Rusty puts his hand on my leg and smiles down at me. Warmth. Love.

  Wait, it says.

  “You want to get back to dancing, babe?”

  I start; I could shiver form the shock of his voice pulling me back from the brink. Hearing returns to me. The band’s playing again.

  My heart is screaming. Torn. Between loving the man to my right and killing the man sitting across from me. I want both with a desperation strong enough to make me shake.

  “Your bitch all right?” Mateo says.

  That’s all I am to these two.

  Looking back up into Rusty’s bright blue eyes, I see hope. He knows I’m gripping his gun, and those eyes tell me that, if I felt I had to pull that gun free and lose my life to get even with the man who ordered my dad’s death, he’d let me.

  But he’d be much happier if I didn’t.

  He really wants to dance with me.

  And I want that so bad.

  I let go of the gun. Slide my hand back to my side and squeeze his muscular thigh.

  I’d rather dance with him now, too.

  “Yes, let’s go dance.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rusty

  Is it the wedding coming up that’s made her like this, or is Francisca Lopez just one of the worst people on earth?

  While I stand guard in the doorway of one of Phoenix’s most expensive dress shops and watch a long-legged, generously hipped drug lord’s daughter berate a hapless seamstress, my mind wanders.

  I almost lost Avery yesterday; her hand around my gun, her breathing shallow, and a sick look in her eyes like she knew she was about to die and couldn’t be happier. The sight of it pulled at my heart and had me a hair’s breadth from killing Rogerio myself for the effect he’s had on Avery’s life.

  For a moment, it all hung in the balance. If she’d gone for revenge, I would’ve supported her — I owe it to her after everything I’ve done — but I could not be happier that she chose to wait.

  Hell, I’m smiling right now that I could pull her away from the table and spend the rest of that night dancing.

  Fucking dancing.

  I can’t remember the last time I did that.

  And I could not have had a better partner. When Avery isn’t consumed with her pain and her need for revenge, she’s perfect. Beautiful. Lit by a glow that’s almost blinding. Seeing her free of that need in those moments when she could give herself over to the music and just dance, are some of the happiest moment’s I’ve had in years.

  Even now, as I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Mack in the entryway of a boutique wedding dress shop in the wealthy Paradise Valley neighborhood of Phoenix, the corners of my lips curve upwards so fucking hard it almost hurts.

  Last night I got glimpses of the woman she could be and I felt a side of myself that’d been dead for years. So even as I stand here, listening to Francisca Lopez berate the staff of this boutique with a ferocity that would shock a drill sergeant, I hardly hear a word of it.

  “You here, Rus?” Mack murmurs.

  I look over. He’s eyeing me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You look like you’re high or some shit, lad. Got this dopey fucking grin that I never fucking see on your goddamn ugly face.”

  “I’m in a good mood, that’s all.”

  His voice drops to a near-whisper. “Right, hence why I asked you: are you all here? This is an important job, even if this woman is a right fucking bitch who deserves to be put in the fucking ground. I won’t have you spacing out like you’re at a fucking Phish concert. So, are you able to function and focus on the job at hand?”

  “Yeah, Mack. I’m here. What more do you want from me?”

  “I don’t expect you to stand at attention like one of those cunts in front of Buckingham Palace, but at least show a little fucking interest in your surroundings.”

  I straighten my posture. Focus my attention on Francisca and our surroundings. And nod when Mack claps me on the shoulder, satisfied.

  Francisca Lopez is an ugly woman wearing a beautiful woman’s skin. At first glance, she’s gorgeous, with curves that would make me rock-hard at a moment’s notice if I weren’t with Avery, and the kind of fiery personality that’s a screaming guarantee of a night of hot sex punctuated with bruises and scratches down my back.

  The first second of meeting Francisca is a pleasure for the eyes and the imagination. Tantalizing, lustful promises.

