Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  "James uses the best."

  "But he works for you."

  "If you ask anyone else, he'll be crushed." Jorge was already dialling. "James? I have a job for you." Then he rattled away in Spanish. From the explosive sounds on the other end, complete with half-heard putas and coños, I gathered James was miffed too. It gave me a warm feeling, knowing I had friends.

  Jorge hung up. "James says he'll dig up enough dirt to put that son of a bitch six feet under."

  "Good!" I wasn't sorry, either. Colin deserved to get a pasting. I forced my mind away from that ugliness. "About the school project, I was wondering, can you arrange for some protection?"

  "What do you need, fresa?"

  "I have to hold a mock fashion show, with models wearing my designs. I need a workshop, I can rent a flat, but I'm thinking I'll want a heavy on the door."

  "Why not set up here?" Jorge asked. "We've a conference room and spare office."

  "Seriously?"

  "Why not? They're just standing there," Jorge smiled.

  Two minutes later I was inspecting a beautiful office with lots of natural light and views over the river. The constant nagging thoughts about Colin and my family began to recede. Here, I could get away from the pain and focus on my work. "It's perfect!"

  "I'm being selfish," Jorge grinned. "When the news goes round we've got models visiting, every man in London will be on the doorstep."

  "Good. It'll get me some developmental feedback."

  Jorge was serious instantly. "Never doubt, Persia. You've got what it takes."

  See why I was falling for him? I was creamy as I leaned against the hard chest. "Remind me to give you a private show."

  "Fenomenal!"

  Thanks to my deliciously fat bank account and a bodyguard who could have doubled for the Hulk, I went to town buying a Juki straight-stitch sewing machine with a top of the line powerful servo motor that could deliver 5000 stitches a minute. Just owning it was a joy.

  After that, a trip to my favourite fabric warehouse put me straight into heaven. I went completely over the top and bought armloads of paisley, plaid and floral printed cotton, all organically certified, and a rainbow of Fair-Trade linen, hemp and silks.

  When I returned to the office, I was in a blaze of excitement. Sorting through my sketches, light summer dresses, classic cut jackets and tailored trousers, and wildly exotic hats and accessories, I began to conceive of a theme. I would focus on happiness: simple designs that flattered, with lots of cheerful accents, and with every item ethically sourced.

  I chose my best sketches, pinning them up on a board. That highlighted the gaps in my line and so I took up my pencil - and was promptly lost in a creative haze.

  After that, the days just flew by. Those dark thoughts and the pain they brought were pushed into the background. Instead, I lived and breathed lines, silhouettes and detail elements, creating a formal rhythm for my collection. Like Jorge, I was up at dawn, hard at it all day long, and even dreaming of my work.

  But there was also lots of play. We went out most nights, dancing to get rid of all the stresses of the day followed by an intimate supper, chatting by candlelight and pasta one night and Kabuki and seaweed the next.

  As for the sex, well, I was in heaven. My bar had been so low that I had focussed on not being hurt or revolted, and treated the occasional orgasm as a windfall. But with Jorge looking out for my pleasure as much as his own, we gasped and giggled through his wish list, our wild and dirty sex ending inevitably in sweet embrace.

  In between the work and loving, the messier parts of life flitted in and out of consciousness. My brother, poised to hurt me. James, quietly directing the hunt for evidence from his bed. Jorge, preoccupied with his turf war. The newspapers, stirring the pot by printing whatever gossip they could dig up. And far away, trouble still rumbling in Texas. I was aware, but I was also deeply content.

  It was about ten days later that I heard a loud happy burst of chatter coming from Jorge's office. As I'm a nosy cow, I went straight out to see.

  "Look who's up and about?" Jorge indicated James, standing up carefully but looking chipper.

  "Hey, you look even better out of bed than in it," I teased. "But shouldn't you be sitting down?"

  "Take the sofa," Jorge invited instantly.

  "A cushion," Paco suggested.

  "Or maybe lie down," Lencho said.

  "I'm fine," James laughed. "Relax!"

  Watching these hard men fussing over their friend, I marvelled at how much they cared for each other. To my horror, I felt myself well up. A sudden ravine of loss swamped me.

