Cartel

by Lili St. Germain

  ‘Is this where you live?’ I breathed, coming to stand beside him at the edge of the balcony.

  My question seemed to amuse him. He took his eyes from the water to look at me.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘it’s where you live, now.’

  Instinctively, as I had always done before, I put my hand to my chest, searching for my locket. Damn. The events of the past week slammed into me, and I gripped the balcony when my knees turned to liquid. It was only a moment, but he noticed.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked, and his concern killed me. I nodded, my hand still resting over the bare space where my locket used to sit; where my well-worn photo of Luis had rested. Gone. All of it, gone.

  I kept swallowing, trying to clear the lump in my throat, but it wouldn’t go away. My grief consumed me like wildfire, tears spilling from my eyes as I stared at the water below. I thought of climbing up on the railing and stepping off, landing on the sidewalk that ran along the beach. I raised myself up on tiptoes to get a good look underneath me. Not high enough. I’d probably break bones, but I doubted I would die.

  Don’t be an idiot, I chastised myself. I couldn’t kill myself.

  ‘What was his name?’ Dornan asked. ‘Your boyfriend.’

  I swiped my hand across my face, wiping away the tears that clung to my skin.

  ‘Este,’ I said, my stomach twisting violently at the mention of him. ‘Esteban.’

  Dornan nodded. ‘It’s probably not worth much, but I’m sorry for what happened to him.’ His hand pressed into the small of my back, and I felt a little less alone.

  ‘I can’t close my eyes without seeing his face,’ I confessed. I felt guilty that I was even talking to him about Este, when it had been his father’s men who had gunned him down in the first place. ‘It was so unnecessary, you know? They didn’t need to shoot him. They didn’t need to hurt him at all. He was just in the way, so they killed him.’

  I was disgusted with myself. Este had bled to death before me only a week ago, and now I was kissing a strange man in a darkened hallway?

  ‘And now I’m here with you and I just … kissed you, and he’s probably still laying in a morgue somewhere in the cold.’ I cried. I cried so hard, I could barely breathe, picturing my dead lover zipped into a bodybag and stacked in a fridge. He didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. He had been killed because he loved me.

  ‘Don’t feel bad,’ Dornan said. ‘I kissed you darlin’, remember? He’s not gonna haunt you for that.’

  I thought about that for a few moments. Maybe he was right.

  ‘Nobody’d blame you for trying to survive. It’s the smart thing to do.’

  ‘Is that all it was?’ I asked. ‘Just the smart thing to do?’

  It hadn’t felt smart, the way I had responded to him. The way I had been disappointed when he’d pulled away.

  ‘For you, maybe,’ he said, that amused glint back in his eye. ‘For me … I think that was the opposite of smart.’

  ‘So why’d you do it then?’ I asked boldly.

  He laughed, the sound light and innocent, in complete contrast to his fierce demeanour. It floated away on the waves as the tide pulled out from the shore, and all too soon, it was quiet again.

  He turned to me, his head cocked to the side slightly. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He reached out, running his fingers along my arm. ‘You’re cold.’

  I leaned into his touch for a fraction of a second, but guilt and revulsion tore me apart again. It was exhausting, this seesaw of emotions.

  ‘Isn’t your wife waiting for you?’ I asked, shrugging my arm away.

  His smile vanished. He let his hand fall away from me slowly. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘She knows better by now.’

  He gestured for me to step back inside, locking the door with a key as I moved past him into the apartment.

  He looked down at the long black dress I was still wearing. My auction costume.

  ‘I’m gonna burn that fucking dress the next time I’m here,’ he said vehemently.

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, suddenly terrified at the thought of being alone. ‘When are you coming back?’

  He scooped up his helmet and walked down the hallway to the keypad by the door, punching in a combination of numbers. ‘When my wife lets me out of the house,’ he threw over his shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him.

  And then, just like that, he was gone, my lips still burning from where he had kissed me. I held my fingers to my mouth, and felt them tremble.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dornan

  Goddamn it. God fucking damn it! She had him wrapped around her little finger, and he was panting like a fuckin’ dog in heat around her.