  Then she opens her mouth and all the ugliness inside her spews forth in a constant stream of vile. When she smiles, it’s vicious and condescending, like she’s just found out her worst enemy has lost their dog.

  A seamstress — a slender woman with a genuine smile, delicate features, and whisper-quiet voice — is trapped in the corner and collapsing in on herself beneath the wrath of Francisca, who has found a flaw in her perfectly fine-looking dress.

  There are three other men in the shop, posted up in various corners. Professional bodyguards. Black suits, sunglasses, pistols, and no humanity.

  “Do you see this lace here? Do you see it? No, don’t just stand over there, come closer and fucking look at what I’m showing you, you blind talentless bitch,” the drug lord’s daughter says. “Open your eyes and look at what you’ve done.”

  She grips the seamstress by the ear and pulls her face level with her hips. The woman’s only reaction is a wordless mewl of pain and resignation. This isn’t her first time dealing with Francisca.

  “This is the wrong fucking lace. The pattern is fucking wrong, the stitching is shit, my dead fucking grandmother could do a better job than you, you worthless cunt. Oh and did I mention that she’s fucking dead? Bring out the lace for me. Let me show you the one I want.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the seamstress says. I’m sure she’d be bowing if Francisca didn’t have a grip on her ear. When Francisca releases the woman’s earlobe, she scurries off like a cockroach fleeing the light.

  Then Francisca turns to Mack.

  “You. Give me your gun.”

  “Excuse me, lass?”

  “You heard me. Give me your gun,” she says.

  “You’ve got your own fucking gun, I’m sure,” Mack says.

  She rolls her eyes. “No. Not here, I don’t.”

  “That was probably Rogerio’s decision, wasn’t it? Prescient man, your father. Seeing as how he’s the one paying the bills here, and he hired us to protect you, I ain’t going to hand you my fucking weapon. Especially not when I’m sure you’ll just use it to threaten that young lady back there.”

  Francisca retorts with a slap and by spitting right on the patch on Mack’s cut.

  “Fuck you,” she snaps. Then turns her attention to me. “You. Give me your gun.”

  I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.

  Stymied, she returns to the center of the room to await the seamstress.

  “You ever see The Little Mermaid?” Mack whispers.

  “The kid’s movie?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “I’ve seen it. It’s a good movie. Why?”

  “It is a good movie. And I would sooner fuck that tentacled-bitch Ursula for the rest of my fucking life than spend another minute with this devil-whore Francisca. And I don’t mean ordinary missionary sex with the octopus-woman; I’d do the kind of shit with her where I’d never be able to look my mum in the eyes ever again. The kind of shit even Jesus wouldn’t forgive. I’m talking tentacles in my ass, her octopus-beak nibbling my cock, licking her giant purple tits while she fucking spanks me with a cat-o'-nine-tails made of seaweed. Anything just to get away from this bitch.”

  “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

  “If you show me a man who says that, when he was growing up, he didn’t have some kind of sexual thoughts about a Disney princess — whether Jasmine, Belle, Ariel, or whoever — then I’ll show you a liar. That little mermaid, with her shell-bra and perky little tits, were a big part of my teenage fantasies.”

  “Where is that bitch?” Francisca growls. “I swear, if she’s not out here in one minute, I will kill her.”

  From the back, there’s a click and a slam of a door being open and shut.

  I shake my head. “Yeah, but Ariel? Come on, Mack. There’s hotter princesses. Jasmine, for one.”

  He chuckles. “A Jasmine man, are you?”

  “Maybe. What if I am?”

  “I don’t fucking blame you, lad. She was a sassy lass who looked like she really knew how to work a cock. Belle, too, if I’m being honest with you. She was more innocent, but you just know that there’s a freak inside her waiting to come out. But let’s get beyond the obvious ones. If you had to pick between Anna or Elsa, who would you pick?”

  “Where the fuck is my lace?” Francisca’s voice cuts through our conversation like a razor. I flip my attention back to the furious bitch dominating the center of the room, just in time to see her charge towards the back room. She stops at the doorway and shouts into the back. “If you don’t get the fuck out here with my lace, I swear to God I will burn this place down.”

