by Emerson Rose
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he kill his own Uncle?”
“I guess Sanchez wanted to be part of the business but Juan wouldn’t let him. He told him it was too dangerous or some shit, made him mad, so he took em all out. He’s a waiter, and I swear, Boss, his psychological testing was all totally normal, and he’s never done an illegal thing in his life.”
“Why suspect him then?”
“There’s no other explanation except . . . I think Sebastián knows something. He won’t tell me, though.” Sebastián? I just left him, and he never mentioned anything about an inside job. Carlos glances over, raising his eyebrows, and a knot starts to form in my stomach. I need to talk to Sebastián now.
I jab Sebastián’s number on my contact list and grip the phone hard. What’s he keeping from me, and why? He informs me of every infinitesimal detail of the business, but something about this smells really really bad.
Smokes. I need my smokes. Patting my chest with my free hand, I find them inside my breast pocket, shake one up, and take it between my lips. I hardly notice when Carlos reaches across the front seat and lights it for me. Dragging long and hard, I smoke half the cigarette in one inhalation while waiting for Sebastián to answer.
“Hey, Boss, how’s everything going down there?”
“I have three dead men and I’m being told it’s an inside job. You know anything about that?”
My body vibrates waiting for Sebastián’s response while the palm trees of Ocean Drive slide by.
“What are you really asking, King? Do you think I had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know, Sebastián, did you?” The silence that hangs on the line between us tells me one of two things. He’s hiding something or he’s shocked and fucking pissed as hell. I’m praying it’s the latter.
“King, I have been loyal to the Romero family since I was seventeen when your pop took me in and gave me a job protecting a delivery from Columbia. I would never do anything to jeopardize you or your business.”
For the first time in . . . hell, my entire life, I doubt him. The outside of my fist connects with the car door at the same time my heart sags in my chest. He has been keeping Candy a secret. What’s to say he isn’t hiding something else?
I take a deep drag off of my cigarette and blow it out vehemently.
“Prove it.”
“Prove it? What are you talking about, King? I’ve been ‘proving it’ for thirty years. My whole life has been spent protecting you and your parents.”
“All right, I’m just going to come out and say this. You’re keeping something from me. What is it?”
Sebastián clears his throat and that seals the deal. Here it comes.
“I’m doing what I always do, King. I’m protecting you. I’ve never seen you fall so hard for a woman, so I of course did a background check on Holland.”
“A background check, so?” How could that possibly matter?
“King, she’s a teenager.”
His voice fades, and I drop my hand holding the phone in my lap. I can’t fucking breathe. No way. I met her in the club. She had to be twenty-one to get in. We have a foolproof way of checking IDs. She can’t be a kid. She’s so mature, and the sex—God, the sex . . . he has to be wrong. This can’t be true. He was supposed to tell me about Candy or the insider who murdered my distributers. He wasn’t supposed to tell me that the first woman I’ve ever given a shit about isn’t even a woman but a teenager.
“Wait, wait, you said a teenager. Exactly how old is she? Please, don’t you dare say she’s fifteen. I may have a stroke, Sebastián.”
“Nineteen. And King . . . she knows about you.”
“Turn around, turn the car around, Carlos. Turn around, turn around, turn around! I scream as a billion thoughts fight for the lead on the stage of my mind. Carlos obeys, whipping the car in a U-turn right in the middle of Ocean Drive, nearly causing a ten-car pile-up. Maybe he did cause an accident—who knows?
I can deal with nineteen. I mean, I don’t like it. She lied to me, and she’s six years younger than I am, but if she knows what I am, I’m sure it’s over.
“Uh, Boss . . . the phone.” Carlos risks a few words to bring my attention back to the phone in my hand. Sebastián is shouting my name. I can’t talk. I press the red disconnect button.
“Airport—just get me to the airport,” I say, and Carlos increases our speed exponentially.
