She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.”
“Can I get a gin and tonic, please?” A man two seats down from me wore a pissed off impatient look I didn’t care for and waved a credit card in her face. My jaw ticked, but before I could put him in his place, pale blue eyes that could start a war pinned him to his seat.
“Here,” she drawled in a marked Southern accent as she threw a basket of chips on the bar. “Fill your mouth so shit stops coming out of it. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Normally, that’d be cause for termination, but she amused the hell out of me. I couldn’t stand weak women, and this girl had enough fire for a room full of them. Plus, the asshole had it coming. I began to understand why Emilio spent so many nights at the cantina.
Catching my eye, a wicked smirk lifted the corners of her mouth as she placed her forearms on the bar and leaned in close enough for me to catch the scent of citrus and vanilla. It was a bizarre combination that lit a heated trail straight from my nose to my pants.
“So, what is it you want?”
You. Naked and spread out on this bar.
“I doubt you could handle it.” I refused to blink, holding her stare, making sure she understood the double entendre. I wanted to push her to see how she’d react, but honestly, I knew the answer to both meanings.
Nobody had been worth a fuck yet. I didn’t see why this would be any different.
My challenge seemed to piss her off and invigorate her at the same time. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Haven’t had any complaints yet.” Spreading her fingers wide on both hands, she slid her arms out and narrowed her eyes. “Give me your best shot.”
I’d give you my worst. I’d wreck you and leave you broken.
“Añejo tequila. Straight shot, in a stem glass—not a highball—room temp.” With her bizarre, intoxicating scent still fucking with my head, I realized she was knocking me off my game. I didn’t like it. So, being the ass I was, and remembering Emilio’s tendencies toward cheapness, I leaned in close. “And if it hasn’t aged at least three years, shove it up the owner’s ass.”
She brushed that damn stray hair out of her eye again and winked. “I’ll do my best.”
Swinging her hips all over the bar, she glanced my way a few times, making a big production of bending over unnecessarily to pick shit up off the floor. More than once, I made silent deals with my cock to find it some uncomplicated pussy, if it’d calm the fuck down and stop trying to get a look at her ass too.
Before it could agree, a stem glass appeared under my nose just as I requested.
That’s a first.
Raising a questioning eye up at her, she smirked and nodded to the drink. “Well? Are you going to drink that or wait until Jesus turns it back into water?”
A full-chested laugh I barely recognized came from my mouth as I reached for the glass. “I think that was wine.”
She shrugged and waved her hand. “Whatever. Sunday School wasn’t my thing.”
As she watched me carefully, I hoped for the best and downed the shot with low expectations. The moment the liquid hit my tongue I knew I was fucked.
Dios mío, was I fucked.
By the smug look on her face, she knew it too.
Twirling the empty glass in my fingers, I studied the captivating woman with renewed interest. “How is it that you’re the only bartender in Houston who can get this drink right?”
Still grinning, she licked that damn lip again and returned the bottles to the shelf, the motion causing her tiny tank top to ride up and expose her flat stomach. “It’s not rocket science. Hell, some people would say I’m a hit or miss on making anyone happy.” Wiping down the counter, she shot me a look with untold pain hidden behind it. “Some people would even say I’ve never gotten anything right.”
“Some people don’t deserve to breathe your air.”
Fuck, I meant that. What was wrong with me?
Her face broke into the first genuine smile I’d seen from her all night not hidden behind a smirk or condescension, and my chest warmed. My fucking chest warmed, and it wasn’t from the tequila.
“So, you got a name, Danger?”
“Danger?” I tried for a flat tone, but my voice raised an octave, betraying my interest.
Damn.
“Yeah, you know…as in, tall, dark, and dangerous?” She squinted her pale blue eyes and silenced an incoming text on her phone. “You look like you could get a girl in a lot of trouble.”
I wanted nothing more than to wipe that damn grin off her face. She looked so smug. So sure I wanted her.
Fuck, I wanted her. “You have no idea.”
Moments passed between us as we stared at each other in silence. That shock of red hair grabbed my attention again, and I couldn’t help but wonder who, or what, happened in her life to cause it. Nobody just did shit like that on purpose. Candy-red colored hair didn’t just happen. It pissed me off that I even cared. I wasn’t a good guy. I wasn’t even a decent guy. I didn’t ask girls their names, much less their stories.
“So, that’s it?” she asked, chin tilted and one hand resting on a cocked hip.
Shit, had she been talking to me this whole time? “What’s it?” I asked, trying to seem bored.
“You really have no name?”
I shot her a pointed look, mentally slamming the door on her inquisition. “Danger works. I like it.”
I did. I liked it too damn much. And I hated nicknames. I thought they were childish and reserved for those annoying assholes who sat on the same side of the booth at restaurants.
“Of course, you do,” she snorted in an unladylike, but oddly sexy way.
The bar started to get crowded, as patrons shoved bills toward her and demanded drinks. I watched them curiously, wondering what she’d do. To my pleasure, she held up a finger to them and kept her eyes on me.
