“My, God,” Deacon sputtered under his breath. Chalfont’s safe house also doubled as a stash house.
Without warning, Chalfont whipped one of his hairy limbs up to Deacon’s head and pressed a pistol hard against his temple. The drug lord’s eyes pulsed with menace. Seconds ticked into minutes without a word passing between them. Sweat surged down Deacon’s face. His eyes ricocheted from the drug lord’s face to Luis’s, then to the stacks of cocaine before him.
Everything comes with a price, Little D, he heard Jack say in his ear. He bit down into his lip, tasting the salty iron of his own blood. His knees started caving around a torrent of nausea that was circling his body like a cyclone. Game over. This is it. He knows. Deacon cringed, staring into the ugliest face on the planet.
With the flourish of a marksman, Chalfont seized Deacon’s hand and lay the gun in his palm, covering it with his top hand as if it were a bible. The drug lord’s black-marble eyes bored into Deacon’s. The moment felt intimate and sexual. The relief of no longer having a gun cocked to his head blinded him with euphoria.
Chalfont lifted his chest and inched his body uncomfortably close, his tequila breath nearly setting Deacon’s lashes on fire.
“I am your capitán, no, Xavier?”
“Sí,” Deacon said, swallowing the remaining retch in his throat.
June 1985
CHAPTER 19
darien, Connecticut
“WHY CAN’T YOU JUST FORGET ABOUT HIM? GEEZ, IT’S been months. He’s gone, you know?” Peter said, squeezing the padded armrest of the gold couch in her living room. His other arm draped across the back of the sofa, emitting an undeniable heat that Hannah found hard to ignore. It didn’t help that he had arrived from his lifeguarding job all fit and tan. The cold drink she offered him he’d drained in seconds. Then he’d tried to kiss her.
Hannah stole a sidelong glance while gathering her thoughts and trying to dismiss the way his muscular thighs poked out from his shorts.
He waited for her to answer.
“I can’t . . . he was my first—God, never mind.” She sighed, pulling the ends of her hair across her lips, and tried again: “Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder what we’d be doing if he were still here. Deacon opened up parts of me I never knew existed. With him, for the first time in my life . . . it was where I belonged. We just fit.”
She released her hair and absently clawed her thighs like a rake.
She turned to him and his jaw softened, his liquid blue eyes watching her intently.
“I can’t shake him. I know he’s gone.” Her throat tightened. “But he’s still lodged in my brain, and in my dreams.” She tugged her elbows into her stomach and swung her body back toward the coffee table. “It’s pathetic, I know . . . I actually get excited thinking I’m going to see him out somewhere. I can’t help it. I find myself searching for his face wherever I go—at the mall, in town. I can still feel him.”
“Is that why you took that job at The Candy House?”
“W-what? No . . . I don’t know. I needed something to occupy my time, distract myself from thinking about him.”
Peter gripped the armrest harder while his other hand tentatively touched her bare shoulder. She fidgeted with the neckline of her tank, not looking at him.
“It’s like there’s this ghost between us,” he murmured. He raised his arm from her shoulder and palmed the top of her head like it was a basketball, turning her toward him. “Hannah, if you let me, you’d see that I’m way better for you. Just let us happen. Don’t stop it. You know you have me as a friend. That’s not going to change. I would never put you through what he did.”
He dropped his hand to her shoulder again, and his fingers traced mini circles on the upper part of her arm. After a moment, he covered his lap with a pillow and leaned back, closing his eyes.
“What?”
Peter sighed. “He was only going through you, like he did with everybody. Hannah, he almost killed you.”
“I approached him.”
“And he exposed you to some f-ed up situations.”
“They were my decisions. No one made me.”
He slapped the end of the couch and she flinched.
“Sorry.” He took a deep breath and relaxed back into the seat. “Hannah, let me in and you’ll see . . . fall for me the way I’ve . . . fallen for you,” he said lifting her chin with his fingertips.