The battle in my head continues. She plays the violin like a professional. How can a nineteen-year-old be so incredibly talented? We have things in common. She fucking stops my heart with her smile.
I roll down the window and gulp the muggy air into my lungs. She’s young and talented, with an unparalleled career in music ahead of her, and she knows I’m a drug lord. As hopeless as it is, I need to get to her. I need to explain. She has to understand how much I care for her and that I had every intention of giving up the Romero empire if it meant she would stay with me.
Chapter 15
Holland
“I didn’t want you to know about my business. I didn’t want you to think I was that kind of man.” His voice catches as I push my hands against his chest and see the misery in his glassy eyes.
“But you are that kind of man. You sell illegal drugs to people and they ruin their lives with them. You kill people, and God knows what else.”
“It was my father’s empire. He died and left me to deal with it. I had no choice, you have to believe that. I would give it all up for you. I want you. I want to prove to you that I’m not who you think I am.”
“I can’t.” It kills me to say those two simple words, but I have to. I have to let him go.
His chin drops, and I feel his soft hair feathering against the damp skin on my chest as he begins to rock our joined bodies back and forth. There isn’t a thing I can say to fix this—a gesture, a word, a thought—nothing. It is what it is, and it’s terrible.
A knock on the bathroom door jolts me back to reality. King and I are in Savannah’s bathroom, where our mama’s could easily find us. I can’t add my parent’s devastation to the mounding list of heartache that this two-day-old relationship has caused. I may never find a man like him again, but my age and his ‘career’ won’t ever allow us to be together, period.
“Holland. Are you okay in there? Holland, answer me. Your mama’s gonna be here any second,” she says into the crack of the door, rapping several times in between words. “She’s gonna fuckin’ kill you both if he doesn’t get outta here.” Rap-rap-rap-rap. “God, King, if you care about her at all, you’d leave so she doesn’t get punished for the rest of her life.” Rap-rap-rap.
King untangles himself from me. He stands and pulls me off the floor in front of him, but he won’t meet my eyes. I even move an inch in his direction, but he intentionally looks the opposite way. With wide, tear-filled eyes, I watch as he tucks his shirt into his pants with shaky hands, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. Savannah keeps up her incessant knocking and verbal protests while I stand naked, dripping wet in front of this man turned zombie who can’t even look at me.
“King? Please, I . . . I know we can’t fix this, but please don’t leave like this, please . . .” I don’t even recognize my own voice, it’s so small and weak and desperate. I frown when I think about him lying to me. He’s a damn drug dealer or lord or whatever he is. This isn’t my fault, not really . . . is it?
I lean my ass against the vanity and feel the sting of the cut on my back and the knife in my chest while King absently reaches around me for the towel I was looking for earlier. He presses it against my belly and my arms float to grasp it while he leans in, enveloping me with his familiar smell of soap and a hint of cigarette smoke. He presses a kiss on my forehead, and still avoiding my eyes, he turns to open the bathroom door. Savannah falls in against him, still knocking and fussing. King rights her and slips past without a word. Just like that, he’s gone from my life, taking a colossal piece of me with him that I’ll
never be able to get back.
My world tilts, and Savannah sounds like she’s talking through the end of a tin can when she rushes in, shutting the bathroom door.
Her hands hover an inch off of my skin and her eyes dart from my face to my hands clutching the towel. She assesses my shaking legs and snaps her eyes back to mine.
“Are you hurt?” she asks, unaware of the weight of her question.
I’ve never hurt more. Every hair on my head needs him, every cell in my body wants him, and every ounce of happiness evaporates, leaving me void of all the pleasures he brought to my life.
This is heartbreak . . . how do people survive it? I’m not equipped for the highs and lows of such a powerful relationship. Why has life sucker punched me so hard in the heart? This is Romeo and Juliet dramatic, Cleopatra and Mark Antony miserable. Shit, if Edward hadn’t saved Bella with his venom, it would be Twilight tragic.
