by Pam Godwin
This would be interesting. Martin wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely type, especially around strangers.
“Don’t bother. It’s ripped to hell.” Martin reached behind his head with a pained grimace and pulled off the shirt.
Ricky lowered onto the bed beside Martin and examined the defined cuts of muscle he’d been drooling over for seven years.
Martin had always been fit, but the past six months of training had turned his body into a chiseled work of art.
He and Ricky had spent several grueling hours a day together, rolling around on a mat, boxing in a ring, and lifting weights. The torture hadn’t just been physical.
His hands knew every inch of Martin’s body, and it wasn’t enough. The urge to reach for Martin plagued him constantly, to feel all that strength against him, the press of hot skin, and the gust of frantic breaths as their bodies moved as one.
“How do you know each other?” She poured the antiseptic solution onto a swath of gauze and inspected Martin’s swollen eyes. “I assume you were arrested together?”
“It’s a long story.” Martin angled forward, putting his face within an inch of hers.
“We have nothing but time.” She didn’t try to reclaim the personal space he penetrated. “Get it? Time?” She sighed. “Prison joke.”
“Why are you helping us?” Martin leaned back and pressed his scowl to the lip of the bottle, taking a swig.
“Why are you here?”
“Drug trafficking,” Ricky said.
He and Martin could be honest about everything except their alliance with the Restrepo Cartel and the assignment that put them here.
“Let me guess.” She touched the medicated gauze against the cut above Martin’s eye. “You’re innocent.”
“We’re guilty of many things.” Ricky grabbed the tequila and slugged it back.
She glanced between them, and her eyebrows gathered. “Are you lovers?”
The alcohol went down the wrong pipe, and he tried his damnedest to stifle a coughing fit.
“No.” Martin glared at him. “Why would you ask that?”
“You seem close. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “The way you look at each other… It’s intimate.”
“I’m attracted to him.” Ricky calmed his gag reflex and took another drink. “He’s attracted to women. At the end of the day, all that matters is our friendship.”
“Oh. That…” She moved the gauze to the cut on Martin’s lip. “Sounds complicated.”
“We don’t make it complicated.” He winked at Martin, coaxing a soft smile from that handsome face.
“Such a guy thing to say.” She gave him a dissecting look, up, down, and through the heart. “Are you only interested in men or do you—?”
“Don’t worry, Tula.” His direct eye contact made her swallow. “You’re definitely my type.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Just making conversation.” She gathered more gauze.
“Asking a man his sexual orientation is one way to make conversation.” He rubbed his jaw. “Tells me where your mind’s at.”
Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “You brought it up.”
“No, you did when you asked if we were lovers.”
With an annoyed inhale, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Then she turned back to Martin. “Your friend’s a pain in the ass.”
Martin bit back a smile, likely anticipating Ricky’s response.
“Darling,” Ricky said in a low voice, “if I was in your ass, pain would be the last thing you’d feel.”
The bottle of antiseptic fell from her hand.
“Shit.” As she leaned down to recover it, her gaze found Martin’s. “I can’t tell if he’s a smartass, a badass, or just an ass.”
Martin grabbed the bottle before she reached it. “Most people don’t know how to take him.”
“It’s kind of a gift.” Ricky devoured the view of her backside as she bent to examine Martin’s chest for wounds.
“How long have you known each other?” she asked.
“Seven years.” Martin handed her the antiseptic. “I needed a place to live. Ricky and the others had a spare bed.”
“The others?” She wiped away a smear of blood on his chest.
“We have a few roommates.”
“Is that the long story you mentioned?”
“Everybody has one.” He squinted at her. “What’s yours?”
“Wrong place. Wrong time.” She edged closer, her eyes fixed on his lap as she reached for a splotch of blood on his waistband. “Looks like you got hit—”
Martin sprung from the bed in a blink. His hand seized her throat and slammed her back against the wall before Ricky could process what was happening.
“Martin!” Ricky’s heart rate doubled as he jumped to his feet. “What the fuck?”
Tula jerked against Martin’s hand at her throat and went for the gun in her waistband. Ricky beat her to it and tossed it out of reach on the bed.
“Hey, man.” He put his face into Martin’s line of sight without touching him. “Snap out of it.”
Martin bared his teeth through a feral grimace. His green eyes glazed over with a faraway look, one he wore whenever he fell into the mysterious black hole of his past.
It could’ve been his time in Van’s attic or something from his childhood. Whatever haunted him had been set off when Tula touched his waist.
“Let go!” She thrashed beneath his grip and shoved uselessly at his chest. Her wide eyes darted to Ricky, the brown depths pooling with fear. “Get him off me!”
“Martin, look at me.” He hardened his tone. “Right now.”
Slowly, Martin turned his head. His lashes lowered and lifted through a long blink, and he dropped his hand.
She clutched her splotchy neck and gulped for air. Her cheeks went from pale to an angry shade of red, and her eyes zeroed in on the gun.
In the next breath, she launched for it, but Ricky caught her around the waist.
“Hold up.” He didn’t have to restrain her or use much force to guide her slight weight in the opposite direction. “Martin, how are you doing?”