  I turned away but eagle-eyed Jorge had spotted it. "You okay?"

  "There's something in my eye. Fabric fluff."

  He knew it was a lie. "You're working too much." He hugged me closely. "You need some R&R, fresa. Let's go out and celebrate James' recovery."

  Bubbles was happily busy. A small live band was playing jazz and blues, perfect for an end of the workday chat. It was unusual, a kind of urban chic that really set Bubbles apart from other clubs.

  Jorge pulled out a chair for me, saying, "Guys, can you look after Persia for me? I need to sort out an issue with the books."

  I was in a glow, loving how he was taking care of me. As we sat down at our table, I worked the room automatically, nodding at the regulars and smiling at the phones pointed in our direction.

  "You're a media pro." Paco put iced water in front of me. "Your advice really saved our asses. I'm glad you're here for us." He dropped his voice, saying softly, "About your brother: anything I can do, you just say, okay?"

  The watery feeling was right back. "Thanks."

  "Same here," Lencho said quietly.

  "Just one word will do it." James was forgetting his plausible deniability.

  "Thanks, really. You've no idea how much this means to me."

  I was still blinking rapidly when Lencho pushed his phone across the table at me. "On a happier note, my cousin Maria works with the Tzotzil community. She's looking to promote their native shawl industry. I thought you might want some for your fashion show

  Gazing on the profusion of flowers, birds and abstract patterns, in eye-catching glorious colours, I gasped. "Ohmigod, these are glorious! And they're handwoven? With vegetable dyes? It's to die for!"

  Lencho grinned. "I can't tell couture from cantaloupes but Maria says this stuff's the real deal. We can call her tomorrow if you like."

  "I'd love to!"

  "If you want Mexican fabrics, we can hook you up," James offered. "We need local agents, you need suppliers, it should be a great match."

  "I'm just a student."

  "Nonsense," Lencho said. "You've got an ace track record in a tough industry."

  "But modelling is totally different."

  "You're talented, focussed and you have drive," Paco announced.

  "Just relax and consider the opportunities," James advised. "We're all here for you."

  This time there was no stopping the flood. It was instant panda eyes. "Sorry," I sniffed as I dabbed away with a handful of tissues. "I'm just overwhelmed."

  "Yeah, hearing you're one of us has to be a shock," Lencho sympathised.

  "I know it kills me," Paco joked.

  "You guys are the best." I was totally emo. "Thanks, really."

  "Oh, dear." Laura Griffin popped up, spilling out of a skin-tight emerald satin tunic, just like one of the nastier snakes. "Having a meltdown, Persia?"

  "It's seeing you, Laura," I clapped back instantly. "Fashion victims always make me sad."

  Laura bridled. "As your reputation is tanking, I came to offer help."

  Her column had been unusually savage, so I wasn't biting. "No, thanks."

  Laura posed dramatically. "I suppose you're right. It's way too late to try to salvage your career."

  "I can see why you love your work," I returned sweetly. "You must get a great sense of power from knowing you bore people to death."

  The Zetas were watching wi
th mingled amusement and fascination. Their determined silence and sparkling eyes signalled they were enjoying the chick fight.

  "Here's a preview of tomorrow's column," Laura sneered. "The latest is that you're nicknamed LOVE, for Legs Open, Very Easy."

  That hurt. But it cheered me up that the Zetas were no longer smiling.

  "I hear your family threw you out," Laura continued. "That's going in too."

  At that, the temperature plummeted. Paco actually growled.

  A child would have sensed trouble but pumpkin positive Laura was intent on getting herself massacred. "The rumour is that you're a cam girl now. Want to give me an exclusive?"

  At that, James jumped in. "You're misinformed," he said tightly. "And your slandering is liable to lead you into trouble."

  "Is it?" Laura shrugged. "Can I quote you on that?"

  I got my wits back. "Oh, bore off, Laura. You're as interesting as a documentary on dirt."

  "I can't say the same about you," Laura sniggered. "You give us such exciting copy!"

  "What exciting copy?" Jorge appeared out of the crowd.

