by Kiki Swinson
“Oh! Oh! I’m coming!” Malena pants.
My hips pound deeper while an image of a pair of ruby-colored lips spread wide over a pearly white smile comes into focus.
More. More. I need to see more.
Wrapped up in the fantasy woman in my head I don’t hear Malena telling me to stop, or even feel her fist hammer against my chest.
Finally, Malena slams a hard right across my jaw.
Enraged, I lock my hands around this bitch’s throat, cutting off her air supply. “What the fuck is your goddamn problem?”
Startled and scared, Malena claws at my hands. “Julian! Please. Julian!”
But I’m too pissed about the disrespect that I can’t think straight. Who does this bitch think she is?
Slowly, my red rage ebbs away and reality sinks in. What the fuck am I doing? I jerk my hands off of her neck and spring off of the bed. “Oh my God,” I pant, looking down at my hands.
Coughing and crying, Malena backs away and takes a tumble off the edge of the bed.
I rush to help her.
“Don’t touch me,” she screeches.
I jump back. “Malena, I’m sorry. I—I don’t know what came over me.”
“You tried to kill me,” she screams, pressing into a corner.
“No. No. I—I . . .” What? I don’t know what to say or what the hell had come over me. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. It’s the only thing that I can say.
Malena breaks down sobbing, making me feel like a bigger shit.
“Don’t cry.” I kneel and crawl over to her. “Baby, please don’t cry. Please.” I gather her into my arms and let her tears wash my chest. I whisper my apologies over and over again.
Thump!
Malena and I freeze.
Creak!
Malena gasps. “Someone is in the house.”
“Stay put.” I stand, pressing my finger against my lips. Quickly, I snatch up my black boxers from the floor, slip them on and then creep toward the closed bedroom door. It’s not until then that I realize that I left the gun in the living room. Holding my breath, I twist the knob and then ease out into the dark hallway. I remain calm as my senses heighten. All I hear is the soft whir of the air conditioner blowing through the house vents. However, every hair on my body stands at attention.
As I enter the living room, the darkness persists because of the closed blinds and curtains on the windows. The gun is gone. Inching by the fireplace, I pick up one of the iron pokers and continue surveying the house.
Nothing.
But everything within me says there’s someone else here.
Breathing.
Watching.
Yet, as the seconds tick by, doubt creeps around the back of my mind. Had I imagined the whole thing?
“Julian, is everything all right?” Malena calls out.
I relax, feeling foolish. “Yeah. Everything is fine.” I head back toward the hallway.
“What was it?” she asks breathlessly from the bedroom door.
“Nothing.”
Malena reaches out and flips on the hall light. “Julian, behind you!”
I duck and turn as the gigantic intruder fires off a shot.
Malena screams.
I swing the iron poker like a nine-iron and clock the large, masked intruder under the chin. Thunk!
The man is lifted a few inches into the air and then crashes onto the floor.
Another shot goes wild but I waste no time leaping on the muscled intruder with my fists flying. Each power blow cracks bones.
Despite being dazed and confused, the black giant regroups enough to counterattack. His first punch misses, but the second one slams into my jaw with the force of a wrecking ball.
I crash into the wall.
“Where is Cataleyna?” the man growls.
Who? Shaking off the punch, I launch my full weight into my attacker. We tumble backward into the living room. A set of curtains rips off the windows while an end table splinters in half. When I look up, a big lamp is coming straight toward my head. I spring to my left and it crashes against the floor. Shards of glass spray me, a few slicing across my face and chest.
“I’m going to ask you again,” the man hisses through his bloody teeth. “What did you do with Cataleyna? Tell me and I might let you live.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And I have no intention of letting your ass walk out of here alive.”
Judging by the widening smile, my words are right down his ally. “Bring it on, tough guy.” He waves me forward.
Too happy to oblige, I again hurl my body toward my opponent. Dude tries to sidestep the attack, but my arms lock around his waist and we flip over the arm of the couch and crash-land on the glass coffee table.
I don’t even feel the pain. A black rage takes over my body and we go at it like gladiators.
Pound for pound, we’re evenly matched.
At least that’s my assessment until the ugly gorilla grabs me up and hurls me out of the living room and over the breakfast bar. When I hit the porcelain floor, the air is knocked out of me.
My attacker hits the kitchen light and snatches a large knife from the butcher block. “You know, I’m going to enjoy carving you up!”
I scramble back onto my feet, but I slip backward against the sink and knock over all the dishes.
The gorilla takes the blade between his fingers.
My hand edges toward the cutting board still on the counter.
Laughing, the man throws the knife at my head.
With lightning reflexes, I bring the board up in front of my face. The blade thunks into the center of the board.
He goes for another knife on the butcher block while I snatch out the one in the cutting board and then launch it right back at the muthafucka, who’s about to throw the next weapon.
But it’s too late.
Thunk!! My knife slices into the middle of his throat like warm butter.