“I know it would make things easier . . . but this hole I feel,” she said, rubbing the boney part of her chest, “it’s always there, it never subsides.”
“Come here,” he said, folding his arms around her. After a moment, he kissed her cheek like he’d been doing for months. This time, she turned her face to him and he didn’t hold back.
She closed her eyes, tasting him on her lips, willing herself to just try. It wasn’t exactly what she wanted. Why can’t you be him?
“That felt nice, do it again,” she said almost to herself, wondering what it would be like to have Peter’s hands on her.
“Let me love you, Hannah.” Peter kissed her harder.
CHAPTER 20
South beach, Miami
DEACON STEPPED INSIDE THE PHONE BOOTH NEAR THE dock. He left the door open and cradled the clammy handset between his ear and shoulder, shifting his weight to either side, waiting for Kodak to pick up. He grimaced as he swatted away the ever-present mosquitoes from around his face. Every streetlamp sported a halo of them, and he’d already inhaled too many to count. Between the heat and the bugs, he’d learned quickly that Miami in the summer was no joke —even in the wee hours, which was when most of his work for Chalfont took place.
He wiped the sweat trickling toward the collar of his white button-down polo. He rerolled his right sleeve and pulled the shirt from his chest to circulate some air.
He would have never been caught dead wearing this ensemble back in Connecticut. He looked like the Good Humor Ice Cream man.
“Come on, pick up, pick up,” he steamed under his breath.
He rechecked around him, both for random cops and for henchmen from competing cartels who might be lurking in the shadows. The silence of the streets that time of night made him jumpy; every random car loomed, full of potential trouble.
Working for the Feds hardly guaranteed his safety. Other officers could easily pick him up—or worse, shoot him—for his connection to the cartel, not knowing his undercover status. Would Kodak and Eastman even bail him out? He’d be an easy write-off for them. He thought about what he would do if he got arrested. Revealing to an unsuspecting cop that he was an informant could put his life in jeopardy. Good guys or bad guys, he was a sinking brick in either ocean.
Sweat dripped from the sides of his neck and down his shirt. His patience waned. A couple more rings, he told himself. He couldn’t wait any longer than that.
He was about to hang up when Kodak answered.
“Finally,” he growled into the phone. “We’re meeting in an hour, parking garage on 7th. Yeah, I’m riding along. Wait, though, so your guys don’t get there before I have a chance to leave. I’m coming back with Luis. Claudia is picking me up outside the safe house.”
All at once, the truck’s lights lit up the other side of the loading dock.
“I gotta go. They’re ready for transport.”
Deacon climbed inside the truck where Luis waited. The air rippled with tension between them. Six months of being around Chalfont’s second-in-command had done little to soften the guy. The ponytailed wonder was never one for idle talk.
“Who were you calling?”
Deacon flinched at the sound of Luis’s steely voice. He needed to be more careful around the guy.
“Mi novia,” he said evenly, without looking at him. He crossed his arms over the pit growing in his stomach. “She’s picking me up later.”
“Chalfont doesn’t like outsiders knowing his business. You should have her meet him.”
“She’s shy . . . probably not.”
“Rambo arr
ived, free and clear,” he announced to Chalfont, who was busily leaning over some files scattered on the long table in the dining room that doubled as his office.
The drug lord smiled slightly, creasing the pocked skin along his face.
Deacon’s brief moment of confidence in amusing Chalfont with his new Sylvester Stallone code word was instantly squelched by Luis’s presence stalking him from behind. Deacon could feel the henchman’s disdain crawling up the back of his head.
“Good work, Xavier. I haven’t worried about these drops with you on board,” Chalfont said without glancing up from his desk.
Luis cleared this throat.
“Ahh, Luis, I didn’t see you there. Good work, mi compadre.”
Luis shifted his stance behind Deacon.
Chalfont spread his gold-capped grin wide. “We should celebrate . . . conocer a few of my chicas tonight, no?”