  Seeing him, Laura instantly stuck out her tits and bared her teeth. "Jorge Santos! Oh my, aren't you handsome!"

  Jorge took in the acre of quivering flesh. Then his eyes raked her from curve to curve. As Laura smiled, certain of her success, I found myself stiffen. She really was pretty. Jorge was bound to take an interest.

  "I've been dying to meet you," Laura gushed her standard line. "I just love Bubbles. I'm Laura Griffin."

  "I've read your column." Jorge smiled but then, to my joy, his eyes narrowed. "That's an interesting dress."

  Laura was oblivious to the air of danger as she waggled her assets at him. "Thank you."

  "But this isn't the place for you," Jorge drawled. "James, who's managing that escort service, Babylon Peaches?"

  "Ian Henderson," James replied promptly.

  "What did you say?" Laura squawked. "Escort service?"

  "Sure. You're looking for a job, aren't you?"

  "How dare you?" Laura raged.

  Jorge looked her up and down, and then shrugged. "Well, your writing is awful and with that dress, I just assumed you were changing careers."

  I held my breath, awed at the casual way he'd flattened her.

  "You -, you -" words failing her, Laura turned on her heel and stomped out.

  "You'll pay for that," I sighed. "She'll do a number on you."

  "After the things she wrote about you, corazón, she's lucky she's walking out. She deserves a sharp lesson in manners."

  The brows were furrowed and the steely glint and quilted jaw were also present and correct. Jorge was in a full-on protective snit. If Laura weren't careful, there might be belts in her future.

  By now I knew that telling Jorge to cool it would only set up his back. I took a different tack. "Quite right, love. You can shoot her. Mind you, don't go for a head shot. Her brains are in her bum."

  The frown lightened. "She's a menace, Persia."

  "I can live with it. When I start my business, she'll talk me up."

  "Before she trashes you."

  "I see you're learning too."

  Jorge just grinned, and the Zetas were smiling again. It would be okay. Now it wasn't about a challenge to their honour, they'd let me deal with it.

  "Laura lives and dies by gossip," I informed them. "But she's better at dishing it than taking it."

  The boys took this in and then it was evil smiles all round. They were getting it.

  I picked up my phone. "Give me a sec? The girls will pee themselves when they hear you took Laura for a prostitute."

  "Fresa," Jorge said with deep appreciation. "You are a bruja."

  "If that means an evil cow, you got it in one." I began texting. "Isa will love this. Laura's last column said Isa was like a Monet, beautiful from a distance but a right mess up close."

  "Gorgeous Isa?" Paco pounced instantly. "That's awful! Does she need comforting?"

  "Yeah, by me," Lencho chuckled.

  Jorge just grinned, "Tell the socios we miss them."

  "Ooh," James perked up. "The guapísimas? When do I get to meet them?"

  I wasn't risking my mates. "When it's safe."

  "You could meet in a private club," Jorge said thoughtfully. "There are also caterers who do lunches in hotel suites and spas. I'll set it up for you."

  That mantle of generosity surrounded me, enveloping me in his loving care. I kissed the edge of his mouth. "You spoil me."

  He kissed me back. "Make your call, fresa, and then we dance."

  We drank and danced and then we enjoyed a riotous supper, with James, Lencho and Paco competing to teach me Mexican swearwords. When I rolled into bed, I slid into the loving embrace, realising that I was finally happy. With friends like the Zetas, there was laughter in my life again.

  The euphoria continued, putting a glow on the days. I saw the girls in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz and again at a private spa in Knightsbridge. As I got used to security measures, I trotted around town again, disguised with hats and glasses and popping in and out of back and side doors. At first it was a little weird but it soon became second nature.

  As for Jorge and his crew, they were busy as always but they were upbeat because Kowalczyk was on his way out. Unable to hold on to his territory, he wasn't even fighting back properly anymore. The Zetas were taking over bit by bit. Even better, the arson attacks and threats vanished.

  I came to earth with a bump about a week later while sitting in my office. I was unpacking the shawls that had just arrived from Mexico, when my phone lit up with texts and notifications. Fed up with being laughed at and wardrobe shamed, Laura and the Rampage had done a number on me, a cover story raking up the videos and implying I was working as a tart.

