Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide Read online

  Cadillac Payback:

  Rising Tide

  AJ Elmore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

  Copyright © 2021 AJ Elmore

  Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by AJ Elmore.

  Summary: A year after Maria took down the rival kingpin who killed her brother, she has climbed the ranks with what’s left of her crew. Tensions are high and things get weird when a member of the old crew shows up back on the scene without an explanation.

  1. Crime 2. Revenge 3. Romance

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN:

  Edited by Eugenie Rayner, Magic Lamp Editing Services

  Cover design by The Illustrated Author

  Cover art copyright©: AJ Elmore

  For Derrick, who never fails to send food down the writer hole and makes sure there’s wine when I surface.

  Part One

  Chapter 1 Trap

  Isaiah

  I'm stoned. I'm so baked that I think if a fish did bite the line of the fishing pole in the sand beside me, I'd probably let it win. I have plenty of poles. Though that is my favorite reel.

  I push the brim of my brush hat out of my eyes, lazily scanning my rig, following the line out into the surf. I hear a giggle to my left, and glance that way to see two girls, mid-twenties – maybe – in tiny bikinis. They're checking me out. I give them a little smirk, pull my brush hat over my eyes, and relax against the thatch of my discount store lawn chair.

  Sure, it's nice to know I've still got it, but anything beyond distant appreciation is a hassle. The last thing I need are the complications that come with women. What to wear, where to eat, who to kill? Trouble, every single one.

  It's hot, but the ocean breeze keeps the heat at a steady roll. It's about 10:30, judging by the sun's slant. By noon, the beach will be drenched in unforgiving oppression, but just now I'm enjoying the burn.

  It's my day off, and I'm almost out of beer. I am out of weed. Already there are two errands to be achieved today. With luck, that's all I'll fucking do.

  The hardest part about transitioning to life lived mostly on my own has been having to buy weed. OK, maybe it's not the hardest, but it's been the most annoying. Running out is the worst kind of bullshit.

  Paying street prices is an insult. Having rookie assholes trying to haggle me while I silently hand them a lesson in trade, it's demeaning. But what can I say to them? In my last life, you would have been so far beneath me that you never would have met me. No, of course I can't say that. So I grit my teeth through it, pay too much, and retreat to my little beachside apartment.

  I don't go out, don't drink in bars, don't want friends. I don't own a TV. I spend long hours doing hard labor on a fishing trawler, where all the guys think my name's Jonathan, and call me Doc – like Doc Holliday, because of the time I shot a flare down the throat of a shark we accidentally hauled up.

  I saved Dave from losing an arm. The guys thought it was awesome. I never did address how naturally it came to me to point and shoot. We just dumped that shark overboard and didn't talk about it. Unless, of course, we were tossing back tall boys at the bait house after a long day and too many beers.

  I enjoy the work. It keeps me busy. My time at sea has whittled my physique into something harder than it was when I was into “produce” distribution, and bar hopping with Charlie. I like the ocean. There are a lot less assholes out there. It's my day off, and I'm still fishing.

  “Excuse me, sir, I wonder if a gentleman might help a lady out?”

  A woman's voice, behind me a little, to my left. It's a smooth alto that rings familiar enough to flip my stomach, and make my breath freeze in my chest for a flash. No way.

  Suddenly I'm standing in a flower shop, not knowing dick from balls about flowers. And there's a warm female body beside me, telling me what colors we've picked and how many guests there will be. Her heart is set on the string quartet and the arched trellis. As if I'd ever tell her no about anything.

  Back in the now, I take a hard swallow that might as well be a mouth full of sand, and don't move as I say, “I'm afraid you've got the wrong guy. I'm not much of a gentleman.”

  “Just a little sunscreen on my back?” asks the voice, low and coy.

  I'm still slung across my modest chair, but the shields are up. I do a quick scan of the beach that's visible from beneath my hat brim – a jogger with a dog; the maybe-twenty-somethings; an over-the-hill, fat guy in a Speedo. It's not much to work with, especially if this is an ambush.

  “Sorry, lady. Can't help you,” I say, and my right hand is moving slowly toward my cooler.

  “That's strange,” she says, and the words move like wind through a cemetery. “The Isaiah I remember was such a sweetheart. There's no need to draw on me, honey, I'm not here to kill you.”

  The arm reaching for the gun in the cooler goes still. What ever-loving-fucking-fresh-hell is this?

  “I said you've got the wrong guy.”

  A hand lands on my shoulder. I glance down at the perfect cuticles and French manicure without moving a muscle. It's a small hand, fragile, yet it carries the weight of a distant betrayal.

  She says, “Oh no, I've got exactly the right man. Aren't you going to offer me a drink? It's been so long.”

  An old rage explodes in the very depths of me, and it paralyzes me. I want nothing more than to flip the cooler open, turn on this bitch, and put a bullet between her eyes. I stare at the ocean, retreating behind the mask that's so easy, hiding the tumultuous storm inside me. I have to be smart. She's not here alone, there's a gun somewhere close by, a bodyguard watching over her.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  Her fingers play along my collarbone, and I get the urge to punch her in the mouth.