  Better to put some distance between them for now, let her start to appreciate the situation for what it was. The situation where he’d hauled her ass out of Dodge and planted her in some sweet digs after having known her just a matter of days.

  Despite what he’d said, he wasn’t going home. Celia had been giving him the shits lately, probably had her damn period, and he steered clear of her when that happened. Besides, the woman wasn’t stupid. She knew what Dornan was like. He liked to think they had an unspoken understanding. She got to live in the nice house and spend his money, and he got to go out and do whatever the fuck he wanted, whatever pretty little opportunities the Gypsy Brotherhood brought to him.

  He rode fast again, but not too fast. This close to LA, he didn’t want to pick up any undue attention. He had the local sheriff in his top pocket, but it never hurt to play along and act like a law-abiding citizen to keep things flowing smoothly.

  When he parked his bike and entered the Gypsy Brothers clubhouse, it was after midnight. It’d been a long day, a tedious day of hostage negotiations, and he really wanted something to take the pain away.

  There was music playing, and he walked down the hallway and into the main area of the clubhouse with the swagger of a man who owned the place. He wanted to forget about Mariana Rodriguez for a couple of hours. The stress of her existence, of having vouched for her with his father, was wearing at his nerves. The distinct possibility that she might make him look like a fool burrowed into his thoughts and remained there, taunting him. He needed a distraction, and fast.

  Jimmy and Viper were drinking at the bar. John wasn’t there, but that wasn’t a surprise — he was hardly ever there. The club was more of a burden to him these days. And with his junkie wife, Dornan could understand why. It was like owning a bar and being married to an alcoholic. The last thing Caroline needed to be around was a place like this, full of booze and drugs and fucking.

  Dornan, on the other hand … well, he fitted in just fine.

  He slid onto a stool and slapped the bar in front of him. The chick behind the counter was new, and completely naked, save for a bottle-opener she wore on a piece of twine around her neck. She looked young, but legal. That was important in a club with a reputation like theirs. They might’ve had the local cops in their pocket, but it didn’t stop the fucking narcos from turning the place upside down on a semi-regular basis, looking for drugs and underage girls.

  The girl handed him a beer and told him her name, which he promptly forgot. They all looked the same, and he had to wonder who the fuck was doing the hiring around here. Blonde, young, with perky tits.

  ‘You look like hell,’ Jimmy said, clinking beers with Dornan before taking a swig. ‘Let Destiny here take your mind off it.’ Jimmy pointed over the bar at a second girl who was stacking beer bottles into a fridge. Unlike the first blonde, she still had her panties on. It was the only way he could tell them apart.

  ‘Destiny? What kind of a name is Destiny?’

  The girl stood up, kicking the fridge shut with her stiletto. So, she had shoes on, too. They looked good on her. Dornan glanced down at his lap. Nothing. Not even a stir. What the hell was wrong with him?

  ‘The VP,’ Destiny drawled, biting her lip sexily. ‘I’ve heard about you.’

&nbs
p; Dornan winked at her, taking a sip of beer. He was Dornan Ross, son of Emilio. Son of Il Sangue. Of course she had heard about him. Everybody had always heard about him by the time he’d first laid eyes on them, and that was a major part of his problem. His reputation, real or otherwise, preceded him to such an extent that he hardly bothered correcting people anymore. Let them think what they wanted. He didn’t have time to care.

  He was daydreaming again, and while he was, the chick had rounded the bar and come to stand beside him.

  ‘I heard it was your birthday,’ she said, licking her lips suggestively and looking down at his lap. ‘Viper said I should give you a present.’

  ‘Oh, did he, now?’ Dornan asked, smacking Viper over the head with his hand. Viper had earned his nickname due to his penchant for biting every woman he screwed. Dornan noticed bruised bite-marks on Destiny’s shoulder and his dick went even softer, if that was possible. If Viper had been biting and fucking this girl, Dornan sure as hell didn’t want her.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want,’ Dornan said, fishing his cigarettes out and lighting up. ‘I want you to lay on that pool table,’ he gestured with the end of his cigarette, ‘and stay there.’