I nod silently, and Savannah snatches the towel from my hands, patting and drying me in her protective, motherly way. How did she get to be so maternal? She doesn’t have any little brothers or sisters. She never even babysat the kids in the neighborhood, but she sure knows how to mother hen me to death.
“I can do that,” I say when she is about to discover the gash on my back. I wrap the towel under my arms and tuck a corner between my breasts to hold it in place.
“What did he say?” she asks.
“He’s a drug lord . . . it’s over.” My last two words catch in my throat, and Savannah wraps me in her arms while I let go of the sobs I’ve been holding back.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry, really I am. I see how nuts ya’ll were for each other, but it’s for the best. It could never go anywhere, you know? He’s just too . . . too . . . I don’t know . . . too everything. Too old, too illegal, too gorgeous, too rich . . . I’m not helping, am I?”
Her shoulders slump and I shake my head. She is definitely not helping at all. I need to think about something else—as if that were possible. I have to go to practice and my mama’s coming, I have to get dressed and put on my game face. ‘Suck it up, buttercup,’ she would say. I know I can never go back to being the naive virgin violin prodigy that I was two days ago. My time with King changed me forever, but somehow I am going to try and put this behind me and start again, focus on my future, and put all of my attention back into my music.
Mama is in the driveway ten minutes later, and I numbly slide into the passenger seat dressed in Savannah’s clothes. I try like hell to act normal. Mama’s usually very observant, but thankfully today she’s on the phone discussing hotel reservations with my daddy, who’s still out of town on business. After a quick ‘hey honey’, she backs the car out of the driveway and chats while we drive to STRINGS. Her voice is a muffled background noise until my ears perk up when she mentions a trip to New York. Crap, I almost forgot that we’re going for a weekend to tour Juilliard again and settle all the final arrangements for my move in two and a half months. We fly out next Friday to meet Daddy in the city so he doesn’t have to come the entire way home from Atlanta.
A trip . . . just what I don’t feel like doing, but honestly, it’s probably the best distraction I could ask for right now. Concentrate on your music. Think about your future and practice, I tell myself. Shut up! I shout at the levelheaded alter ego in my head. I’m dying. I don’t want to think about my future. I want King. I want to be a twenty-one-year-old woman, and I want King to be an upstanding member of society so we can be together forever and live in the suburbs and have babies. I’m not asking for anything out of the unusual, really. It’s the American dream, but that’s the problem. Just like the American dream, it’s unachievable and unrealistic.
I turn and watch the houses in my neighborhood whiz by and prop my elbow on the edge of the car window to wipe away a tear sliding down my cheek. As much as this hurts, part of me is really pissed too. How did I let this happen? I made choices, stupid choices that come with consequences, and now I have to pay. I’m not a sniffling, whining baby. I shouldn’t be crying in the car over a man I met two days ago, wishing for things that can never be. But I am.
Chapter 16
King
I refused to allow myself to think about it while driving. It’s just not safe. No, that’s a cop out. I just can’t think about it because it hurts too fucking much. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with no memory of Holland and her hot, wet skin against mine, her strong legs slinking around my waist while she pushes her . . . fuck, stop. She’s a kid. I keep trying to wrap my brain around that, but it’s not happening. I spent the entire flight home going over and over every single moment of our time together. Yeah, a lot of it was spent having sex, but she was so much more than a sexy fuck. She was the real deal. My heart beat faster when I was with her, but I was never more at peace. With her in my arms, the world felt right. That piece of me I’ve been looking for . . . it was her.
The darkness of the parking garage is a welcome relief from the blazing hot Houston sun and my aching head. I’m prone to migraines, and I’ve got a whopper.
It’s private here. No one else is allowed to park here except for Sebastián, and he’s dealing with Carlos. The guy knew this business was cut throat—literally—and he still insisted he was up for the job two years ago when I promoted him. My father would roll over in his grave if I didn’t allow Sebastián to do his job, so now I’m faced with finding a new head of security for my gateway club in Miami. Fucking great.
