Kiss of the Cartel

by Slater, Nikita

  I’m swamped by his T-shirt. I want to remind him that my clothes are close by and accessible. I don’t. Maybe I like this side of Luis, though I’m still skeptical. Still think he’s lulling me into a sense of complacency before he attacks again.

  He lifts the bowl from the tray, picks up the spoon and dips it in the broth. I think for a moment he intends to eat it himself, but then he blows on it and brings it toward my mouth. My jaw drops in shock. What the hell is he doing? He takes the opportunity to push the spoon past my lips and into my mouth. I sputter on the warm liquid and bring a hand up to catch the drops spilling down my chin. Amusement lights his dark eyes.

  “I can feed myself,” I tell him. “I’m not injured, just weak.”

  The amusement fades from his eyes at the reminder of my ordeal at his hands. I feel guilty, I want that light to come back.

  He passes the bowl and spoon to me. I eat eagerly, falling on the broth and devouring the steaming liquid. As it rapidly disappears, I drop the spoon on the tray and lift the bowl to my lips, taking in every last drop. When I finish, I put the bowl down and reach for the banana Theresa also provided. It’s my favourite fruit and I eat it eagerly, wondering if the banana was Theresa’s idea or Luis’.

  “Have some water.” He lifts the glass from the tray and hands it to me. I juggle the banana peel and take it from him, gulping some down with a mouthful of fruit.

  When I’m done, I wipe my fingers and mouth with the cloth napkin provided. I feel satisfied. Better than I have in days. I feel in fighting shape. I eye Luis, thinking about the promise I made not to attack. His eyes are on mine and I see the knowing flash as he divines my thoughts. Still, he doesn’t make any moves to defend himself. He just watches me, waiting.

  I bite my lip, warring with indecision. I can take him, I know I can. Or at least maim him enough to get myself out of the house. What’s holding me back? A stupid promise? I frown at him, almost annoyed that he made me give him something I’d never given before. Two things now. An orgasm and a promise I feel obligated to keep.

  I push myself back on the bed, bringing my knees up and wrapping my arms around them. We stare at each other. Maybe both wondering what’s next. Did he have a plan when he brought me to his room? At first, I thought he wanted someplace more comfortable to fuck me. Now I don’t think that’s true. He could have taken me to another room. He didn’t have to take care of me first. In fact, he would have an easier time fucking me if I was dehydrated and weak. So what’s he playing at?

  “My father’s funeral is today.”

  The breath whooshes out of me at the reminder of Manuel’s death. I don’t know what to say so I just nod. He spreads his legs and leans over, placing his elbows on his knees and head in his hand, rubbing, as though to ease the tension there. His back is to me. I could attack him now, kill him before he even knows what's happening. Stupid, fucking promise.

  It's not just the promise though. I don’t really want to kill him, can’t imagine him dead. The stray thought hits me and I know it’s true. I don’t want to hurt Luis. Not unless it’s self-defence. I can’t bring myself to attack him while he’s vulnerable.

  “The killer might be at the funeral,” he says, head still in hand.

  I take another sharp breath. He’s confiding in me. I wonder why? Only yesterday we were enemies. But then, in a way, Luis and I were the closest people to Manuel. Though I was just an employee, I always had to be physically close to the man in order to guard him. I know things about him, intimate things. I know how he liked his coffee, know how much he loved his son, was proud of the man Luis has become. I know about the escorts he had sent over from a private, exclusive agency every second Thursday of the month. I know his vulnerabilities, and I'm the only one who does. Those secrets will be buried with the man tomorrow.

  “The killer will be there, Luis,” I murmur, stiffening, readying for flight in case he takes issue at my words.

  He doesn’t. He tips his head to the side and looks at me, searching my features. “You know who it is.” A statement, not a question.

  I chew on my lip, wondering how much to say. I don’t want him to hurt me again, but I also need him to acknowledge the truth of his father’s death. Because ignoring the truth will get him killed. And me.

  “You know who it is too.”

