After a few minutes, Gina breaks away. Silent and unfocused, she trudges toward him. So lost standing right in front of him. Fucking motherfucker. He fights every instinct not to scoop her up and carry her away from this farce. Instead, he slides off his aviators and stuffs them into his breast pocket before stroking her cheek, welcoming her leaning into his touch.
She scans his face, searching for something but he doesn't know what. “You look tired.”
So does she, but she’ll never hear that from him. “You’re beautiful as always.”
Especially with those fucking bruises finally fading. Damn bastard. She gives him a weak smirk. Not much fire behind the sentiment, but enough to show that the real her still lingers inside.
"Why don't you go back to the hotel and relax for awhile? We need to go see my grandmother and try to explain everything. It's going to be long and painful. You don’t want to have to deal with it.”
Damn. A phony reprieve used to let him know he's not invited. At least not by that bastard glaring at him from behind her. “I don’t want to leave you.”
"I know. It’s just…” Her voice falls weaker, and she drops her gaze to his tie. Knowing he hates the reason behind her request. “…It’s better this way. I'll be back in a little bit, and I’ll tell you all about it."
As much as he fucking loathes abandoning her, he refuses to argue and make her feel worse. She doesn’t need any more pressure on her already strained conscience. Let alone from him. He can’t make her choose between him and her family. “Okay. I love you.”
“I love you more.”
Much too soon, she steps out of his embrace and strides past her brother’s outstretched hand. Instead, accepting Leticia’s grasp on her fingers, curling herself against the gentle woman. Good for her.
Bruno’s steely gaze flicks from Gina to him. This time Max smirks. A hollow victory but still provides him with fucking absolute immense satisfaction. Fuck you, motherfucker. The same shitty message returns to him through the snarl on her brother’s lips. At least they can agree on one thing – how much they fucking despise each other.
*****
Max wipes the sweat stinging his eyes, and rolls onto his back. Providing some relief to his burning stomach muscles. Crunches. Push-ups. Jumping jacks. So fucking many he lost count. But he had to do fucking something to fill the hours she’s been gone. And should fucking be back by now.
No response to his text. His call hitting her voice mail after one ring. Trying so hard not to be a possessive asshole but he’s about to lose his shit from her absence. Knowing who she’s with and what they’re – he’s – probably saying to her. That fucker attempting to crumble the foundation he’s worked so fucking hard to build with her.
He flies off the floor from the soft knock tapping in the hallway. Thank fucking God. But his stomach drops when he flings open the door.
Not Gina.
Leticia. Breathless, almost as if she’s been running. Crimson darkening her cheeks while she looks past him, scanning the room. Hell the fuck no.
“Is Gina here?”
What the fuck? “She’s supposed to be with you.”
He grits out the words through clenched teeth. Unable to wait for her to answer, he grabs his phone, slamming the screen and hitting the button for her tracker. Fucking pulsing like a fever while waiting for her location to appear. “What happened?”
Leticia twists her hands together, worry lining her face. Fear filling her eyes from his crazy–ass frantic manner. “Br-Bruno and her have arguments. He tells her…Richard is…you are not the…her father did not trust…”
She sighs and shakes her head. The English words jumbling in her mouth from the tension. But it doesn’t fucking matter. None of what she’s too scared to admit matters except where Gina is now. “Did she say where she was going? How long ago did she leave?”
“Here.” Leticia cups her cheeks with shaking hands after her whisper. “Many hours ago.”
Fucking god damn son of a bitch. Not giving a damn that he probably smells like a fucking donkey and looks even worse, he grabs his gun and brushes past her. She deserves better, but he can’t worry about manners when Gina’s missing.
Bypassing the elevator, he jogs down the stairs and bolts through the lobby, shoving a hundred into the doorman’s hand, pointing to the queue of taxis waiting for approval to drive under the awning. The guy’s eyes widen, and he lets out a sharp whistle, waving frantically to the first cab. Cash always the most powerful motivation.