I cut the engine and recline the seat back. I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my biceps. I have the urge to scream, just yell until my nicotine-riddled lungs are sore to relieve some of this stress, but my throbbing head keeps my screaming at bay. I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t buy, sell, trade or murder my way out of, until now.
Flopping my elbows down, my left one makes contact with the metal handle of the door, and for a second the sharp, shooting pain masks the pain of my headache.
“Fuck.” I yell, and my headache pain takes the forefront again. I need a smoke. I pat my chest pockets and then my pants before I remember I smoked my last one. Figures. Wait, I keep a pack in here for emergencies. I flip open the center console, and thank God, there’s half a pack of Newports begging to be chain-smoked. I light one up with the cheap, disposable lighter that has a picture of a pair of pink tits on the side of it. I suck hard and wait for the familiar rush of cancer causing toxins to flood my lungs and calm my nerves. Smoking usually helps, but after I met Holland, I started cutting back a lot—until I took off for Miami. I’ve sizzled so many cancer sticks since then that my lungs ache, but the need for something nags at me relentlessly. It’s not cigarettes I need, though . . . it’s her.
I curse when the fiberglass filter hits the inside of my fingers and the sulfurous smell of burning flesh invades my nostrils. I fumble around until it’s smoldering in the ashtray instead of between my fingers, and when I sit up, I have a nice head rush.
Fucking great . . . I’ve been spacing off between smokes for over an hour, my headache is worse than ever, my hand is throbbing, and I still haven’t come to grips with having to leave Holland. I’ve never been addicted to anything other than cigarettes, but I am hooked on her. My skin crawls like a meth addict without a score, and I can’t help seeing the irony in it all. I’m a drug lord who’s been sent to rehab to suffer against his will, just like many of my customers.
“No,” I say aloud to make it more real. If I hear myself say it, maybe I’ll listen. I slam the seat back to its proper position and throw the door open, nearly scratching the Audi in the stall next to me. It doesn’t matter if I leave a dent. It’s my fucking car anyway. The slam of the Rover’s door echoes throughout the cavernous garage, along with the sound of my pounding feet against the cement. I’m going up for a drink. Maybe it will help me forget for a while. I need an escape, however temporary it may be.
I squint in the bright light of the elevator and feel my way over the buttons for the
VIP club. When it starts to lift, a wave of nausea rolls through me and a thin layer of perspiration covers my face. No drink. I need my bed and maybe a couple of sleeping pills instead. None of this pain is going away anytime soon.
When the doors open, I cross the empty club, and when I pass the bartender, I point to my penthouse door. He buzzes me in, and I almost cry for the second time today. Fucking headache, fucking Holland, fucking drug empire, fucking Dad.
I toe off my shoes and un-tuck my shirt while I struggle to my bedroom. When I’m there, I don’t even turn on the lights. I just finish stripping down, pop two pills from the bottle on my dresser, and slip between the sheets.
I’m not there for two seconds—in fact, my head doesn’t even make contact with the pillow—before I feel a warm, soft leg curling over my hip.
“What the fuck. Crystal, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” I shout. She doesn’t even startle. I’m more affected by the sound of my voice than she is. I moan and collapse onto my pillow.
“Get out.”
“But baby, it’s been weeks. I miss you. Are you having another headache? Let me rub your shoulders. Turn over and I’ll make it all better.”
“No. Crystal, get the fuck out of my bed. You’ve never been invited in here. What makes you think I want you here now?”
The hand that was caressing my shoulder stops, and a tiny gasp escapes her lips. I’ve never been blatantly cruel to Crystal, but she’s taken this too far. I go to her when I want something, not the other way around. We fuck at her place or a hotel. Whoever let her in here is going to be very sorry. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d probably break King’s rule number five, never hit a woman.
“King, why have you been avoiding me? Is it that little girl I walked in on you having dinner with? You can’t be serious about her.”