I paused as my gaze roamed my desk and landed on the only thing that withstood my earlier mood swing—a framed picture of my father as a young man. His blackened eyes mocked me with silent words he’d ingrained into me before every beating: ‘Mercy doesn’t exist in our world. Mercy yields weakness, and weakness brings death.’
“Boss?”
I met Mateo’s stare. “Ten g’s?” He nodded. “Have Emilio pay our friend a visit and see what he’s managed to collect for a payment. For every grand he’s missing, he owes us a finger.”
“And if he has nothing?”
Leaning back, I loosened the top button on my collar. “I suppose our friend will need to find a new profession. I imagine it’s hard to hold a hammer with two bloody stumps.”
Without another word, Mateo nodded and left my office to handle business. It was half of what I liked about the guy. I gave orders and he shut his mouth and followed them. I needed more men like him in my operation.
“Fuck.” Surveying the broken glass on the floor, I watched the expensive tequila soak into the carpet, making no move to clean it up. As usual, my thoughts wandered to an unwanted distraction who’d managed to invade my day-to-day business more and more lately.
When I arrived in America, I assumed everyone had my same tastes and high standards. The first time I ordered a shot of añejo tequila in Houston, the bartender handed me a highball glass of chilled, blanco piss water garnished with a hunk of lime and a salt shaker. It was insulting. In Mexico, a man could get shot in the face for less. There seemed to be only one bartender in the entire Houston metro who could get it right, although I tried not to show my face there if I could help it.
Being there wasn’t safe or smart. Regardless of what she looked like in those shorts.
Chapter Two
Six Months Prior
VAL
I stood in the corner of the cantina watching her long before I sat down. She wore an expression of a caged animal that had been poked with a stick one too many times. Leaning my back against a corner wall, I studied a line that sank deep between her eyebrows and the line of sweat that trickled down the back of her slender neck. Fascinated, I followed her busy hands as she poured drinks with marked precision without giving a thought as to what she was doing.
That took skill. I appreciated skill.
It’d been a long day making sure I had the district attorney’s office in my back pocket. Not that I couldn’t run my business around them, but having someone on the inside of the legal system made life a hell of a lot easier. The young assistant DA had been resistant, but everyone in this town had a weakness—the challenge was simply to find it.
And I never backed down from a challenge.
I needed to unwind in the quiet of my own house, but as much as I told myself I should stay away from a business I cleaned cartel money through, curiosity won out over common sense.
Since opening Caliente Cantina, my lieutenant, Emilio, had gone through no less than four bartenders. They weren’t particularly bad at their jobs; Emilio just had a problem with employer/employee lines. If he didn’t calm the hell down, his proclivities would cost me a sexual harassment lawsuit.
I cared less about paying the girls off—to hell with them. They were expendable and no great loss, as far as I was concerned. In fact, every bartender in Houston failed the simplest task of a drink order. That alone could be how I’d ended up here.
Maybe I’d come here to see if his new hire was as useless as the others.
Shouting diverted my attention to wild, animated hand gestures coming from an obviously not twenty-one-year old male trying to order beer. The new bartender demanded identification, having none of his shit.
Good girl.
Even while he cursed at her and flipped his middle finger, she never wavered. Not one flicker of emotion clouded her face as she cocked an eyebrow, calmly held up her palm, pointed to him, and nodded toward the door. Cursing at her again, the punk shoved the drink menu across the bar and motioned for his buddies to leave with him.
An amused smile tugged at my mouth, stunning me. People rarely entertained me. Most often they annoyed me to the point of solitude. I needed a closer look at this girl; but first, I needed to show this asshole some manners.
He passed me on his way to the door looking like an over privileged frat boy who knew nothing of the real world. His face was red with anger as he tugged on his overgrown, shaggy, brown hair.
“Bitch took my ID.” He turned to his friend as he reached for the door. “Maybe she just needs to get fucked really good. Maybe I should wait for her outside and help her get rid of that shitty attitude.”
I brushed his shoulder with enough force to make my displeasure known, locking eyes with him in a way that made grown men piss themselves. “And maybe I should wait outside for you and help you get rid of your shitty attitude.”
Flushing, he opened his mouth to argue. When his eyes landed on my waist, he choked on his own cockiness. “I…uh, no, dude. I’m just joking. It’s a joke. No harm.”
No one would call me a huge man by any stretch of the imagination, but I had enough muscle on me to kick his ass before he had a chance to fight back. It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t have to lift a finger. I knew where his eyes were and what made him want to disappear into himself.
I didn’t go anywhere without my pistol. To make my point, I pulled my jacket back to make sure he knew I wasn’t fucking around. “If I ever see your face in this cantina again, I’ll have dick fajitas on the menu so fast your fucking head will spin. Are we clear?”
He couldn’t speak. I got a quick nod as he grabbed his friend and ran.
God, I love power.
Returning my attention to the bar, I strained to hear her conversation with the random drunks gawking at her. Loud Mariachi music blaring in the background and annoying yells of over exuberant patrons made eavesdropping almost impossible. Trying to act bored as hell, I slipped into a seat at the end of the bar and leaned forward.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.” She tilted her chin in my direction while keeping her focus on the sugary frozen concoction she created. Puckering her red lips, she blew a piece of hair out of her face that escaped the sloppy bun on top of her head.