“Fine.” Martin paced away, dragging his hands down his face.
Muscles rippled along either side of his spine, and he rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake off his demons.
The impulse to erase the distance and comfort Martin gripped him hard, but it would only end in rejection.
Breathing heavily, Tula backed away, her eyebrows squished in confusion.
Ricky turned to the mess that had been made during the scuffle and used Martin’s ruined shirt to wipe up the spilled antiseptic solution. Thankfully, the bottle of tequila still sat upright on the floor.
“What did I do wrong?” She picked up the scattered gauze and approached Martin cautiously. “Tell me so I don’t repeat it.”
“Nothing.” Martin shifted to the sink and rested his backside on the edge. His hand went to his brow, rubbing restlessly as he blew out a breath. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Liar.” She stepped right up to him and gazed into his eyes. “I touched your waist. Or was it your hip? Is there a no-touch zone?”
“What?” Irritation vibrated through his tone.
“What?” she snapped back.
They seemed to be feeding off the tension in the air between them, but there was something else going on.
They scrutinized each other, not in a confrontational standoff, but in some kind of intense, wordless conversation.
Whatever Martin read in her eyes started to calm the storm in his. Her expression softened, growing solemn. After a suspended moment of eye contact, she spoke.
“When I was arrested two years ago, the Mexican military tortured me with…” Her chest hitched. “I don’t know what it was. They electrocuted me with a rod, vaginally and anally, for eight hours straight.”
Ricky’s insides turned to cement.
; She stared into Martin’s stark green eyes. “Then they transported me here, and on the first night, an inmate attacked me.” Her hands flexed and released at her sides. “I strangled him. I don’t know how, but I killed him.”
The rumors were true? Maybe she was lying, but if so, she had a damn good poker face. He’d never seen a woman look as vulnerable as she did now.
With her shoulders curled forward and the dull sheen over her eyes, she appeared to be drowning in a violent ocean of memories.
“I gave a prison guard all my cash to bring me here.” Her voice wobbled, and she pressed the heel of her palm against her stomach. “Area Three was supposed to be safer. I didn’t know I’d have to pay rent for this cell.”
A chill spread across Ricky’s scalp. Martin said nothing, but his stony expression spoke volumes. They both knew what sort of payment would be demanded of a beautiful woman in prison.
“That same night,” she said quietly, “I had to pay with my body. It felt like rape. Or worse because I couldn’t say no. I had to just lie there and take it.” Her gaze slipped to the bed before jerking back to Martin. “I killed a man for trying to rape me, yet the one who succeeded still lives. He’s not a threat to me anymore, but I struggle with…what he did to me. Maybe someday, I’ll forgive him, but I doubt it.”
He glanced between her and Martin, his chest tight as he processed her words. Not only had she been tortured by electrocution, but within hours, someone had forced himself inside her injured body.
Was it Garra? He seemed to be the property manager around here. If he raped her, that would explain his possessiveness, as well as the standoffish way she interacted with him.
Ricky’s pulse elevated, and his blood heated to punish that son of a bitch.
“What about you?” She drifted closer to Martin, leaving a sliver of space without touching him. “Is the source of your pain still alive?”
Ricky leaned forward, holding his breath.
She might’ve figured out Martin had a tortured past, but she would never be able to draw the details out of him. He wouldn’t even talk to Ricky about it.
Seconds filled the silence, each one stirring a disquiet through the room as she watched Martin, waiting for an answer.
Ricky was confident his friend wouldn’t respond.
Until Martin reached for her hand.
“I killed the first one.” Martin closed his fingers around her tiny, tattooed wrist. “The second one still lives, and like you, I doubt I’ll ever forgive him.”
Ricky’s heart stopped, and pinpricks stabbed the base of his skull. The one who lived was Van Quiso. But who was the first one?
He’d suspected something terrible had happened to Martin before Van captured him, but Martin had never given any indication he’d killed someone.
Someone who had caused him pain.
Was it a relative from his childhood? A stranger on the street? Was the murder premeditated or self-defense? Had he been alone? What happened to the body?
Martin had given Tula—a woman he’d just met—more insight into his past than he’d ever offered Ricky. Why her? Because she’d shared a tragic story? He didn’t even know if she was telling the truth.
Ricky tried to rein in the hurt that smoldered in his gut, but it only magnified as he watched them look at each other with mutual understanding.
Unbelievable.
He could actually feel the beginning of something spark and hold between them. Made him feel like a goddamn third wheel, interloping on a private moment.
Jesus, get a grip, you jealous fuck.
He and Martin were here for a job. If the sexy little vixen had a thing for his best friend, they could use that to ply her into spilling secrets about Hector La Rocha.
Screw it. They could eye fuck each other for as long as they wanted.
He reached for the medical supplies and tended to his wounds. But after a few irritating swipes of the gauze, he couldn’t stop his gaze from gravitating back to them.
Martin guided her hand to his waist and pressed her palm against his skin, proving he didn’t have an issue with touching.
Very few people invaded his personal space because of those fuck-off vibes he exuded. But she’d reached right through that when she touched him the first time.