  She smiled, her tits bouncing as she practically skipped over to the table. Dornan withdrew the small plastic package he’d taken from the apartment while Mariana hadn’t been looking. Last thing he needed was for her to find his coke stash and OD before he got back to her.

  Destiny was already laying on the pool table, her breasts up in the air and her red thong barely covering anything. Dornan grinned as he tapped a fat line of white powder just above each of her tight pink nipples, setting the bag aside to roll up a greenback.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Destiny said, as he leaned over and snorted the blow off her tit. A jackhammer smacked right into his brain. Yes. It felt good to be this powerful. He smiled as the coke bubbled pleasantly into his bloodstream, masking the exhaustion and the uncertainty. Now, he felt good.

  He leaned down and licked the remainder of the powder off her tit, letting his tongue linger longer than it needed to.

  Life was good at the top.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Mariana

  I expected him to come back. I wandered around the empty apartment, too scared to shower or sleep in case someone else — Emilio, Murphy, a Gypsy Brother — decided to pay me a visit. I found the refrigerator and pantry fully stocked and decided to fix myself a sandwich to eat. The television set worked, so I turned that on and watched infomercials, still curled up in my auction dress.

  I don’t know when I dozed off, but when I woke up, it was light, and from the sofa in the living room I could see the front door swinging open. The click of the lock disengaging must have been what woke me — in my dream, Emilio was holding a gun to my head, and the click had been him cocking it. Crazy. I peered around the corner cautiously, watching as a tattooed arm came around the door and placed a bag on the floor. The door shut again, the lock engaging, and footsteps retreated.

  ‘Wait,’ I pleaded, rushing to the door. I recognised the tattoo. It was Dornan, and he’d left me — a bag full of clothes?

  I heard a bike roar to life and tear out of the parking lot. He was gone, and I hadn’t even seen his face.

  The day passed slowly. I changed into a shirt and cut-off denim shorts that I’d found in the bag he had left inside the door. Night came, and still no Dornan. There was plenty of food in the kitchen. I wasn’t about to starve to death. But I was starving for human contact. I watched as much TV as I could stand, and watched the sliver of ocean that I could glimpse from inside the apartment. He’d locked the balcony door and taken the key, probably after seeing the way I had been gazing down at the pavement below.

  I wondered if he’d ever come back. And, strangely enough, in the quiet nights that seemed to stretch out for eternity, random thoughts of Dornan would make their way into my head, burrow in and stay there. I still wasn’t sure if they were welcome or not. His eyes, the way they appeared dark brown until you got up close and saw the little flecks of amber in them. His lips. The way he smiled. His hands on my bleeding wrist.

  One night turned into two, into five, into twelve, and he still hadn’t come back. Part of me was furious. The other part of me was terrified. What if he never came back? Sure, I could try breaking a window, but I was more worried about what would happen afterwards. Even if I managed to escape, he would just hunt me down. They wouldn’t let me live if I broke our deal, not a chance. I imagined my dead body rotting in a stormwater drain, or maybe dissolving in a barrel full of acid. Maybe they’d string me up over the freeway overpass.

  I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t bear to stay. I had nothing.

  I had nothing but Dornan Ross in this sorry world, but even he was gone.

  Every day, I waited. And still, he didn’t return.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dornan

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mariana yelled, hugging her arms around herself in the cold night. He’d intended to come back the afternoon after he’d dropped off the clothes for her, but the DEA had pounced on yet another of Emilio’s shipments, and this time the cartel couldn’t even blame Marco. The DEA were monitoring Il Sangue and their associates closer than ever. The cartel had learned from last time, and had been splitting shipments up, bringing them over every day, sometimes several runs in a day. The seizure wouldn’t affect business, but it seemed there was a mole in their operation, and it was Dornan’s job to find it and cut its head off.