A sloppy, candy-red bun to match candy-red lips.
The kind of lips that could tell a man any lie they wanted and he’d gladly buy any shit they sold for just a taste.
My dick twitched, reminding me it’d been a few days since I’d gotten laid. It didn’t help matters Emilio found it amusing to dress the bartenders in the tiniest denim shorts he could find, with black tank tops drawn across their chests so tight that the Caliente logo disappeared under their arms.
Well played, Emilio.
I’d never been one to chase women. I didn’t have to. They fell at my feet, crawled in my bed, and blew my phone up with calls and texts I never returned. But I found myself intrigued and unable to turn away as I watched Emilio’s new bartender flip through her texts, frown, and bite her lip, smearing the bright red lipstick that still had my pants in an uproar.
I watched her eyes glaze over as she muttered something under her breath and stared at the liquor bottles in front of her. With a long, drawn out sigh, she snuck a sweeping glance around the bar. Immediately, I dropped my eyes down to my phone, suddenly engrossed in a blank screen.
Do it. Be bad.
Satisfied no one watched, she bent down and pretended to tie her shoe, taking a bottle of vodka with her to the floor. Tucked safely underneath the sink, I shifted over the bar to get a better view of the show as she reached up with a slim, milky white arm and snagged a glass. Pouring two large shots, she downed them successively, grimacing at the eighty-proof burn.
Well, damn. She just became much more interesting to me.
I arched an eyebrow and fought a smile. “Bad day?”
“Bad life,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes and licking the remaining cheap vodka off her lips. Screwing the cap ba
ck on, she pushed off her heels and slipped the bottle back onto the counter.
“I would’ve gone for the Grey Goose myself. Drinking that shit is just asking for the day to get worse.” I should’ve stopped talking. I considered small talk to be a waste of time.
She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.”
“Can I get a gin and tonic, please?” A man two seats down from me wore a pissed off impatient look I didn’t care for and waved a credit card in her face. My jaw ticked, but before I could put him in his place, pale blue eyes that could start a war pinned him to his seat.
“Here,” she drawled in a marked Southern accent as she threw a basket of chips on the bar. “Fill your mouth so shit stops coming out of it. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Normally, that’d be cause for termination, but she amused the hell out of me. I couldn’t stand weak women, and this girl had enough fire for a room full of them. Plus, the asshole had it coming. I began to understand why Emilio spent so many nights at the cantina.
Catching my eye, a wicked smirk lifted the corners of her mouth as she placed her forearms on the bar and leaned in close enough for me to catch the scent of citrus and vanilla. It was a bizarre combination that lit a heated trail straight from my nose to my pants.
“So, what is it you want?”
You. Naked and spread out on this bar.
“I doubt you could handle it.” I refused to blink, holding her stare, making sure she understood the double entendre. I wanted to push her to see how she’d react, but honestly, I knew the answer to both meanings.
Nobody had been worth a fuck yet. I didn’t see why this would be any different.
My challenge seemed to piss her off and invigorate her at the same time. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Haven’t had any complaints yet.” Spreading her fingers wide on both hands, she slid her arms out and narrowed her eyes. “Give me your best shot.”
I’d give you my worst. I’d wreck you and leave you broken.
“Añejo tequila. Straight shot, in a stem glass—not a highball—room temp.” With her bizarre, intoxicating scent still fucking with my head, I realized she was knocking me off my game. I didn’t like it. So, being the ass I was, and remembering Emilio’s tendencies toward cheapness, I leaned in close. “And if it hasn’t aged at least three years, shove it up the owner’s ass.”
She brushed that damn stray hair out of her eye again and winked. “I’ll do my best.”
Swinging her hips all over the bar, she glanced my way a few times, making a big production of bending over unnecessarily to pick shit off the floor. More than once, I made silent deals with my cock to find it some uncomplicated pussy, if it’d calm the fuck down and stop trying to get a look at her ass too.
Before it could agree, a stem glass appeared under my nose just as I requested.
That’s a first.
Raising a questioning eye up at her, she smirked and nodded to the drink. “Well? Are you going to drink that or wait until Jesus turns it back into water?”
A full-chested laugh I barely recognized came from my mouth as I reached for the glass. “I think that was wine.”
She shrugged and waved her hand. “Whatever. Sunday School wasn’t my thing.”
As she watched me carefully, I hoped for the best and downed the shot with low expectations. The moment the liquid hit my tongue I knew I was fucked.
Dios mío, was I fucked.
By the smug look on her face, she knew it too.
Twirling the empty glass in my fingers, I studied the captivating woman with renewed interest. “How is it that you’re the only bartender in Houston who can get this drink right?”
Still grinning, she licked that damn lip again and returned the bottles to the shelf, the motion causing her tiny tank top to ride up and expose her flat stomach. “It’s not rocket science. Hell, some people would say I’m a hit or miss on making anyone happy.” Wiping down the counter, she shot me a look with untold pain hidden behind it. “Some people would even say I’ve never gotten anything right.”