That must’ve been what triggered him. He wasn’t used to physical contact. Except she’d put her hands on his face to clean his wounds. He hadn’t flipped out until she went for his pants.
Now that he’d given her permission to touch, she splayed her fingers against his nude stomach, lingering there for a long moment. Then she explored the mouthwatering grooves that carved a V from his hips to the low-waisted dip of his jeans.
Ricky imagined all that honed power flexing against his own hand—the corrugated ridges of abs and the heat of life pumping beneath warm, smooth skin.
A surge of hunger raced through his veins, and his body hardened as he indulged in an unobtainable fantasy where the three of them fell into bed together. In the heat of passion, Tula gave them the locations of the cartel’s major players in the sex trafficking ring. Martin realized he wanted Ricky as deeply as Ricky wanted him. They vowed to protect the woman in their arms and fucked one another in every position imaginable for the rest of their lives.
“I was going to check the bleeding here.” She glided her palm toward the red splotch on Martin’s waistband.
“It’s not my blood.” Martin watched her from mere inches away.
“Oh. Okay, I might be able to wash it out.”
“I’m not taking off my pants.”
“No, of course not. I…” Her fingers brushed the flat expanse of his abs as she withdrew her hand. “I’ll check your back if you turn around.”
Ricky clenched his teeth and twisted away to clean the broken skin on his knuckles.
The bottle of tequila on the floor caught his eye, and he nudged it closer with his foot. As he finished patching up his hands, he poured the potent drink down his throat, hoping to escalate the D in drunk. Or the E in ebrio, if he wanted to be really Mexican about it.
A moment later, the soft sound of her footsteps approached, bringing with it the feminine scent of her shampoo or soap or whatever the hell she used to make her body smell so damn delicious.
“Want me to clean that cut on your face?” She tapped her fingers on her denim-clad thighs.
“Already took care of it.” He rose and stepped around her, headed toward the sink.
Martin shifted out of his way. He didn’t look at those green eyes as he washed his hands and face, but he felt them burning into the back of his head.
Her cell was too small for the three of them, and ignoring Martin made him feel hot and itchy in his skin.
If he looked at Martin, there would be a confrontation, and this wasn’t the time to clear the air between them. Not with Tula cataloging everything. He didn’t trust her.
A knock sounded on the door.
She opened it, and lo and behold, her scowling guard stood on the other side.
“Their cell is ready.” Garra glared at him and Martin before giving Tula a possessive once-over. “Number 24. Right above you.” He flicked a finger toward the ceiling.
When he strode away, she closed the door and turned.
“You got us our own cell?” Ricky dried off his face with the hem of his shirt.
“Yeah.” Her attention dipped to his exposed abs, and her lips parted.
He lowered the shirt, his thoughts stuck on why and how she arranged a room for them.
“Explain how the rent works.” Martin approached her, voicing Ricky’s chief concern.
If Garra expected sex from her or them in exchange for a cell, he could eat his own dick. They would continue sleeping on the floor in the common area.
“There’s no rent.” She raised her chin.
“How?” Ricky asked.
“I have some leeway here.”
“How?” He asked again, harder this time.
She d
rew in a breath and released it. “I work directly for the boss.”
“You work for Hector La Rocha?” Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “A little thing like you—”
“Go ahead and misjudge me. That’ll be fun.”
Martin barked a derisive sound of laughter that immediately cut off as she shoved the barrel of her pistol beneath his jaw.
Ricky froze, and his training kicked in.
Her finger wasn’t on the trigger, and most of her weight rested on one leg. He could sweep that foot and redirect the gun before she fired. One miscalculation, however, would put a hole through Martin’s head.
How the hell did she even recover the gun without them noticing? She must’ve grabbed it when she answered the door?
“Tula,” Ricky said slowly and captured her eyes. “The rumor that your boss doesn’t employ women is clearly incorrect. As for the gossip that you can defend yourself against men twice your size? I can dispel that rumor, too.” He looked at the gun and back to her. “You absolutely can.”
She searched his face, her huge eyes shining with distrust and perhaps a hint of appeasement.
He held still, letting the moment work itself out as he drank in her incredible beauty.
Black satiny hair tumbled to her elbows. Tawny skin radiated beneath swirls of ink on her toned arms, and rosy lips pursed with suspicion. She reminded him of fire, glowing in warm hues of red, gold, and black against the cold gray cement of her cell.
Finally, she lowered the gun and opened the door. “Use the stairwell on the left. Your cell is on the second floor. Above mine. Number 24.”
His chest tightened. She was kicking them out.
With a glance at Martin, he stepped into the hall.
“Thank you for getting the cell.” Martin followed him out and turned back. “Why are you helping us?”
“Not for the reasons you think.”
“What are—?”
She shut the door in his face.
Ricky made a choking sound in the dark, windowless concrete cell, wishing he hadn’t just taken that weary breath. The sweltering, roach-infested space reeked of human waste and poor life choices.
The socket above the sink didn’t have a bulb, but the door had a lock. Not that he would close it right now and block the only light from the hall.