  She says, “My god, you have turned into a big meanie. A little balls looks good on you, Isaiah. So does that tan.”

  It's my name, but I haven't heard it in long enough that it sounds strange. It's been more than a year. I can practically feel her attention on my bare torso, and the swim trunks falling off my hips.

  This bitch.

  She pulls her touch away and steps up beside me, silently demanding the attention I'd rather deny her ‘til Armageddon. Grudgingly, I shove the hat back, and cut my eyes hard to her.

  She's fucking gorgeous. She always has been, in that pampered high-class way of hers. She's wearing a linen sundress that probably cost a few hundred dollars, and it's pale against her tan skin. It's the kind of tan that white girls work on, are proud of. Not a natural brown.

  Her dark blonde hair flirts with the breeze against her neck, held down by a big floppy hat. Her eyes are hidden by ridiculously oversized shades, but I know they're bright blue. Her lips are red, and smiling down at me with a hint of condescension. Her natural state. The years and money have been kind.

  Mona. My ex-fiancée.

  She says, “Now, why don't you invite me up to your quaint little porch, offer me a drink, and let's catch up.”

  She flicks her chin at the fishing pole.

  “Nothing is biting anyway.”

  I clenc
h my jaw to stop what I want to say from coming out. Choke on a dick. This doesn't seem optional.

  The thing about fishing is that it's not about the catch. It's the process that soothes me. Sure, I enjoy a good snapper or snook, but it's casting out into the great blue nothing and drifting that's kept me sane.

  All of the grace I've found at sea is suddenly crumbling. Somehow, I've been snagged in a net against which I have no defense. Just now, I think I'd rather drown.

  Chapter 2 Heat and History

  Isaiah

  My “quaint” little porch is a faded rectangle of wooden slats, no railing, no screen. Just a small table, and two dining room chairs that don't match. The surfaces of them are worn by the constant salt wind. Dune vegetation creeps from beneath the slats, and there's a stretch of other apartments to the right. My neighbors have a privacy fence, which suits me, and my corner of the building is nicely secluded.

  Mona sits primly in the chair that used to be red. She makes a production of removing her stupid sunglasses, setting them on the table, and scanning the sorry excuse for a porch. Her gaze sweeps the charcoal grill just off the edge, then the coral paint that seems to be requisite for buildings around here.

  The apartment beyond isn't much more than two rooms, and I'm sure she can guess as much. Just her presence here brings back haunting memories of yachts and trophy wives in pearls, big to-do parties with champagne and politicians, a lot of bullshit I confused as love. So much shit.

  I pop the tops off of my last two Negra Modelos and put one in front of her, as I take the seat across from her. I didn't bother to find a shirt. She glances down at the beer with a disapproving purse to her lips, a look I remember too well. It always made me want to shove my cock in her mouth.

  I hook one arm over the low chair back, and slouch as much as possible. I take a long drink, watching her the whole time, waiting. She can't think I have much to say to her.

  She sips gingerly at the beer, makes a little grimace that makes me want to laugh. Dark beer is definitely an acquired taste, a quite different part of the palate than expensive wine and caviar. I don't crack, though. I've come too far to give myself away now.

  Finally she folds her hands in her lap, and trains her baby blues on me. She says, “Tell me something. Why the Cape? You're practically in our backyard. Did you think we wouldn't find out?”

  Right. She hails from the Gulf Coast, and she would claim the whole of Florida is her fucking backyard. A playground, as far as she is concerned. There's a bitter tang in the back of my throat, and it's not the beer.

  For a flash, I miss Charlie. I miss a crew that didn't have a high-class bone in their collective bodies, and I realize I have forgotten something. I hate rich people.

  I shrug.

  “Maybe I missed the beach a little. Maybe I wanted one that didn't come with a backstabbing cunt in the deed.”

  Her eyes widen before she can cover herself. I don't know what her life has been like for the past six years, but I can damn well be sure she's not used to men talking to her like that. Then she smiles, and it's a cruel thing.

  She says, “Yes, I heard you're two for two in that department.”

  That's it. The red flag billows out. How the fuck would she know that?

  The trick to poker is not to let your opponents know when you're fucked. That's why my old enemy-turned-crewmate Frederick was so good at it. I channel his intensity into another drink. I make it a long one. I can already see this game is rigged.

  The bottle sweats, drips onto my chest when I turn it up. She tracks the water's progress downward with her eyes. She's about to flick that heavy gaze up to mine, so I look away, to the ocean in its vastness and constant motion.

  I say, “It's my day off. It was a good day. I imagine it'll get better once you're not a part of it anymore. Can we speed this up?”

  I see her shoulders push back, and her chin lift a little in my periphery. Good. I can still piss her off, too.

  “I'm here to tell you that Daddy has decided to forgive you.”