“Some people don’t deserve to breathe your air.”
Fuck, I meant that. What was wrong with me?
Her face broke into the first genuine smile I’d seen from her all night not hidden behind a smirk or condescension, and my chest warmed. My fucking chest warmed, and it wasn’t from the tequila.
“So, you got a name, Danger?”
“Danger?” I tried for a flat tone, but my voice raised an octave, betraying my interest.
Damn.
“Yeah, you know…as in, tall, dark, and dangerous?” She squinted her pale blue eyes and silenced an incoming text on her phone. “You look like you could get a girl in a lot of trouble.”
I wanted nothing more than to wipe that damn grin off her face. She looked so smug. So sure I wanted her.
Fuck, I wanted her. “You have no idea.”
Moments passed between us as we stared at each other in silence. That shock of red hair grabbed my attention again, and I couldn’t help but wonder who, or what, happened in her life to cause it. Nobody just did shit like that on purpose. Candy-red colored hair didn’t just happen. It pissed me off that I even cared. I wasn’t a good guy. I wasn’t even a decent guy. I didn’t ask girls their names, much less their stories.
“So, that’s it?” she asked, chin tilted and one hand resting on a cocked hip.
Shit, had she been talking to me this whole time? “What’s it?” I asked, trying to seem bored.
“You really have no name?”
I shot her a pointed look, mentally slamming the door on her inquisition. “Danger works. I like it.”
I did. I liked it too damn much. And I hated nicknames. I thought they were childish and reserved for those annoying assholes who sat on the same side of the booth at restaurants. The ones who called each other ‘honey’ and ‘baby’ and fed each other bites of their own food and switched plates in the middle of dinner.
“Of course, you do,” she snorted in an unladylike, but oddly sexy way.
The bar started to get crowded, as patrons shoved bills toward her and demanded drinks. I watched them curiously, wondering what she’d do. To my pleasure, she held up a finger to them and kept her eyes on me.
Those eyes were what did it. Those pale blue eyes that tried to hide exhaustion exposed by the dark circles underneath them and sadness well beyond her years. They sucked me in and broke one of my cardinal rules. “What about your name?”
“Hey, what about my drink? You think you could take a break from your date over there to do your job, honey?”
Her eyes flickered relief for a moment, then darkened, becoming void of emotion. “Duty calls. Glad I could meet your expectations, Danger.” She reached for the shot glass I held, and I grabbed her hand, my out-of-character reaction surprising both of us. Hesitating a moment, she lifted her eyes and met mine in a battle of wills.
I could tell we were both at war with what would happen next; I contemplated the consequences of fucking one of Emilio’s employees. He seemed fond of this one, and the moment it was over, I’d have no choice but to have her fired.
Shifting her weight, she made the decision for both of us when she released her hand from my grip and pointed toward the douchebag two seats down, now glaring at us. “Let me know if you want another.”
As she poured the asshole that cock blocked me a gin and tonic, I pulled three, twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and placed them face down on the bar. The exorbitant tip wasn’t a handout, as I suspected she’d think after I left. I generally enjoyed her company. Which was exactly why I had to leave and never talk to her again.
She called me dangerous. If I was dangerous, she was fucking deadly.
My life revolved around the cartel, stray pussy, and money. I had no time for complications of any other kind, and candy hair was a walking, talking complication. I knew in one touch, I had no business being near her. A woman like that could cause
the destruction of a man like me.
While she argued with the dickbag about the amount of gin she shorted him, I slipped around the long end of the bar, through the kitchen, and out the back door. I cut myself off like a junkie jonesing for his next hit of short shorts and a-size-too-small tank top. After tonight, I knew I couldn’t afford the distraction.
Perfect drink or not, I was done with that girl.
So, I gave my business to every other bar in Houston and walked out of them pissed off and sober as hell for two months before I caved. However, I never returned to a barstool. Always sitting at one of the tables, I allowed young, annoying waitresses to serve me while I watched her flirt with a new man month after month until it got to be too much to take and stopped going altogether.
Some women were storms who blew into a man’s life and ruined his plans for the night. That woman was a hurricane who uprooted and flooded the very foundation of everything a man thought he knew.
Chapter Three
Present Day
BRODY
After a third pencil lead broke on the Norris case deposition, I snapped the wood in half and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and skidded across the floor as I ran a sweaty palm across my unshaven chin.
When did shit get so out of control?
Everything piled on top of me, forcing my head underwater and my hand to the devil. I’d had no intention on bending to Val Carrera’s will, but he’d backed me into a corner. I’d lived in Houston long enough to know that a corner was the last place anyone wanted to be with the Carrera Cartel.
Working in the judicial system, I saw—first hand—what happened to men who crossed him. One day they were in our custody, the next, pieces of them fell out of a body bag. The constituents of Harris County elected me assistant district attorney to protect the community from men like Carrera. If they knew how much of my soul I’d sold to further my career, I wouldn’t have to worry about the election. I’d be lucky to bus tables at the Waffle House for the rest of my life.
Blurred Red Lines: A Carrera Cartel Novel Page 2