  He’d spent all week in Mexico interrogating the team, eventually coming up with the traitor. Juan had been with them for years, but his service came to an abrupt halt when Dornan planted a slug between his eyes. You couldn’t trust anyone these days.

  He hadn’t seen his kids in a week. Celia was bitching about him always being away. And now tough girl was standing in front of him, her eyes red-rimmed as she glowered at him from the kitchen.

  Oh, and he’d just been shot.

  Her angry stance softened when she saw his blood dripping onto the floor beneath him. ‘Shit,’ she muttered. She rushed to him, looking for the wound. He gave her a smile that was probably a grimace as he stumbled over to the kitchen table and collapsed into a chair.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, as he peeled his blood-soaked black t-shirt off with great difficulty. He threw his shirt on the ground. ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Vodka happened to you?’

  He was about to snap at her, but she was already reaching for the bottle he kept on top of the fridge. Through the red haze of pain he saw that it was a lot less full than it had been when he had left her.

  She unscrewed it and handed it to him. He took a gulp, welcoming the burn in his throat and chest that took away just a little of the pain in his shoulder. Goddamn it, that bastard from the Deviants Motorcycle Club had come out of nowhere. He thought he had squared away shit with their prez months ago. Seemed they were more than a little upset about their coke supply drying up in the wake of Marco’s epic fuck-up.

  He was about to bark at her, tell her to get the first-aid kit, but she was already onto it. The red container with the white cross sat open onto the table beside him, and Ana was rifling through. She held up a pair of tweezers, applied some rubbing alcohol on the ends, and then she was practically sitting in his lap, digging around his blood-soaked arm.

  ‘I can’t see with all the blood,’ she said quietly. ‘I need to get a better look.’

  He shook his head, snatching the tweezers from her hand and thrusting them into his arm. The feeling of the metal inside his wound made him want to throw up. It was an entirely odd sensation, and he didn’t have the focus to go on a bullet hunt in his own gunshot wound.

  ‘Somebody shot you?’ she asked, her voice full of concern. ‘I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with you.’

  He was irritated by that, until he looked at her and saw she was smiling. She was a sarcastic bitch, but she was funny, and
that took his mind off the pain a little. With his free hand he reached over and grabbed the vodka, taking another long gulp and enjoying another burn as it worked down to his belly. He slammed the bottle down and reprised his bullet hunt in the torn gore that used to be his upper arm.

  Jesus. He couldn’t find the bullet, but he could feel that motherfucker burning inside him, hotter and hotter. The pressure was intense.

  ‘You should just leave it in there and sew right over the top,’ Mariana said. ‘Doctors leave bullets in people all the time.’

  He would have yelled at her if he’d had the energy, but right now he just needed to dig around some more, and — yes! There it was. He squeezed the tweezers around the hard piece of steel in his arm and yanked.

  The bullet came out in one piece, albeit a bloody one. Dornan dumped the tweezers and bullet on the table in a pool of his blood, at the same time feeling pressure on his arm.

  She was there, above him, pressing a towel to his wound. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘They started it?’

  He shook his head, chuckling despite his pain. Damn, she was a pain in the ass, and he’d missed the shit out of her.

  ‘Someone called Marco started it, I think.’

  Her face fell. Damn. That had been the wrong thing to say.

  ‘My father wouldn’t shoot you,’ she said, backing away with the bloody towel still in her hand. He snatched the towel away from her and pressed it to his arm, trying to backtrack.

  ‘You don’t understand —’

  ‘Was he there?’ she asked gravely. ‘Did you shoot him?’

  ‘Mariana!’ Dornan said sharply. ‘It wasn’t him, okay? It was some fucker from another club who got shitty because your pop lost our coke.’

  She was perfectly still. ‘So he’s okay?’

  ‘Yes! Goddamn it, why would I shoot your father? Why would he shoot me?’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘I can think of a few reasons.’

  He clenched his jaw, felt his teeth grind along each other. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, rummaging in the first-aid box for the sewing kit he kept for occasions like this one. ‘It is what it is, right?’