  “Just a moment, please,” comes a woman’s voice.

  From the back, there’s footsteps and the ka-thump of something heavy being moved and put down.

  A rap at the door turns me around. Standing outside of the shut-and-locked glass door — which is clearly marked with a ‘Closed’ sign because Rogerio Lopez carries the kind of power that he can shut down any store on a whim — are two frustrated-looking Hispanic men in their thirties and one young Hispanic woman with a crestfallen look on her face.

  “We’re closed,” I yell. “Come back tomorrow.”

  One of the men bangs on the door again.

  “Come on, we just need to pick up her fucking dress. I can see you people in there. Our wedding’s in three days, man, and this shop was supposed to have the dress ready two days ago and then they said to come back today. And now you’re saying I can’t get the dress I paid for?”

  I pull out my gun and hold it up to the glass.

  “Last warning: get the fuck out of here.”

  Two of them — one of the men and the woman — take a step back and raise their hands. The other man positions himself between the woman and me. He must be the groom.

  “We’ll come back later,” he says. “Just take it easy, man.”

  I nod towards the road and wait until they’re a good ten steps away to put my gun away.

  “Is it me, or are people fucking rude and oblivious nowadays?” I mutter.

  Mack just nods.

  “Where is my fucking lace?” Francisca rails at a young seamstress who made the unfortunate mistake to poke her head out of the doorway. “I can’t believe how fucking stupid you people are. For the amount you’re charging me, to be so fucking unprepared is just fucking ridiculous. Go back there, get the stupid cunt who was helping me earlier, and get me the lace I asked for.”

  There’s another thump from back.

  It’s louder this time. Wordlessly, the seamstress turns and scurries into the back room to find her coworker.

  The two seamstresses return from the back room carrying several bundles of identical-looking lace and they spread them out on a table. Nodding and muttering to herself in Spanish, Francisca stands next to them and begins sorting through the lace.

  There’s another thump from the back room. Then another. Louder this time.

  Mack cocks his head to the side. “What the fuck is happening back there?”

  “They’re getting ready to move heaven and earth to get this bitch out of their hair.”

  “Go check it out,” he says. Then he gestures to one of Rogerio’s hired guns. “You too. Go check out the back with Rusty here. I don’t like that fucking noise.”

  I start towards the back room before the other guy detaches himself from his spot by the wall and follows me like a shadow. With my pistol in my hand, I step through the threshold in to the back room of the boutique. It’s brightly lit, everything bathed in natural light from multiple overhead skylights that let in the burning desert sun. Row upon row of lace and other fabrics line the walls, each mounted on giant spools. In one corner, an older woman in her sixties is stacking and organizing several giant boxes of fabric. She’s undersized for the task — her arms are grandma-thin and her back’s bent from a lifetime of labor — and, as I watch, she lifts and then loses her grip on a large box of fabric which hits the ground with a loud ka-thunk.

  The bodyguard and I trade looks.

  He shrugs and motions back towards the main room.

  I shake my head.

  “We should help her out.”

  “The fuck for?” He says.

  “She’s fucking ancient, she shouldn’t be lifting shit like that. Besides, that fucking noise is giving me a headache.”

  There’s another thud as the old woman loses her grip on another box.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  The bodyguard and I head over to the old woman and I tap her gently on the shoulder.

  She turns and squints at me. “Que?”

  I point to myself and the bodyguard and then motion like I’m lifting the box.

  She nods. “Gracias.”

  Together, the bodyguard and I move boxes under the direction of the old woman. We get into a rhythm, listening to the Spanish commands of the old woman and the background ranting of Francisca, who is still relentlessly abusing the pair of seamstresses.

  There’s another rap at the door.

  I turn. Through the small window mounted into the back door is the face of one of the guys from earlier.

