by London James
“I'll have to check them out,” I laugh.
“Just give me a holler if you need anything, girls.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Morris,” I say, as we head back toward the coffee counter.
“She calls us girls like we're sixteen or something,” Sophia whispers quietly and laughs.
“I think it's kind of sweet.”
Sophia grins. “Yeah, I guess we're getting to that age when we're going to want to be thought of as younger than we really are.”
“Please,” I scoff. “We're not even thirty yet.”
“Creeping up on us.”
“Bite your tongue,” I protest. “We still have a couple of years.”
Sophia laughs as we step into the small area at the back of the shop the Morris' have turned into a coffee house. It's a recent addition, and one probably suggested – and pushed for – by Myra's grandson, Gerald. He's a student at Colorado State, majoring in business and marketing, with designs on taking over the family business eventually. It's not a bad thing at all. It's inviting, and since Grizzly Ridge doesn't have a Starbucks or other corporate coffee chain store, it draws people into the shop – especially, as the temperatures outside start to dip.
Today, the counter is being manned by Myra's husband, Hugh. He's a big man, easily six-two or three, with broad shoulders, and a thick chest. He's rugged, with a bushy white mustache, and kind of reminds me of Sam Elliott, the actor. In a way, he looks a lot like Marshal Parr – both men look like they would have fit right in back in the days of the Wild West. It's not hard to see them as the Sheriff in some small frontier town, running around like Wyatt Earp.
Hugh looks out of place behind the counter, with his apron on, but he makes one of the best cappuccinos I've ever had.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he drawls, and I imagine him tipping an imaginary Stetson at us as he speaks.
“Afternoon, Mr. Morr –”
He holds a finger up and gives me a tsk. “After this many years, you need to start calling me Hugh,” he says, his voice low and rumbling. “How many times do I need to tell you that?”
“Sorry,” I smile. “It's nice to see you, Hugh.”
“That's better,” he says, a smile brightening his face.
“You'll have to forgive her,” Sophia interjects. “She was raised in a convent.”
“Well, not all of us were raised in a barn, Sophia,” Hugh says, his laughter a deep boom that sounds like thunder.
Sophia laughs, and I see her cheeks flare with color – she knows she walked right into that one. There's a certain kinship, and an easy rapport between the two of them I long for with people. Sophia is a born and raised Grizzly Ridge girl. She says there's nowhere else she'd rather live, and I can see why. I can definitely see the appeal of growing up in a place like this.
“You're a funny man, Hugh,” Sophia tells him.
“I manage to keep ol' Myra laughing,” he gloats.
“It's called a courtesy laugh,” she calls out from across the store. “I do it for the sake of our marriage.”
Sophia and I both break up laughing. The two of them are adorable together. Hugh likes to come off as a big, gruff, tough, strong man, but he turns to absolute jelly around Myra. They are just such a cute couple; it's hard to not love them.
Still laughing, Hugh turns his attention to making our drinks. A couple of minutes later, he slides them over the counter to us, and Sophia pays him.
“I shouldn't tip you for that barn crack,” she jokes.
“Be worth every lost penny though,” he shoots back.
Sophia throws some money into his tip jar, sharing a smile with him. We turn and start to wander through the stacks, and I feel myself beginning to calm down almost immediately. I breathe deep, taking in that unique scent that books have. It's a scent that I've always loved and has brought me so much comfort over the years. There's really nothing else like it.
We prowl the aisles for a while, checking out some of the newest releases, and dawdling with some of the classics. Despite being an English teacher, Sophia doesn't read all that much, surprisingly enough. But she picks up a couple of things she says she'll get to at some point – unlike me, who is cradling half a dozen books while trying to avoid spilling my drink. I found a couple of historical biographies I want to check out, as well as some of the new mysteries Myra suggested.
We eventually sit down, in one of the seating alcoves to finish our drinks. I set the books I'm buying down on the chair next to me, careful to avoid damaging them. Books, to me, are a precious commodity and must be taken care of.
“So, level with me,” Sophia says. “Are you and Tommy maybe headed toward something more – permanent?”
The question, though innocent enough, sends a rush of ice-cold fear flowing through my veins. I sort of thought that was the road she was headed down earlier at brunch, but hearing those words actually pass her lips kicks my anxiety up about twenty notches.
No, I'm personally not thinking about making things with Tommy more permanent. Truthfully, I'm trying to find a graceful and compassionate way to extricate myself entirely. The more I think about it, the more I realize that it's not fair to keep stringing Tommy along like this. I know Tommy loves me – and I know that I don't love him. I'm very fond of him, and I enjoy the time we spend together, but there is no real spark for me. I don't have that deep, mystical bond and connection I want to have with my partner.
Tommy is a good guy, and he deserves somebody who's willing to give all of themselves to him. For a lot of reasons, I'm not that person. I can't be that person, and he deserves more than the paltry bit of myself I can offer him. I know at some point, he's going to ask me to marry him, and I need to head things off before we get to that point. It's going to hurt him, but better this small sting now, than me having to hurt him worse by rejecting his proposal.