  His fists clench and I shrink into the headboard, knowing I’m skating the edge of his patience now. The subject of his father is touchy. My chest tightens, aches, as though I’m sad for him. I don’t understand but I don’t question it either. Now, in this moment, we’re together and he’s listening.

  I push through my fear and persist in trying to make him listen. “Be careful, Luis. Manuel’s murderer still wants you dead.”

  He straightens, turning to me. I stiffen, prepare to defend myself. He doesn’t reach for me though. Just studies my face, my body in his oversized T-shirt. Then he nods, as if to himself, as if ready to acknowledge my words. He drops the subject though, saying only, “Stay here, don’t try to leave. I’ll find you if you do.” He stands and walks to the door. Before he leaves, he hesitates. Then he glances back at me. “For your own safety, Lena. The killer is out there and you are as much of a target as I am.”

  Before I can reply, he leaves, locking the door behind him. I snuggle down in his bed, pulling at the blanket until it covers all of me. I bury my head in his pillow and inhale his scent. Oddly, this is the safest I’ve ever felt. It brings tears to my eyes. And once more, I escape my confusion through sleep.

  13

  Luis

  The funeral is well attended. I expected nothing less given Manuel's standing in both the legitimate community and the underworld. I’m standing in the graveyard, watching as they lower my father’s body into the ground. Arturo stands beside me, a hand on my shoulder. I feel grief, anger, sadness, betrayal. But I stay impassive, the heir to the throne. The priest says a last few words and then it’s over. People are walking up to me, shaking my hand, shaking Arturo’s, murmuring their condolences.

  My father’s good friend, Tomás Garcia, snags my shoulders with his arm. “Walk with me, Luis.”

  He turns me and we take a few steps. Then he stops, gazes hard at Arturo who’s following. “Just Luis.” Arturo stops, his face a rock, his dark eyes holding lethal promises.

  As we walk away from the group, he looks around. “Where’s the bodyguard?”

  His question seems odd. “You mean Lena? She’s home.”

  “Alive?”

  I nod. I have the need to defend Lena. “She killed five men trying to save my father. She saved my life.”

  Tomás raises his eyebrows. “I know her worth. I thought you were too arrogant to recognize it.”

  He’s right about my arrogance but it’s still risky of him to point it out to me. After all, he walks with a cane and I have no qualms about beating old men to death. “Perhaps some of my arrogance died with my father.”

  We stop several feet from anyone. Out of earshot, though I see Arturo watching closely. So does Tomás. “The shit arrived just in time, did he? To do what? Clean up the mess, mourn for his dead uncle. Too bad for him you both didn’t die.”

  I let out a breath. I don’t feel anger right now, I don’t actually feel much of anything. Numbness settles over me like a comforting blanket. “What are you saying, Tomás?”

  Tomás looks at me as if I’m obtuse. I want to hear the words. I want to hear the accusation. “If not for Lena, you’d be dead too. Arturo showed up quickly, but also too late. As if he timed it.”

  I feel the chill of awareness creep over me. It’s been there since Manuel’s death, the thought that Tomás is voicing. Everything was too neat.

  “Who benefits the most if you both had died? Your cousin, of course. The sadistic, useless piece of shit would throw the Ramirez operations into turmoil if he took over. And he would have. He has the strength of family on his side. All your men would be loyal.”

  I fight the need to look over at Arturo. “
Who else knows who the killer is, besides you and me?” I don’t add Lena. It's a weak attempt to protect her, but I'll do what I can, though it comes too late to save her from pain.

  Tomás shrugs. “Some might suspect, but these kind of bold takeover attempts happen all the time. The question you should be asking is who has his back? He's not smart enough to plan something like this alone.”

  “Not my men.” I'm sure of this, but then the doubt creeps in. How did Arturo get to the warehouse so fast? Is one of my men a spy? “Not the men that arrived to save us. Or they would've finished the job, killed Lena and me too.”