“No puedo tonight, mi novia me está esperando,” Deacon said, motioning like they could see Claudia’s Ferrari through the walls.
Chalfont’s coal eyes narrowed along with the corners of his mouth. “The blonde in the white car? I’d like to meet her.”
“She’s a bit tímida when it comes to this life.”
Luis walked around to Chalfont’s side so he was facing Deacon. He clasped his hands behind his back like one of the guards, shifting the energy in the room.
“Si tú eres de la familia, ella también. Preséntamela.”
Deacon’s stomach dropped. “Of course.”
“She takes good care of you, mi hijo?”
“Sí,” he nodded wondering what sparked Chalfont’s sudden interest in Claudia after all this time. His eyes flitted to Luis. His smirk said it all; this had been his idea.
“Can you trust her?” Chalfont said, his eyes shining wildly.
Deacon nodded, trying to read him. “What is it?” he said, but the drug lord’s silence told him they were done.
Deacon cut across the driveway to Claudia’s car, wishing he were headed back to the hotel. His stomach churned, chewing itself up inside. Chalfont had a way of doing that to him, along with making his arm hair jump to attention.
Claudia’s long, balletic fingers tapped the side of the car, her lit cigarette threaded through them. She took a long drag and a Puff the Magic Dragon-size ring of pink smoke floated out. Her eyes widened when she saw the worry on his face.
“He wants me to introduce you.”
“After six months, now he wants to know who the hell I am? No way, I’m not going in there. That’s why we have you. I’m just decoration so you don’t turn into one of Chalfont’s playthings.”
“Change of plans, girlfriend. Try acting like an agent for once.”
“Shit.”
He walked Claudia into the safe house, half pulling her along, wanting to get the introduction over with. She wasn’t in her usual heels and could keep up with his stride. Deacon knew that as much as she hated Chalfont, she was more embarrassed for him to see her in her T-shirt and jean shorts.
The second they walked through the entrance, everything was chaos. Guards yelling in rapid Spanish streamed from every hallway, buzzing between the rooms, packing up guns, and sealing the house down. Chalfont’s voice rose in the next room. Deacon rushed ahead and Claudia followed, sticking close to him. He sensed her fear and grabbed her hand tighter. He thought she’d be a better actress than this.
“Rápido, rápido, get out of there!” Chalfont yelled before slamming down the phone.
“What is it, capitán?” Deacon said, skidding into the room.
“Hay una complicación. Go,” Chalfont ordered, throwing one of his hairy brown arms at them like a baseball pitcher. His brow pressed low over his twitchy eyes at the sight of Claudia. His perspiring upper lip curled as he scanned her from her frosted tips down to her scuffed Keds.
Her pretty face froze like she was a child caught for misbehaving; her reddening cheeks betrayed her. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the diminutive drug lord.
“Come on, Claud, move it.” Deacon pulled her to him and took the car keys from her. They rushed to her car.
Deacon didn’t know if the drug lord’s “complication” meant more federal agents or a competing cartel. He had no idea where Chalfont went when he needed to disappear. Familia or not, the drug lord hadn’t invited them to join him.
“Why weren’t we warned about the raid?” Claudia said when they were blocks away from the safe house. “That’s not how it’s supposed to go.” She gripped her seat and pitched her body forward. “I feel sick . . . seeing that monster up close. Did you see the way he treated me? I’m a goddamn FBI agent, you bastard!”
“Yeah, you missed your chance to take him out, Claud,” Deacon sneered. “What the hell was that all about back there? You couldn’t even deal. I thought you were a trained agent.”
They didn’t speak all the way back to the Leslie. Deacon parked behind the hotel and glanced at Claudia. Her fists were bunched in her lap. She exhaled and leaned her head against the window.
“I haven’t been an agent for long. I asked for this assignment . . . I thought I could handle it.”
“Who was this person you knew, the one Chalfont killed? A boyfriend?”