Eyes wide, the gorilla drops his weapon and tries to pull the knife out of his neck. The blade moves only an inch before he sinks to his knees. Blood spews like water from a fire hydrant across the kitchen floor.
Our gazes lock. I watch the life drain from him before he keels over with a final thud!
I stand and walk over to him. “Now who in the fuck are you?” I roll him over and frantically search the body for some type of identification. There’s a wallet in the back left pocket. “Duane Salazar,” I read the name from the driver’s license. I repeat it in my head, hoping it will rattle a memory loose or something. When it doesn’t, I continue my search: credit cards, receipts and a couple hundred dollars. Tossing that aside, I dive into the man’s front pockets and find an open pack of gum and a photograph. I take one look at the picture and my heart stops.
It’s her. The same woman who’s been haunting my dreams. That hair. Those eyes. That smile. She’s real—but who is she? I flip the picture over, but there isn’t anything written on the back.
“What the fuck?” I don’t understand.
I hold onto the picture, stand and then step over the body. It isn’t until I’m in the hallway that I even remember Malena. “Oh fuck!” I race to her even though she looks like a broken mannequin on the floor. I check for a pulse though I know that I won’t find one.
“Shit.” Lowering my head I wait for grief to come, but oddly I feel nothing. After a minute, my pre-paid smartphone chirps from the bedroom.
Amalia Vegas, reads the name on the screen.
In the distance, sirens fill the air.
“Hello.”
“Julian! Thank God you’re there,” Amalia says.
“Yeah. Listen there’s . . .”
“You got to get out of there.”
“What?”
“I don’t have much time to explain—or argue—but you got to leave the house. Now!”
CHAPTER 21
THE LOVER
I disconnect. Turning, I look back at Malena’s twisted body. I don’t want to leave
her like this. It doesn’t seem right. I walk over to her and gently rearrange her so that she looks like she’s sleeping. Guilt twists in my gut, but the sirens draw closer.
I got to get out of here.
The sirens grow louder. My survival instinct kicks in and I scramble to get the rest of my belongings into the duffel bag. Seconds later, I snatch Malena’s car keys off a hook in the foyer and then take off out of the front door. The moment I rev up the engine, a line of house lights turns on across the street. The neighbors.
I jet out of the driveway and peel off. Briefly, blue and white lights flash in my rearview mirror as a police car corners onto the street. Without missing a beat, I slam my foot onto the accelerator and speed out of the housing complex like a bat out of hell.
Unfortunately, I don’t get too far before I blow past another cop car hiding in the median. I groan at the sound of the siren and the flashing lights.
I make a sharp right. My back tires drift, forcing me to course-correct. Seconds later, the police follow suit, swinging wide and swiping other vehicles. However, they stay in pursuit.
“Shit.” I floor the accelerator and weave between slower motorists. I fly through two lights. Horns and tires squeal as cars swerve to avoid T-boning me. I make it through.
The chasing cop cars aren’t so lucky.
Crash! Boom! Crash!!
I glance up into the rearview mirror and see a growing car pile.
My cell phone rings.
“Where are you?” Amalia demands.
I search for street signs but can’t find one. “I don’t know.”
“How far are you from the Aerosaab?”
I frown. “I have no idea. What is that?”
“It’s a private landing strip three miles east of the hospital. Do you think that you can get there?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I can find it.”
“All right. I’ll meet you there. We got to get you out of town.”
“And go where?” The problem with running from trouble with amnesia is that I have no idea where is a safe place to hide.
“I have a friend who can fly us across the way to Cozumel.”
“Cozumel? Why there?”
“You got a better idea?”
I wish I did. I don’t like the idea of putting my fate in someone else’s hands—but what choice do I have?
“Well? I’m waiting,” Amalia says. “I’m trying to help. I can hang up and wash my hands of this, if you want.”
“No. No. It’s not that,” I huff over the line. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, think a little faster. I have a guy flying out in the next twenty minutes. He’s not going to wait.”
“Fuck it. All right. I’ll meet you at the airport.” I disconnect the call and toss the phone back into my bag. I scan the rearview for signs of police. They’re nowhere in sight.
I remain jumpy throughout my race to the airport. True to her word, Amalia, dressed head to toe in black, is pacing near a blue Toyota Camry.
“There’s our ride,” Amalia says, pointing to a small plane on the landing strip.
“That thing?”
“What? You don’t have a fear of flying, do you?”
“No.” I think it over. “At least I don’t think so.”
She pats me on the back. “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”
“Always cutting it close,” the pilot says, greeting Amalia with a friendly hug.
“But I always come through,” she boasts.
“That you do.” He turns his attention to me. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.” I accept the man’s hand, but I’m put off when he doesn’t release my grip.
“I’m sorry,” the pilot says. “Do I know you?”
I tense. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Amalia jumps in. “Marcus, we better get going. That is if you’re going to stick to your precious schedule.”