Those eyes were what did it. Those pale blue eyes that tried to hide exhaustion exposed by the dark circles under her eyes and sadness well beyond her years. They sucked me in and broke one of my cardinal rules. “What about your name?”
“Hey, what about my drink? You think you could take a break from your date over there to do your job, honey?”
Her eyes flickered relief for a moment, then darkened, becoming void of emotion. “Duty calls. Glad I could meet your expectations, Danger.” She reached for the shot glass I held, and I grabbed her hand, my out-of-character reaction surprising both of us. Hesitating a moment, she lifted her eyes and met mine in a battle of wills.
I could tell we were both at war with what would happen next; I contemplated the consequences of fucking one of Emilio’s employees. He seemed fond of this one, and the moment it was over, I’d have no choice but to have her fired.
Shifting her weight, she made the decision for both of us when she released her hand from my grip and pointed toward the douchebag two seats down, now glaring at us. “Let me know if you want another.”
As she poured a gin and tonic for the asshole who cock blocked me, I pulled three, twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and placed them face down on the bar. The exorbitant tip wasn’t a handout, as I suspected she’d think after I left. I genuinely enjoyed her company. Which was exactly why I had to leave and never talk to her again.
She called me dangerous. If I was dangerous, she was fucking deadly.
My life revolved around the cartel, stray pussy, and money. I had no time for complications of anything else, and candy hair was a walking, talking complication. I knew in one touch, I had no business being near her. A woman like that could cause the destruction of a man like me.
While she argued with the dickbag about the amount of gin she shorted him, I slipped around the long end of the bar, through the kitchen, and out the back door. I cut myself off like a junkie jonesing for his next hit of short shorts and a-size-too-small tank top. After tonight, I knew I couldn’t afford the distraction.
Perfect drink or not, I was do
ne with that girl.
So, I gave my business to every other bar in Houston and walked out of them pissed off and sober as hell for two months before I caved. However, I never returned to a barstool. Always sitting at one of the tables, I allowed young, annoying waitresses to serve me while I watched her flirt with a new man month after month until it got to be too much to take and stopped going altogether.
Some women were storms who blew into a man’s life and ruined his plans for the night. That woman was a hurricane who uprooted and flooded the very foundation of everything a man thought he knew.
Chapter Three
Brody
Present Day
After a third pencil lead broke on the Norris case deposition, I snapped the wood in half and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and skidded across the floor as I ran a sweaty palm across my unshaven chin.
When did shit get so out of control?
Everything piled on top of me, forcing my head underwater and my hand to the devil. I’d had no intention on bending to Val Carrera’s will, but he’d backed me into a corner. I’d lived in Houston long enough to know that a corner was the last place anyone wanted to be with the Carrera Cartel.
Working in the judicial system, I saw—first hand—what happened to men who crossed him. One day they were in our custody, the next, pieces of them fell out of a body bag. The constituents of Harris County elected me assistant district attorney to protect the community from men like Carrera. If they knew how much of my soul I’d sold to further my career, I wouldn’t have to worry about the election. I’d be lucky to bus tables at the Waffle House for the rest of my life.
“Harcourt, you coming to lunch, or what?”
Glancing up from my curled fists, I settled a hardened glare on one of the prosecuting attorneys from the fourth floor. Dressed in a crooked blue tie and a missing suit jacket, he held my office door open as if I’d extended an invitation. His sloppy appearance grated on my last nerve, and my fingers twitched, searching my desk for another pencil to break.
“Too much work to do,” I mumbled, rearranging the papers on my desk. “Get out.”
Glancing up from surfing the web on his phone, he lifted a dark eyebrow and smirked. “Who pissed in your corner office?”
I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive gesture. On edge and in no mood for idle conversation, the last thing I wanted was to spend an hour trading locker-room stories and weekend plans with the subordinate assholes. I wasted little time under the illusion they were my friends. Every one of them had eyes on my job and only kissed my ass to stay in my good graces for when I became district attorney.
“No time for lunch. I’ve got press releases needing to go out. Some of us work for a living, Todd.”
“Ted.”
I honestly didn’t give a shit. I’d wasted half the day trying to figure out a way out of the hole I’d gotten into with the Mexicans. I’d never been shady in my life, much less illegal. Everyone knew about the Carreras, but just like any sane person, I ignored them when they came calling. I sure as hell rebuked their offers of help. Their golden ticket came attached with strings tied to a lifetime of misery.
Then the stress of the upcoming primary resulted in a moment of weakness that solidified a hell I’d regret for the rest of my life. A fifth of Jack on a night she’d decided to grow a set of morals and a standard, and I found myself in the backseat of an Escalade signing my name in blood.
“If there’s nothing else,” I grumbled, sending a flat expression his way, “I trust you can see yourself out.”
He answered with an eye roll. “Whatever.” He laughed, nodding to a herd of fellow fourth-floor assholes as they grumbled about being late. “Maybe you need to take off early and get some ass, man. Might make you less of one, and you may have a few friends.”