Unwilling to wait for him to open the door, he grabs the handle himself and jumps in, holding up his cell for the driver to see the address. Once the man nods, Max tosses several more benjamins on the seat, and falls back against the vinyl to the squeal of the tires as they careen onto the road. His fingers drumming on his thigh while they weave through the congestion. Fucking hurry the fuck up.
Breath-stealing exhaust assaults his nose from the blue and white bus meandering by as he climbs out of the car. A quick scan of the crowded street, thick with boxy delivery trucks and whining mopeds competing for space in the narrow lanes, reveals nothing unusual. With Bruno’s intentions still unclear, he refuses to take any chances. Especially if her brother’s lame ass attempts at retaliation keep him from finding Gina.
After double checking her location, he shoves his phone into his pocket and strides down the sidewalk. His shoes pound the cracked concrete, dodging uncertain tourists and irritated locals. An occasional sign in English is the only sense of familiarity in the foreign neighborhood. Not enough information to tell him where he is or what’s going on. But none of it matters. Each step brings him closer to her. And to forcing her to admit what she’s doing.
He hesitates at the entrance to a multi-story parking garage. In the dim light, a flash of orange reveals a lone attendant leaning against his booth. The man’s chapped lips pucker, stoking the cigar’s amber tip before he lifts his head, his fat black ponytail swaying across his back, and blows wisps of smoke toward the concrete ceiling. Never even glances over as Max slips inside. Only fee-paying customers worth his attention. Which is fucking perfect because he doesn’t have the time or the patience for any hassles.
Darkness envelops him, and he searches the rooftops and crumbling window ledges as far as he can see on both sides. Forcing himself to follow a methodical pattern despite the panic charring his belly, scouring back and forth, down to street level. Trying to stay fucking focused rather than letting Gina’s absence fuck with him any more than it already has. Black swirl graffiti mars the red and white brick storefronts. Cell phones. McDonald’s. Bank. Skater shop. Nothing Gina would be interested in. So why the fuck is she here?
Another minute passes without any indication of an impending attack, and he gives the bored attendant an appreciative head bob. Jogging toward the exit, he sprints the last ten steps to her location. Impossible to keep his shit together anymore when she’s so close.
A rainbow of lights pulses behind the metal bars covering the textured glass, giving the illusion of a raging nightclub inside the tiny shop. Bass thuds in his chest from the music, audible on the sidewalk even with the noise of the congested street. He yanks open the door, met with a surprisingly bright and clean shop. Three girls in short skirts and Converse high tops bunch together, reverent fingers trailing over jewelry hanging in neat rows inside floor-to-ceiling black cases. Their giggles and shrieks contradicting with the hardcore rap blaring from the white cube on the counter.
A receptionist writes furiously on a yellow pad of paper before looking up and smiling. “Como posso ajudá-lo?”
No idea what she asked. But he sure as hell doesn’t want anything she’s selling. All he needs is Gina. Ignoring the woman’s confused calls, he stalks down the narrow hallway and jerks open the first door.
Son of a god damn fucking bitch.
Gina’s head hangs backward off a plastic covered reclining chair. Her body sprawls over the beige leather, knuckles white from clenching the side
s of the thick cushion. The black and gold dress Renata gave her for the funeral bunches around her waist while some motherfucker’s palm presses against her stomach holding her in place, his head dipping between her spread legs.
Touching her.
Restraining her.
Hurting her.
Rage engulfs him, obliterating the last bit of goodness lingering in his heart. He’s killed for patriotism. Loyalty. Money. Revenge. This time it’s fucking personal. Nobody touches what’s his.
The rigid control he normally imposes upon himself snaps. Fury blocking all other sensations. No colors. No sounds. No movements. Only his own breaths heaving in his pounding chest. Only her cringe of pain, blistering his taut body.
“Get the fuck off her.”
With a sharp yelp from Max’s hands fisting his shirt, the guy flies backward on the rolling stool and slams against the wall. The buzz of the tattoo gun sputters in the hollow space as it crashes against the tile floor.
“Que porra é essa?”
Max drives his forearm into the bastard’s neck, just enough pressure to shut him the fuck up. The man’s head lifts, trying furiously to gasp in oxygen, clawing at the muscles crushing his windpipe.
