the specialists and doctors.

  Showed what the hell they knew.

  Marisela moved toward where Lia directed, spotting her and Belinda, who was standing distinctly apart from the other passengers as the pre-recorded announcement about checking ID tags crackled above the crowd. Marisela shoved her phone into her back pocket and gave Lia a nod. Her best friend backed away, lugging the carry-on she’d somehow wrestled away.

  “You hate me,” Belinda announced.

  If her sister cared one way or another about this pronouncement, her voice didn’t give her away. To her, it was a fact the same as the sky is blue or Ricky Martin is proof that God has a wicked sense of humor.

  “I can’t hate you,” Marisela replied.

  Her ordinarily stoic sister arched a brow. It wasn’t much by way of a reaction, but with Belinda, it was huge.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “Genetics do not affect the formation of emotional responses. I’ve read studies which conclude that the closer the familial connection, the more tenuous or potentially explosive the impact of intense, emotional upheaval.”

  Marisela stared. Belinda had just rattled off a shitload of words—only every other one that Marisela recognized—yet her expression remained casually blank, as if she’d just delivered a Florida weather forecast.

  Hot and humid, with a chance of rain.

  Normal.

  Expected.

  “I don’t hate you,” Marisela repeated, laying her hand on Belinda’s upper arm and pretending she didn’t notice the way her sister flinched. “I can’t hate you, mija. My life would be so much easier if I could, but I’ve been trying to hate your guts since the day I realized that you were going to be a pain in my ass for the rest of my life. But I still haven’t managed to hate you. Just one more thing I’m not good at.”

  “You’re good at a lot of things,” Belinda stated.

  “Yeah, like fucking shit up.”

  “You have a terrible vocabulary.”

  Marisela chuckled, then leaned against her sister so that their shoulders touched. “Just add it to my list of failings. Maybe while you’re here, you can help me improve.”

  “I won’t be here that long,” Belinda replied, then darted away as her luggage came around on the carousel, not the least bit aware that she’d pulled off an expert comeback.

  “You okay?” Lia asked.

  “Not even remotely,” Marisela said, marveling at the strength and balance Belinda showed when she slid her suitcase off the belt, twisted it upright and pulled out the handle. “Come on, let’s blow this taco stand.”

  “Aren’t you going to take her bag?” Lia asked.

  “I’m taking her home,” Marisela said. “She’s lucky she’s getting that far.”

  They rode up to the top floor in silence. When the doors slid open, Marisela and Lia both started toward the east corner where they’d parked, then came up short when her car was no longer where she’d left it.

  “Coño su madre,” Marisela swore.

  Lia laid her hand on her arm. “Where’s the car?”

  “Someone stole your car?” Belinda asked from behind them.

  Marisela jogged to the space where she was certain she’d parked, with Lia running close behind her. The emptiness was like a slug to her heart.

  Damn it, she loved that car. She was going to track down whatever hoodlum had jacked it and cut his heart out with her fingernails.

  Lia squeaked in disbelief and then dropped Belinda’s carry-on in the center of the empty spot.

  Marisela stared up at the open sky and shouted, “Can this night get any worse?”

  Headlights from a black SUV flashed, blinding them as the vehicle tore out of its spot across from the elevators and screeched to a stop in front of Belinda, blocking her from view. When her sister’s scream tore through the air, Marisela had her answer.

  Four

  Marisela launched herself back toward the elevators. She slid her hand into her jacket for her gun just as the SUV’s driver’s side window, tinted to perfect blackness, scrolled down. At the sight of a dark, round muzzle, she threw herself behind the nearest sedan just as six shots popped off in quick succession.

  Two busted the windshield. One pinged off the asphalt and three flew wild.

  On her knees, Marisela turned and saw Lia, frozen, in their empty parking spot.

  “Lia, get down!” she warned.

  The SUV barreled toward Lia, but with a visible shake, she darted out of the way. Belinda—and her suitcase—were gone.

  Marisela flung herself flat against the ground and aimed at the truck’s tires. She pulled off several shots before the SUV slammed to a stop and the driver and a passenger, through the moonroof, returned fire. She rolled under a van for cover.

  The gunfire stopped. Lia screamed. Marisela slid between two parked cars, aware of the sound of sirens drifting up from below. That was one good thing about increased security at airports—instant reaction to gunshots fired. She fought her instinct to charge and instead chanced a glance around the bumper. She saw nothing but the idling SUV and a hint of movement from behind a full sized, flatbed truck parked next to it.

  It was Lia, playing tug-of-war with a ski-masked as
sailant and Belinda’s overnight bag.

  Marisela took aim, then shouted, “Lia!”

  Just as the man turned, Lia dropped to the ground, allowing Marisela a clear shot. Blood exploded off the top of the maricón’s shoulder. Marisela ducked behind a Mini Cooper, expecting return fire.

  She wasn’t disappointed.

  Glass exploded all around her, but the shooting stopped as the SUV tore down the exit ramp.

  Marisela sprinted after them, firing successively at the tires. If any hit their mark, none did enough damage to stop the escape. She couldn’t risk aiming any higher. Not with Belinda missing. Not when her likeliest location was in the backseat.

  She reached Lia, who was crawling back to her feet, blood streaking down her chin.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Someone just stole my car and took Belinda.”

  Lia shook her head. “But why? And your car…it’s there!”

  Marisela spun in the direction Lia pointed, spotting the Camaro parked crookedly in a spot behind another truck. She grabbed Lia by the arm, ignored her curse of pain, and pulled her along, determined to catch up to the sons of bitches who’d just taken her sister.

  The comemierdas had signed their own death warrants.

  She fished the keys out of her pocket and pressed the fob. But instead of the familiar double beep, an explosion of light and sound smacked them, throwing them back. A hailstorm of broken glass rained down and this time, when Lia started screaming, she did not stop.

  * * *

  Marisela couldn’t hear. No, that wasn’t right. She could hear, but the sounds were burrowing into her brain through a narrow tunnel, piercing her eardrum and then echoing in and out. She could hear Lia whimpering, or maybe howling in pain, but she couldn’t see past the cloudy haze filtering over her eyes. Smoke? Yes. But also lights. So bright. And heat. Intense heat. Damn. She blinked, afraid to rub her eyes with her hands, which were coated in filth and glass and grit.

  The motherfuckers had kidnapped her sister, assaulted her best friend and blown up her car.

  They were going down. As soon as she figured out how the hell to find them.