I waved his suggestion away as he laughed and joined the other hopefuls down the hall. Scowling at his audacity, I slammed papers onto the desk and swiveled my chair to stare out the wall of windows onto the city below. My city. The city that depended on me to keep them safe from the very people who bent me to their will and owned the next breath I took. How in the hell could I walk into a courtroom and look a jury in the face knowing I was no better than the criminals I prosecuted?
Rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, I mulled his words around in my head, letting them sink in. Dropping my hand, I stared down at the passing cars and congested lunchtime pedestrian traffic, the bright June sun reflecting harshly off the roofs of the buildings below my tenth-floor window. Closing my eyes, I cursed a string of late nights and insomnia, causing the attorney’s words to make too much sense.
I didn’t need more friends, but getting more ass sounded like the best suggestion I’d heard all day. Spinning back around, I picked my phone off my desk and hit the speed dial button, knowing the risk I took in calling her before two o’clock in the afternoon. The woman had two moods—ready to fuck, and ready to slice my balls off. At half past noon, I was just glad my boys were safely across town.
Five rings later, her throaty voice groaned along thinly held patience. “Somebody better be dead.”
“I had a thought.”
“Good for you. It’d better be about someone who’s dead, or I swear to God, I’ll rip your balls off, Brody.”
“What do you say I come over tonight?” I continued, ignoring her threat.
She half yawned, half groaned my name. “You know I have to work.”
Reaching for the metal nameplate, I polished it with the sleeve of my white dress shirt and moved it to the center of my desk. “I was thinking I’d swing by the cantina for a drink before you get off. I don’t like you closing all alone that late, especially with the crime in that part of town. I can walk you to your car and come over afterward.”
“Brody…”
“Come on, Eden,” I argued, determined to win my case. “Do you have a better offer?” I held my breath as silence filled the line. Drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair, I waited for her response, only to be met with the typical stubbornness that kept me wondering why I kept coming back to a woman who opened her legs to me but kept her heart and mind closed.
“Fine.” She reluctantly gave in, her sigh holding much more meaning than simple agreeability. That sigh was deadly. That sigh meant for the first hour after arriving at her townhouse, I’d need to cover my dick with a pillow and watch all sharp objects with a keen eye.
After disconnecting the call, I stared at the phone in my hand, flipping it over and over until the screen became foggy with fingerprints. I had no fucking idea what Eden Lachey and I were doing, but it wasn’t a normal relationship that had any future—regardless of what I wanted. Eden had made that painfully clear on multiple occasions. After four months of sleeping together, I’d been the fucking girl in the relationship, wanting exclusivity and some sort of commitment out of her.
All I’d gotten was an eye roll and a warning to stop being a little bitch.
I lived in marked unreality when it came to Eden. I should’ve known better than to get involved with a friend’s ex, but I’d known the woman before the scorn. She hadn’t always been hardened. Once upon a time, Eden Lachey was rather demure, although she’d deny it with her dying breath. Somewhere underneath that cracked shell the woman who used to love to laugh and try to tell a bad joke still existed. For some reason, I seemed determined to find her. Something inside of me cared about her, even though the Eden that wore a perpetual scowl these days swore she was dead and gone.
She could argue with me and be pissed all she wanted. Until I won, I’d enjoy hatefucks while we battled. What was the worst that could happen? Great sex?
“Mr. Harcourt?” My heart rate sped up as my assistant’s voice boomed unexpectedly from the desk phone intercom.
Pressing the two-way button on the phone, I dropped my phone in my pocket. “Yes, Nancy, what is it?”
“The jury has reached a verdict in the Salinas case, sir.”
Fucking tears. Gets women every time.
Straightening the knot in my tie, I hit the button again. “I’ll be right there.”
With both palms flat against my desk, I stood over it, sweat beading on my forehead. One verdict. One man’s life hung in the balance, and once his fate was sealed, I could end this miserable week and not think about mine.
Chapter Four
Eden
Staring at the bare white walls of my bedroom, I held onto my pillow as the same thought ran in my head for over an hour. No one got ahead in life by bucking the system. I never bought into that crap, although Dad drilled it into my head my whole childhood.
I suppose my vehement dislike for rules played a role in the clusterfuck I awoke to as my steady friend-with-benefits faced the opposite direction in my bed. Forcing myself to remain quiet, I squinted the eye not squished into my pillow to verify I wasn’t dreaming or, even worse, still drunk.
Nope—sober as a judge.
After meeting me at work as he promised, the lump of man snored softly as if he had every right to occupy my sheets in the daylight. His dirty blond hair twisted haphazardly behind his head, which I assumed was from a repeated invasion of my impatient fingers.
Hell if I remember.
It must’ve been good though, because his back looked like an exotic trash panda nailed him. One corner of my mouth lifted in amusement but quickly faded as my hands dove for the alarm clock.
9:00 a.m.
“Shit!” I gathered as many discarded pieces of clothing as I could find and pulled them on, not caring if my shirt was backward or my shorts were buttoned incorrectly. They wouldn’t be on long anyway.
Carrera Cartel: The Collection Page 3