  My hand tightens around my beer. The tension strings from there into my shoulders. My attention snaps back to her, and this time it's a glare. A subtle reaction next to the angry knot in my gut that threatens to burst into violence.

  “Why the fuck would you think I care?” I spit.

  She smiles again, those perfect red lips stretching. This is it, the hook.

  “We have a job for you.”

  My energy wells from some fiery depths. I spring to a stand. It'd be so easy to wrap my hands around her throat. But I freeze, staring down at her.

  “No.”

  My voice is hardly more than a whisper. I can't force any more without screaming at her.

  She shrugs one shoulder, and even that movement is haughty when she does it. That infuriating smile is still in place when she says, “Then I'm sure the Feds would be quite interested in the location of a former cartel operative.”

  Anger buzzes in my limbs, but there's no outlet for it. Still, I'm afraid to move. If I do, I'll break, and I'll break her. A long breath through my nose steadies me.

  I say, “Considering all the dirt I have on your operation, do you really think that's smart?”

  She crosses her legs, lengthening the view of her thigh as the skirt inches up. She looks up at me from beneath the brim of her hat, and I'm reminded of other times she looked at me like that. Times I'd grab a handful of her hair as she sucked my dick.

  “Sit down, Isaiah,” she says.

  There's more she hasn't said. She's much too confident in the heat and history between us.

  “I don't take orders from you,” I answer.

  So she stands, and she bridges the space between us. She gets so close that our faces are inches apart. She smells like some designer's summer scent. A bead of sweat is sliding slowly down the side of her throat, but she doesn't flinch. She's not smiling anymore.

  She says, “Actually, I lied. Daddy hasn't forgiven you. But he has agreed to ignore that fact, since you're the best man for the job. If you don't agree to do it, he'll probably kill you before the Feds can even get their paperwork in line to start looking for you.”

  Dirty. The same way she's always played.

  For a long time, I just stare. Is this the karma I've earned? This is what I get for walking away? There's just one resounding thing that doesn't make sense.

  “Why me?”

  She touches my cheek softly with the tips of her fingers, tracing along my cheekbone. I snatch her hand in mine, and squeeze so her fingers grind together. Her expression stitches in pain. I like that look on her.

  She steps back, so I let her go.

  She says, “We have some new friends. Daddy doesn't trust them, but the potential profits from working with them are staggering.”

  “Answer the question,” I growl.

  She clasps her hands in front of her, like she's hosting a dinner party, greeting guests, some shit like that. I'm not fooled by her mask of protocol, she's playing chess with some big pieces.

  She's watching closely for my reaction when she says, “Because our friends are your friends, too.”

  No. No, no, hell fucking no.

  I turn away, back to my beer, and the pack of smokes that I've ignored until now. I swipe them off the table with a sigh. I deny Mona my attention as I notch a Wide, and shield it to light it. The drag of smoke is rough, not exactly soothing. Like everything, the motions just dredge the memories.

  “Think I'd rather take the bullet.”

  “You know it's not that easy,” she says to my back, silky smooth daggers next to the old emotional scars she already left there.

  “Why would you ever trust me?”

  I have to ask. I don't think I really want the answer, but I'll be kicking and screaming if she drags me down.

  “That's the beauty of it, I don't trust you. But your old friends trusted you enough to let you off the leash. I need that weight b
ehind me to nail down this deal.”

  So that's it. I'm a pawn to her. Everyone is someone for her to use. Some things won't ever change.

  I turn on her, step up so we're close again, and I'm looking down on her. The cigarette is forgotten in my hand. I consider saying something uncouth about my weight behind her, but even the thought sours my gut.

  So instead I say, “You should know better than to corner me.”

  She pecks a kiss against my lips, and says through a smile, “You're just a lost little puppy. You always were. It's time to come home.”

  Home? What a foreign fucking concept. This tiny apartment, the calming ocean, that's as close to home as I've ever felt. Playing horseshoes in a Louisiana backyard, that was close. The waterfront mansion of Mona's family, an empire built on America's prescription pain pill addiction, that was never home.

  I didn't come from money, but I learned at a young age to ride the coattails of the wealthy. I worked at country clubs, marinas, places that were saturated by retirement communities and summer homes. I could fake it well enough, and eventually I caught the eye of the woman who quickly became my entire world.

  I worked under her father, eventually accepted, but still he never really thought I was good enough for his princess. I had to work for my status, after all, and that still stained my collar blue in his eyes.

  My jaw grinds painfully, and I say, “I've never been a fucking puppy. You just treated me like your dog.”

  She smiles, all fake innocence and sticky sap. She doesn't need to say anything, she just lets the truth linger. She retrieves her sunglasses, slides them into place, and says, “Enjoy the rest of your day off. We're going back to Destin tomorrow. We'll get you cleaned up once we're back, get you into a proper wardrobe, and discuss our first order of business.”

  “And if I run?”

  She makes a tsk and a small laugh.

  “There are eyes everywhere, Isaiah. You know better,” she says.

  “Get the fuck off my porch,” I answer.