  Tomás taps his cane on the earth as he thinks. “Talk to them, find out. You need some you trust without reserve. Arturo will come at you again from the shadows. He wants the power and he can’t unseat you unless you're dead.”

  “Perhaps I should just kill him.” I scuff the dirt with my shoe, stare past Tomás to the small knot of mourners still talking with each other. Watch Arturo as he bends his head to talk to Tomás’s son.

  “Perhaps. But it would be better if you knew who you could trust first. So that he and his men all die at once. So there’s no one with thoughts of revenge.”

  The silence stretches between us, the topic of murder at a funeral is grim and unsettling.

  Tomás touches my sleeve. “I loved your father like a brother. He was the leader, I was his second. We trusted each other, saved each other’s asses on countless occasions. You know all that?”

  I do. I glance at him and see his grief in the wetness of his eyes.

  “We never doubted each other. Everyone will expect Arturo to be your second, but if you have doubts, he can’t be.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have many loyal men. Find the best, the one you trust the most. Tell him the problem and let him help you resolve it.”

  I nod as I reflect. “I should go.” I step away from him, but he stops me with a hand to my arm.

  “If you need a place to shelter, you come to me.”

  On the return to my home, I reflect on Tomás’s words. His doubts about Arturo, his offer of safety.

  Arturo is in the car with me and we are drinking tequila, but not talking. Arturo seems to understand that silence is what I need right now.

  Once we're inside the gates, he says, “What did the old bastard want?”

  I shrug as I reach for the door handle. “He has some thoughts about who killed Manuel.”

  Arturo snorts his laughter. “That old fraud? He can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone put two decent thoughts together.”

  I inhale as I look back at Arturo. He’s right, even if he is a prick. “We should let him die in peace, Arturo. His sons will take exception if we do anything else.” I offer a small smile and Arturo grins back. “Go away for a day or two. I want to be alone.” I should talk to him about that night, ask about his timing, ask him what he thinks, but I’m tired, overwhelmed, full of grief.

  Arturo scowls, flips me off and gets back in the car. I hear him tell the driver to take him into town.

  I watch until the car disappears and then make my way into the house and upstairs. I unknot my tie as I walk into the bedroom. Lena is there, asleep in my bed under the covers and I let out a small breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Her hair is wet and a towel is abandoned next to the bed. She showered again. I wonder how her back is as I shrug out of my suit jacket, kick off my shoes and unbutton my shirt.

  I can’t tear my eyes from her. She’s beautiful. Every time I looked at her with my father, pretending to be his girlfriend, I wasn’t sure what infuriated me more. My father’s little game or the fact that she was off-limits to me. And at that time, I thought maybe the two were fucking.

  Now she’s here in my bed and I feel overwhelming grief for my father, for me, for her. I want to bury myself in her, find a portal of respite and forgiveness.

  I watch her sleep. Her face relaxed and unguarded, small breaths, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her beauty caressing the coldest parts of me. My desire for her is growing, taking over my best intentions to leave her alone until she heals.

  I sit next to her and touch her face. Her eyes shoot open and she bolts upright, her hands ready to take out an eye or punch my Adam’s apple into my windpipe. I grab her wrists, wrestle her to me, pull her into a tight hug. “Relax. It’s just me.”

  “I slept.” Those simple words are filled with anguish, embarrassment, apology.

  I pull her tighter, draw my hands through her hair and pull her head back so I can see her face. Her eyes lock with mine. They are wary and fearful, and I don’t know what to say to make her trust me. I kiss her mouth, my lips touching hers gently, a soft promise. I don’t press, just let the small kisses happen. Then I feel her hands as they move from my grip, steal up my shoulder to the back of my neck. Pressing me to her, begging for more.

  I’m used to taking what I want, and most women will give it to me, but Lena is broken and I’m afraid I’ll shatter what’s left of her. I break the kiss as I stroke her hair, cup her cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, Lena. I’ve done enough damage.”

  “It’s okay.” Her voice is small and I’m not sure what she’s offering. Forgiveness for hurting her or permission to take her.