  Colin also had a say, posing with his arms crossed and looking macho in his chef's stark uniform as he pontificated, "Persia's hanging out with a bad crowd. It's not her fault. We don't talk about it but she has a difficult past."

  I read it and knew what was coming. This was an opening salvo. Laura had worked on my brother, and now she was gearing up to dig the dirt. Unless I stopped him, Colin would spill my secret.

  The prospect of the world knowing I'd been a child whore paralysed me. But then anger kicked in. I was done with being publicly humiliated.

  I grabbed my mobile and called Delicious. After dialling three times in a row and letting it ring out, a harassed voice answered. "Look, we're not open yet."

  "In five minutes I report you all to the drug squad. Tell Colin."

  There was a perplexed silence. Then my brother came on. "Who the fuck is this?"

  "Andy Smith on Warren Heath buys an ounce of weed every Friday." James' private dick had done excellent work, tracking Colin's regulars. "Kate Rowan in Berkeley Place takes a gramme of coke every first Monday of the month."

  His rage blasted over the line. "What do you want?"

  "I saw your act in the Rampage. Drop it or I talk and into the slammer you go."

  More silent fury. "All fucking right." The phone slammed.

  I'd taken him on and he'd caved. No talking, no weaselling, not even a threat. I had learned to fight my battles effectively and efficiently. The power rush was amazing. I felt like a goddess. Don't tell, but I did a victory dance about the office. Complete with whooping and power posing.

  That dance must have pissed off the karma guardians because there was a knock and the door opened. "Ms York? I'm Detective Inspector Smith. May I have a word?"

  Jorge's office door was closed, indicating he was in a meeting, but as the staff had let the copper in without alerting him, I was friendly. Also, I had been tutored by James and thought I was well-prepped. So, I gave the man my best beam, "Sure. What can I do for you?"

  Seeing him away from the club lighting at Bubbles, I took him in properly. Smith was beefy, with greying short back and sides, and pale blue eyes. The suit was off the rack, Marks and Sparks by the look. Decent, sober but
needing a little letting out.

  Smith looked around, taking in the black maxi dress with the butterfly buttons down the front that was my statement piece and the silk rope necklaces, embroidered belts and other up-sell items I was working on. "I heard you were in design."

  Meaning he'd not believed it true. My hackles rose, but I didn't let it show. "Are you interested in fashion, Detective Inspector?"

  Smith shot an evil look at me. "Not exactly. I've come about your other activities."

  Hell. He was after Jorge. I braced myself. "What activities?"

  "I'm talking about Jorge Santos," he intoned. "Your criminal gangster boyfriend."

  All true. And also the man who'd rescued me from certain death and then wrapped me in love. Time to choose sides. It didn't take a second. Jorge had stood by me. I knew where my loyalty lay.

  Smith understood my silence. "You think he loves you?" he sneered. "The Santoses of this world can't love. He's just using you."

  "Hard to see how."

  The plod looked me over. "You're a good-looking woman."

  "Thank you."

  My politeness didn't sit well. "I could arrest you," Smith threatened.

  "Try it and my lawyer will take you to the cleaners."

  He tried to look tough but he backed off and changed tack. "You think you're protected, don't you?" He reached into his jacket and threw down an envelope. "Think he'll still want you when he sees these?"

  With trembling hands and my heart thumping, I opened it. My stomach heaved and I almost threw up. It was filled with photos. Me chained to the cellar wall and sucking on an unidentifiable cock. Me again, still chained but on a filthy mattress, legs spread wide for the camera.

  Shaking and sweating, I pushed the rest away. "Where did you get these?"

  "They're part of the official record, if you know where to look," Smith gloated. "But you haven't seen this one." He flipped over another photo.

  I couldn't stop myself from picking it up. It had been at that disastrous barbecue. Grainy, badly lit and yet, I could see my face clearly, my mouth open in a panicked wail of anguish as they held me down. Tears were sparkling on my cheeks but their faces were gleeful, their hands like vices as they spread me out forcibly for the man about to shove himself into me.