“Honestly, I don't know, Soph,” I sigh, and let out a long breath.
“What do you mean? I thought you said things are great?”
“They are,” I say. “I mean, he's a really nice guy –”
“Uh oh,” she says. “The two words no man ever wants to hear – nice guy.”
A rueful smile touches my lips, and all I can do is shrug. “It's me. It's my fault,” I tell her. “There's just something missing for me. He really is the whole package, and I know any woman would be lucky to have him. I guess I'm defective or something.”
She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me over the rim of her cup. I see no judgment in her eyes, which is a relief – just curiosity. Honestly though, getting those words out of me, and putting them out there, feels like it's already lifted a tremendous burden off my shoulders. It's a weight that's been pressing down on me forever, and finally admitting to somebody that this is where my head is at makes me feel lighter. More – free.
Of course, the fact that I still actually have to end things with Tommy, and set him free, is like a dark cloud that continues to hover over me.
“I don't think you're defective,” Sophia finally says. “If something isn't right, or something is missing, you can't force it. It would be horribly unfair to the both of you. That's no way to live.”
“So – you really don't think there's something wrong with me?”
“Oh, honey, there's plenty wrong with you,” she says and laughs. “But, not about this. There's nothing wrong with refusing to settle for less than you want. It would be doing a disservice to yourself, to force yourself to live a life you don't want.”
I let out a long, relieved breath, and feel tears begin to well in my eyes. I have no idea why but having Sophia's approval means a lot to me. Knowing she's not judging me for my feelings takes a big load of the guilt I've been feeling, knowing I'm going to hurt Tommy, off of my heart.
“Thank you, Soph,” I say. “That means the world to me.”
“Hon, we only go around once in this life,” she tells me. “No reason to spend it hooked up with somebody who doesn't make your heart sing, and your toes c
url.”
I chuckle. “I've had friends in the past tell me I'm too unrealistic, and that I need to learn to settle,” I confide. “That nobody is ever going to check off all the boxes on my list.”
She nods. “That's probably true,” she replies. “But the real question is – do they check off the most important boxes on your list? The ones you can't live without. And from what you're telling me, it doesn't sound like Tommy – as unbelievably gorgeous and incredible as he is – does that for you. It's on you to find the man who does.”
I wipe away the tears, then launch myself at Sophia, wrapping her up in a big hug. She giggles but embraces me in return, and in that moment, I feel closer to her than I ever have before.
Chapter Seven
Hernan
“The problem is still out there,” he says.
“I'm working on it,” I reply.
“You've been working on it for the last three years,” he demands, anger coloring his voice. “And still, you have no results for me.”
I'm sitting in my Manhattan Beach condo talking with my father on Skype. My father, Osvaldo Zavala – Oz to most – is back in Oaxaca running the empire. He's keeping the throne warm for me, and when he steps down, I'll be taking over. To prepare me, he sent me to the United States when I was young. He wanted me knowledgeable about U.S. laws and customs and wanted me to have a good education.
If there's one thing my father believes in, it's the power of a good education, and that to run the cartel well, and profitably, you had to be smart, and know your shit.
So, when I was just a kid, he sent me to live with nannies, tutors, and caretakers in Southern California. I grew up in the sand and sun of Huntington Beach, went to college at UCLA, and was, by every objective measure, living the American dream. I had money, women, cars, but most importantly, I had power. I'm handling my father's business and looking after the empire on this side of the border, while he rules on the other.
Not that everything has always gone according to plan. This business with Isla Nelson is a prime example of that. After we killed her piece of shit brother for turning on us, I thought we had her. That fucking U.S. Marshal got her out just ahead of us though. Now, she's in the wind, living fuck knows where, under fuck knows what name.
“She's a loose end, Hernan,” my father says. “You know how I feel about loose ends.”
Of course, I know, he never shuts the fuck up about them. “I know,” I respond. “I'm working on it.”
“You need to work faster,” he snaps. “Domingo's trial is coming up, and we need to know if this woman is holding information. We still don't know if her brother passed anything along to her before he died.”
“If the feds had anything from her, they would have needed to produce it during discovery,” I tell him. “They can't just sandbag Domingo's defense with evidence.”
My father scoffs and shakes his head. “Please, I know you're not that naïve, or that stupid, Hernan,” he says. “You know they make up the rules as they go along. They'll find some justification for letting in this supposedly last-minute evidence. We've seen it a hundred times before.”
I'm not entirely convinced this woman is the loose thread my father believes her to be. I personally don't believe she has any information that will spell doom for Domingo or be a liability for us. Yes, losing a valuable lieutenant like Domingo would be a blow – and of course, the risk of him flipping to cut himself a better deal is always present – but, as far as I'm concerned, this woman, this Isla Nelson, has nothing of interest or value to us, and we would be better off focusing our energy and attention to things that do.
But this is still my father's business. He's still the one calling the shots – as much as it galls me, sometimes.