“What the hell are you doing?” The crackle of her delicate skin sliding off the vinyl rustles behind him and her glassy gaze meets his, confusion lining her forehead. “Stop it.”
She lurches forward, stumbling a few steps before yanking on his arm. Completely wasted effort on her part. This motherfucker stays alive until he knows she’s okay. Then it’s on. Barely able to form words through his gritted teeth, he looks down at her. “Did he hurt you?”
“Of course he did. Tattoos fucking hurt, if you don’t remember.” Burning fingers curl around his bicep again, pinching the sweaty skin in her effort to pull him off. “Let him go.”
Fuck! He releases his choke hold and steps back. Guilt rolling through him as the guy bends at the waist, heaving to draw air into his empty lungs. “I’m sorry.”
Damn, what the fuck is wrong with him? All this shit is fucking with his head, and now he’s attacking an innocent man. Because he’s a fucking dumb ass and taking out his fear of losing her on a guy just doing his job. “I’m fucking sorry.”
The tattooist shakes his head and flips up a dismissive palm. The words as unknown to him as his are to Max. Luckily, Gina plays mediator and responds to his outrage, her soft voice contrasting with his shouting.
She points from herself to Max and then down to her bloody abdomen, streaked with remnants of black ink. Probably explaining that her boyfriend is usually the calm one. Typically the person who eliminates the problems rather than cause them. Except when it comes to her. Until his relentless worry turns him into a foolish fucking idiot.
After snarling a few last complaints, the guy blows out a long sigh and shakes his head. His breath may be back, but irritation still simmers under the surface. Swiping new tools from the counter, he motions for Gina to climb back into the seat.
Oh hell no. He’s not touching her again. Max jerks out his wallet and throws a stack of bills on the counter. “Come on. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”
“But…” Bundling the front of her skirt into her hands, she lifts the fabric above the curve of her black thong and glances down at her trembling legs. “...h-he’s not finished.”
Despite his fury, his dick responds to her gorgeous body displayed for him. Ignoring the ache in his throbbing cock, he steps toward her and caresses her pinked cheek. A reminder that regardless of his anger, his love for her never wavers. “What have you done?”
He drops to his haunches. Goosebumps rise on her satiny skin as his fingers entwine the backs of her thighs and tug her closer. Letting his gaze wander over her flat stomach before sliding his thumb through her smeared blood. Son of a fucking bitch. His body hardens even more from his own name curling in dark blue only a few inches above her sweet pussy.
A small gasp blows his hair and she leans into his possessive touch. She stumbles, her tiny foot twisting sideways. Frowning at the offending shoe, she kicks the heel off, watching as it slides across the white ceramic floor. Red tipped toes push against the ankle strap on the other sandal, and she clutches at him for balance. Lost in her attempts to argue with her footwear. Oblivious to his ballooning anxiety. “Are you drunk?”
“No!” Wide eyes meet his, and she furiously shakes her head. The adamancy of her denial directly correlating with her level of intoxication. “Well, maybe. A little.” A girlish giggle, the kind that hasn’t left her mouth in way too damn long, slips out. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Dread returns to his chest from the uncertainty swimming in her eyes, conflicting with the challenging smirk on her lips. He’s got to break through the bravado. “What’re you doing, G?”
“Nothing.” The balled up dress droops along with her shoulders, claret seeping into the thick amber lines adorning the sheer fabric. “I just needed a drink. Some time by myself. To think. I mean everybody’s so...and I can’t...You’re going to....”
She collapses onto the chair, hunching into herself. Her gaze never lifting from her dangling feet. “I’m sorry.”
The tattoo artist motions for her to scoot back. “Deitar.”
As much as he hates it, this time he must be the one to hurt her. Fight through the facade to the real issue underneath. Crush the insecurity driving her recklessness. Once she lies down, he grabs the chair in the corner and scoots next to her. Threading his fingers through hers, forgetting how delicate she really is until his huge hands engulf hers. “For what? Scaring the hell out of me? Putting yourself in danger? Pushing me away instead of letting me help you?”
“Yes.”