  “Who the fuck is that?” The bodyguard says as he draws his pistol.

  “They tried to get in and get a dress earlier. Must be fucking desperate,” I mutter. “Go check it out. Tell them to get lost.”

  He nods and I return to moving the boxes.

  The door opens. The bodyguard sticks his head out.

  “You. Get the fuck out of here. This place is fucking closed, fucking puta pendejo,” the bodyguard snaps, waving his gun at the man.

  “Sorry, sorry,” says the man, taking a few steps back from the doorway. “It’s just, we really need to get in there. It’s important.”

  There’s another knock. Loud. From the front this time.

  Mack’s voice booms through the shop. “Get the fuck out of here, lass. We told you this place is closed. So go find your man and find somewhere else to get your fucking dress.”

  I set the box down and motion for the old woman to get away from the door. Mack’s still shouting up front and this guy here in back is not taking the hint.

  “I don’t give a shit what you want, you need to leave or I’m going to fucking kill you,” the bodyguard snaps. He raises his gun.

  “OK, OK, OK,” the guy says, raising his hands. But he doesn’t make any move to back away.

  “I told you,” the bodyguard says, switching off the safety on his gun and taking a step forward. “You’re fucking dead.”

  He disappears through the door.

  There’s only silence.

  I put my hand on the old woman’s shoulder and pull her behind me, shielding her with my body. Cloudy eyes wide with fear stare back at me.

  A shout. Wordless. Angry. Surprised.

  Then the air explodes in fury.

  From the back and the front, bullets tear into the shop. Windows shatter, the tinkling of broken glass joining the chorus of explosive gunfire that rips the shop from every direction.

  Screaming, I pull the old woman to the ground and cover her with my body as glass rains down upon us. From the front room, there’s the concussive sounds the bodyguards and Mack returning fire, the quieter crack of their pistols simmering below the surface roar of the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire.

  A bloody shape fills the doorway — face half gone, black suit a tattered mess of bloody rags — the bodyguard collapses to the ground as more bullets catch him in the back and come sputtering out his chest. Blood drops land on my cheek, my forehead, pepper me with the man’s last bit of life.

  Motionless, heart pounding, I keep my gun trained on the opening.

  And I hold.

  Waiting.

  Seconds of explosive gunfire pass, a deafening stretch where I can’t even hear my thoughts. Death comes from everywhere. From out back and from out front, where Mack and Francisca’s bodyguards are screaming and shooting in a fight for their lives.

  We’re outgunned.

  Trapped.

  Beneath me, the old woman shivers and mutters a prayer in Spanish.

  A man charges through the open door. Assault rifle ready, death in his eyes.

  Not this time.

  One squeeze of the trigger puts a hole in his face and sends him falling.

  Lead death flies through the open doorway, a hundred bullets blasting from the muzzle of an assault rifle. A face appears in the window, followed quickly by the muzzle of a gun. Several cracks from my pistol send him ducking.

  “Come on, grandma, we need to move,” I shout as I hop to my feet and grab her around the waist.

  She’s light. Maybe eighty pounds soaking weight. It’s easy to toss her over my shoulder and carry her to safety out of sight of the back window.

  With one hand holding her slung across my back and the other laying cover fire, I sprint for cover. Bullets tear at the surrounding air, cutting through the space where I was just standing. The old woman screams in my ear and I make for an open supply closet on the far side of the room.

  Throwing the door open, I toss her inside and point to the floor. “Get down. All the way down. Stay there until I come for you.”

  She nods. Doesn’t say a word of protest as she flattens her arthritic body to the floor.

  “Bless you,” she says, her voice shaking in fear.

  “You’re going to be safe. Just stay down, OK?”

  I shut the door on her. Whirl toward the open doorway.

  With my free hand, I grab a spare clip from around my waist, with the flick of a wrist, I pop the empty clip out of my pistol and reload.

  Through the window, two shadows race by, heading towards the open door.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24