Her face began to pucker. She punched the glass with the side of her hand. “No . . . my baby boy. He was playing in Lummus Park. My mom took him there on Sundays. A group of teenagers was working out on the beach. Chalfont pulled a gun on one of them. A stray bullet . . . got him.”
“Kodak and Eastman know?”
“No,” she said, wiping her face. “I had a different name back then. A different life. I lived with my uncle Vivian, the drag queen who helped with your transformation.”
Deacon sighed. He didn’t know what to say. “We can’t fuck this up. I’ve got to get out of here. And you . . . we, I guess . . . need to put this bastard away.”
“Or bury him in the ground.”
CHAPTER 21
darien, Connecticut
THE SOUND OF THE PHONE JARRED HANNAH AWAKE. “H-hello . . . who’s there?” Damn it, how many times are they going to keep calling and hanging up?
She collapsed onto her bed, too annoyed to go back to sleep. The frequency of the prank calls was increasing. Summertime and the neighborhood kids have nothing better to do.
The calls were becoming a problem. If she forgot to drag the phone into her room before bed and her father answered one, he’d yell at her like she had instigated it. Her mother, it seemed, had stopped hearing the phone altogether.
The last two phone bills she’d pulled from the mail did little to shed light. Outside of Peter’s and the doctor’s numbers from the rehabilitation center, an unlisted number periodically came up as “unknown caller.” That was it.
She doubted it was Gillian, Taylor, or Leeza. Prank phone calls were pretty childish, even for them.
Besides, the coven had met its demise. That had been the best part of the second half of sophomore year.
The events began when Taylor, the former It Girl, gave birth in April, two months before school was out. No one at school saw her or her matching headbands after that.
Weeks later, overachieving Leeza with her frosted hair and ice-pink lips—the one of the three most desperate to be popular—suffered the ultimate public humiliation.
Hannah was among the crowd of kids meandering off the school bus that spring afternoon when conversations rippled into snickers and kids elbowed one another toward the show down the street.
“Whoa, someone’s getting towed!” exclaimed one of the boys.
“Whose house?” bubbled the girl next to him.
“Leeza’s . . . I think.”
“Yeah, definitely hers,” another one chirped.
“Hey look, it's Repo Man!” the boy called out, sounding like Emilio Estevez from the movie of the same name. “Don’t look in the trunk!”
They all started laughing and pulling away from Leeza one by one. Her so-called best friend, Gillian,
followed the crowd.
“I know, right! Mr. Bradley in social studies doesn’t have a clue. My dad, you know, who’s a trader on Wall Street—” Leeza started breaking into one of her see-how-great-I-am stories, pretending not to notice. It was obvious to Hannah, though, that she already had.
The skinny, ferret-faced driver fueled her public humiliation more by busily repositioning his manhood several times in his grimy coveralls as he stood next to his truck, oblivious to his audience. He drove Leeza’s father’s BMW onto the car ramp and Leeza started to blubber, “Oh, that’s right . . . I knew that was happening . . . we’re getting a new car this week . . . a better one.” She fumbled with the contents of her purse, searching for something she never found.
Jeers erupted around her like Fourth of July poppers, sending her fleeing into her house. Gillian sidled up to one of the boys, both of them snickering.
How fast they turn, Hannah observed. For the first time, she felt bad for the girl who seemed to have it all. Leeza was beyond popular, and pretty and smart to boot, but those things couldn’t save her from the social embarrassment of her parents’ money problems. Hannah, too, had learned what it felt like to be the center of neighborhood gossip after witnessing her mother and sister being carried away via ambulance last December—and how lonely it could be.
“When’s it going to end, Gillian?” Hannah yelled back over her shoulder after the crowd had drifted down the street and her nemesis was walking alone up the driveway to her house. “Does acting like that make you feel better about yourself?”
The redheaded terror’s shoulders tensed as she hurled one of her icy stares at her.
Just as Hannah turned back toward home, Gillian called out, “It’s better than being a loser like you!”
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