If he hadn’t seen her quivering lips move, he would have missed her breathless admission.
“I just don’t get it. You won’t marry me. Won’t be my wife. But you’ll put my name on your skin?”
Her body strains upward with outrage. “You did the same thing!”
The guy’s free hand hovers over her shaking leg, and he frowns, his irritated gaze flying from her to Max. “Seja ainda!”
She settles back, pushing into the cushion, seeming to force herself to relax. Her eyes sink shut, blocking out more than just the pain of the needle.
Leaning closer, he brushes a stray hair off her forehead. Wiping off tiny beads of sweat peppering her silky skin. “Because I love you. I want to be reminded of you all the time. Always have you with me. Feel close to you.” The vise grip she has on him tightens, accepting the tenderness he attempts to convey. “But that’s not why you did it.”
“Of course it is!” Her lids flutter open, voice sharp with indignation. “I’m doing it for all the same reasons.”
“No. You want it for proof. But what kills me is that it’s not to prove it to me, but to prove it to yourself. I know what you’re doing.”
He forces himself to remain quiet. Let her process his words. Hoping they pierce deeper than the ink darkening her flesh. Branding herself as his, whether she can accept the love he offers her or not.
“I’m not doing a damn thing. You’re making too big of a deal out of this.” Hysteria tinges her whisper, a hard nod failing to convince either of them. “It’s just a tattoo.”
Nope. He won’t let her deny the lies she tells him as well as herself. “Gina?”
“I’m scared…” His gut clenches from the tear sliding down her temple. “...that you’re going to give up on me.”
Just like everyone else. All her fears laid as bare as her body. Her heart more vulnerable than her skin. Because of his past mistakes he still can’t seem to overcome. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What if you decide you want children after all? What if I cheat on you? You know what they say, ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater.’” His stomach burns from her humorless laugh. The self-loathing he thought he’d never hear again creeping back into her tone.
“I’m a killer. I killed my own father.” Ano
ther rare sob bubbles in her throat. “What if I kill you too?”
Fucking shit. So much guilt weighing on her that she can’t trust herself. Because no one understands until you’ve taken another life that your own soul withers along with it.
“Listen to me.” He grips her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes so she can see the resolution in his. More meaningful than rings. Or ceremonies. Or vows. Her belief in his commitment is the only sentiment that matters to him. “If we want kids, we’ll adopt them. I will fucking buy you all the babies you want.”
Her mouth falls open, ready to protest, but he’s done with her arguments. Of her twisted logic that she’ll destroy them first. Before he has the chance to walk away. She needs to fucking remember he’s stronger than any fucking bullshit she can come up with.
“I don’t think for even a second that you’ll ever be unfaithful, and I’ll fucking kill any bastard that tries to touch what’s mine.”
His hands cup the back of her head, and he presses his forehead to hers, sharing the same broken breaths. He sounds like a mother fucking pussy with his own voice cracking, but he doesn’t give a damn. Not for the woman who deserves to understand how deadly serious he is. “I’m a killer too. Do you think I’d ever hurt you? That I’d ever put my hands on your beautiful body or harm your gorgeous face?”
“No.” Salty bitterness stings his tongue from her trembling lips skimming his. “Never.”
“If you killed me, it would be because I deserve it. Just like your Dad. You did it because you had no choice.”
The tattooist gives up, pushing off his stool as her arms fly around Max’s neck. Heaving cries bury into his chest, her release dampening his shirt. Finally breaking down after hiding her turmoil for so long. Fearful of suffocating her, but he can’t seem to loosen his hold, relishing her delicate body clinging to him, trusting in the reassurance of his feelings for her.
“Please tell me everything is okay. That we’re going to be okay.”
Gladly. Nothing he wants her to hear more. He palms her wet cheeks, meeting her expectant gaze. “I love you G. I think I’ve loved you since you sashayed your sweet ass into Nick’s meeting thinking I was going to fucking cave to your charms and let you inside. Nothing and no one, including you, will ever change how I feel about us.”
Truth About Tequila: Believe in Me (Surviving Absolution #4) Page 8