The pilot nods, but is still slow to release my hand. “I’m usually pretty good with faces.”
“I wish I could say the same thing,” I counter with a touch of humor.
Amalia laughs. She then takes me me by the hand and leads me up the plane’s boarding stairs.
I buckle myself in even though my long legs make me feel like a giant crammed into a matchbox. When the pilot climbed on board, our eyes met again. The way he’s eyeballing me, I’m not sure if I want him to be able to place my face. Within minutes, we are in the air. God only knows what’s waiting for me in Cozumel.
CHAPTER 22
THE P.I.
“Welcome to Cozumel,” Marcus announces.
Given the late hour, we can barely make out much of anything, but I have a rental car arranged to pick us up when we land.
“Where to now?” Julian asks, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Right now we need to find somewhere to crash so that you can figure out what you’re going to do.”
“How do I do that when I still don’t know who I am? Did your contact at the department call you yet?”
“Uhm—no. Not yet.”
He frowns. “Then how did you know that I needed to get out of town?”
Fuck. “Look. I have eyes and ears everywhere. You’re paying me to be on top of things, right?”
He doesn’t answer. He stares at me like he knows I’m lying through my teeth.
“Anyway. We can talk about everything tomorrow. Right now we need a good night’s rest and then we can put our heads together in the morning. Deal?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his black gaze burns into me. This twenty-five-million dollar man is dangerous and I’m playing with fire.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.
“There’s not really too much to say now, is there?” He turns and looks out the window.
Relieved, I exhale. There is a small chance that this whole amnesia thing is a crock and I should be more scared of him than of Rosales.
“This place looks familiar,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
He twists around in his seat and then scans the street. “There’s a shopping plaza up at the corner,” he announces.
Sure enough, Cinco Soles shopping plaza comes into view.
Then he starts naming Tequila bars and clothing stores before we reach them.
“I’ve been here before,” he says excitedly.
“Apparently.”
Then Casita de Maya comes into view and his color drains. “There. Pull into that hotel.”
I glance up. “Where? There? Casita de Maya?”
“Yeah, there. I think I’ve been here before, too.”
You got to be kidding me. Do you know how much a place like this costs?”
“Pull over,” he insists. “Now, goddamn it.”
“All right. All right. I’m pulling over.”
I pull into the lot, bypasses the valet and park in the parking deck.
“There’s something I got to tell you,” Julian says. “It’s about Malena.”
I sigh. “Can it wait? I really need a hot shower and some shut-eye before I deal with anything else tonight. How about we talk at breakfast?”
“She’s dead.”
I stare at him, not sure that I heard him right. “What do you mean—dead?”
“We had a break-in tonight. That muthafucka from Club Fuego came to finish the job. Malena took a bullet to the chest.”
“And the guy?”
“A knife through the neck.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what to say.
“You still want to help me?”
I don’t know what to do now. “Yeah.”
His eyes narrow. “Why?”
I blink. “W—why? What do you mean?”
“Do you normally make a habit out of helping murderers?”
“Murderer?”
“I’ve now killed my second person in three months.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t want my help?”
His stare unner
ves me. “Why don’t we get some rest,” I say, feeling sweat beading on the back of my neck. “Sleep on it and we’ll talk in the morning.”
Finally, he nods. “All right.” He climbs out of the car.
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I climb out of the car, too. Together we walked into the hotel in silence. Because of the late hour there is only a handful of people milling about the hotel lobby.
“I’ve definitely been here before,” he continues, whispering under his breath. He makes a three-hundred-sixty degree turn, taking in his surroundings.
“Really?” I walk back to him, studying him. “What else do you remember?”
He shakes his head as if willing his brain to give him something—anything. “She was here.”
I frown. “Who is she?”
He looks at me, hesitates. “Nobody. Forget it.” He takes a step and I stop him. “Is your memory coming back?”
“No. Not exactly.”
I cross my arms. “Look. I’ve put myself out on a limb for you. There’s got to be some level of trust.”
“Humph. Trust.” He impales me with another black stare. “I suspect that trust and truth go hand in hand. I don’t think you’re being too truthful with me tonight.”
Oh shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He nods and heads toward the receptionist. “We need two rooms,” he tells her.
The young woman grins at him. “Yes, sir. Let me see what we have.”
As she searches her computer, I steal glances at him, weighing his mood. But he’s a hard read.
The receptionist asks a series of questions before checking us in as Mr. and Mrs. Tony Montana.
“What are you, a Scarface fan?” I ask.
He looks genuinely confused.
“It’s a famous gangster movie,” I tell him.
“Oh. No. The name . . . came to me.”
I nod, not sure whether I believe him.
He hands over cash for the rooms.
The receptionist smiles. “Okay. Here are your keys. Rooms eight-twelve and eight-thirteen.” She hands us the room keys. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.” We ride up to our floor in silence.