On screen, his dark eyes bore into mine. A cloud of smoke from his cigar wafts up in front of his face, making for an intense, creepy visage. He's got more gray than black in his hair and is a little softer around the middle these days, but he's still a formidable man. You can see the cold, calculating intelligence behind those eyes of his.
My father is a man who will usually be three steps ahead of you and is absolutely ruthless. He has to be at the head of a cartel. He can't afford the luxury of things like empathy or compassion – something he's teaching me as well. The minute you show compassion, your enemies take it as weakness and strike hard against you. If you're not prepared for it, you go down. It's kill or be killed in this life we lead, and I'm fine with it.
With high risk comes high reward – and I certainly do love the perks and rewards of being who I am.
“I'm working on a source,” I say. “I should be able to flip him –”
“You need to do it quicker, Hernan,” he says, his voice ice cold. “Time is running short, and it's Domingo's time in the barrel. We can't afford for him to take the hit. I need him back here in Oaxaca, so you need to get this done, Hernan. Immediately.”
“I know. I'm on it.”
He looks at me through a cloud of cigar smoke for a long moment before disconnecting the video chat, leaving me sitting there staring at the darkened screen. With a sigh, I stand and grab a beer out of the refrigerator, then walk over to the large picture windows that overlook the rear of the condo complex. On the deck below, are a few college-aged girls in skimpy bikinis, sunning themselves next to the pool. They're young, firm, and round in all the right places.
I haven't had them yet, but I will. Women can't resist me, and as a result, I've never had a problem filling my bed.
Right now though, I'm not in the mood. I'm agitated. My father annoys me on the best of days. I hate the way he barks orders at me. The way he treats me like the hired help, rather than the rightful heir to the Zavala throne that I am. I feel like a prince in exile, just waiting for the king to die, so I can take my seat at the head of the table.
I am honestly waiting for my father to die. He's built up a tremendous organization down there, but he thinks too small. He gets caught up in the unimportant details and is sometimes so fixated on the small things – like revenge – that he fails to see the bigger picture.
Though, I can't say I don't understand his need for vengeance from time to time. There is one man I would do anything to take revenge on, and it's the U.S. Marshal who killed my brother, Tito. The night we showed up to silence Marco Perez for turning snitch, that son of a bitch killed four of our guys – Tito among them. We'd been very close, my brother and I, and to see him gunned down like that, is an image that will stay with me forever.
I thought I'd killed him that night, only to learn later, that he'd survived the wounds I'd given him – making me kick myself for not putting one in his head to finish it. I'd wanted him to suffer though.
So yes, the impulse to seek vengeance is one I understand very completely, and very intimately. If I ever get a second chance at Baker Redmond, I will kill him without thinking twice about it – and I'll be sure to finish it this time.
What I won't do though, is let my desire for vengeance cloud my judgment. I won't let it lead me to make rash decisions, or act on emotion and impulse, rather than careful thought and planning. Though my father is undoubtedly, one of the smartest, most cunning people I know – a feat given his lack of formal education – he sometimes doesn't think things through when he's angry.
I, on the other hand, tend to think everything through. I do not let my emotions rule me, and I never lose sight of the bigger picture. It's why, when I take over, the Zavala Cartel will be bigger, and better than my father can ever hope to make it. Which is why I'm biding my time. But the time will come when I need to act. When I need to assert my claim to the throne and remove my father.
And that time is coming soon. For now, though, I must continue playing the game, never losing sight of the bigger picture.
I pull out my cellphone and punch in a number. Holding the phone to my ear, I look down at the two blonde sunbathing coeds again, admiring their curves, and sun-kissed skin. The call is picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“It's Hernan,” I say.
“Why are you calling me?” the man hisses. “I told you –”
“And I told you that I needed information a week ago,” I snap. “And here I am, still waiting.”
“It's not easy getting information about people in WITSEC,” he whines. “They have it locked down tight.”
I let out a long breath. “You're very disappointing, Marc,” I say. “Very disappointing indeed. Need I remind you of what will happen if you fail?”
“No,” his voice is cold, but I can hear the tremor of fear in it.
“I feel like I do though because I don't think you're taking me seriously,” I tell him. “If you don't have that information to me as soon as possible, I am going to release all of the information I have on you. I will send copies of it to your bosses, to the media –”
“You set me up, you piece of shit,” he sneers. “You put me in those positions.”
“Yes, I did,” I say. “But, if you didn't have corruption in your heart already, Marc, you wouldn't have been so easy to set up in the first place. You would have been able to walk right by the temptations I put in your path.”
Everybody has that pressure point that, if you press it hard enough, gets them to betray people, act against their own best interests – basically, gets them to do whatever the hell I want them to do. Marc's was money and women. I dangled those sweet treats in front of his face, and he didn't wasted a minute in doing what I needed him to do. It was just a couple of small things at first, just to get him used to it, get him liking the cash, and the women I've been flooding him with to keep him compliant. He's done it all willingly, and happily.
I set the stage, and now it's time to act, and apply the pressure to get him to do what I've been grooming him to do – get me the personal details of Isla Nelson's new life.
“Get them to me by the end of day tomorrow,” I instruct. “Are we clear?”