  I slide my thumb across her bottom lip and touch the corner of her mouth as I inhale her. She smells like me after a shower and I find that unexpectedly arousing. No pretty soaps in my bathroom. But as I burrow my face into her neck, I inhale all that she is, her fragility, her strength, her femininity. And I want it all.

  I come back to her lips, take her mouth, not gently, but passionately, pulling her into me, as close as I can, my hand on the back of her head crushing her lips to mine. Invading her mouth, tasting her with my tongue. Her hands capture my face as she kisses me back. Her tongue tentative, touching mine, slipping into my mouth.

  Then she’s scrabbling, her hands grabbing at me, at my face, my hair, pulling me into her. Desperate, needy. “Lena.” I grabbed at her wrists, pull back. “We should stop.”

  She shakes her head quickly, back and forth. “No. I can’t stop. Please don’t stop. I need you.”

  And I snap. Because I need her too. I need to not think of death, of betrayal, of loss. I need to bury myself in the strength of her resilience and let her bring me back to life. And it’s what she needs from me too. We need each other.

  We’re scrambling now, wrenching our clothes off, kissing and touching until we’re naked in each other’s arms. I try not to be greedy, try to remember her fragility, but I’m lost in my lust for her. I slam her onto the bed, pressing my body on hers, kissing her, taking her. Her soft gasps are erratic as I rake her neck with my teeth, as my hand finds her breasts, squeezing the mounds, thumbing her nipples.

  Her hands are on my back, pressing into me, her nails scraping me. She’s whimpering, crying my name.

  “Lena,” I say as I bring my hand to her folds, touching her wetness. Her desire.

  “Please.” She arches her back, opens her legs, thrusts herself toward me. “Please, inside me.”

  It’s like she’s hollow, aching, needing to be filled, and when I enter her, sink into her, she sobs. Though she's tight, the pressure unbearably exquisite, she takes me with ease. Her breath is heaving, and I try to gentle myself, give her this moment, but she brings her knees to my hips and squeezes me, pulls me closer, like she’s trying to fuse with me. Our bodies are bucking, her hands grabbing, stroking, tangling in my hair.

  “Fuck,” I say as the pressure grows in me, my cock burrowed in her tight silkiness, her body so pliant. She’s trembling under me, holding me frantically as her moans increase. Her body, my body together in a reckless cyclone of passion. And then she arches her back, a silent scream as her pussy tightens around me, pulling me deeper. She’s coming and I splinter, savagely thrusting, bottoming out against her womb. Driving into her, then losing it, the orgasm shooting through me like a bullet, my groans loud and foreign to my ears before my
semen coats her walls.

  After, we lay in each other’s arms, sprawled across the bed. Not talking, just clinging. I feel like I’ve found an anchor. I feel like I’ve found a home.

  14

  Lena

  I’m tucked against his side and he’s cradling me, one arm wrapped underneath me, curving over my shoulder. Like lovers. I want to touch him, lift my hand to lay it on his chest. But I hesitate. I haven’t been given permission. Feel like I should ask, but I don’t think he’ll mind.

  He grasps my hand and presses it flat against his chest, his on top. “Touch me, Lena.”

  I hear the longing in his voice. Maybe he needs the human contact as much as I do. He always seems so strong, so in control. But I know Manuel rarely touched him, was not a demonstrative man. Luis has probably fucked plenty of women. I wasn’t his bodyguard and though I share the same house, I wasn’t privy to his private life before now. I can’t imagine him cuddling with any of those women though.

  I snuggle closer into his side, burying my nose against his ribs and running my hand from his chest down to his abs, tracing the ridges. I’ve seen Luis working out, seen him without a shirt before. Knew what he looked like. But touching is like a feast for my senses. He’s so flat, so ripped, yet his tanned skin stretching over those muscles is so silky with a smattering of black hair from chest down to his groin. I could probably do this all day.

  “You have my permission to leave the bedroom.” His voice is unexpected, his words more so.

  My fingers freeze in their exploration. What does this concession mean?