Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide Page 2

  My porch, this tiny scrap of solitude that's all I have left in the world.

  Her shoes dangle in her fingers as she steps into the sand. She's so confident to leave her back to me, and she doesn't look back as she leaves. As I watch her go, I'm glad my cooler is inside now. If it were close, I might just throw away my life to watch blood blossom on her stupid dress.

  Long after she's gone, I sink back into my chair, and tip my bottle up. It's funny how this shit goes. You leave one life, scrape and scrounge to build another, then when you leave that life, the first catches up to bite you on the ass.

  This is a fine cluster fuck, a grand catch twenty-two that comes down to death or slavery. I almost wish I were brave enough to put my gun in my mouth. That would be a nice “fuck you” to all of them. But that's not my style.

  I'm the best I know at the art of escape. But the truth is, from where I'm sitting, I can't see one.

  Chapter 3 Losing Deals

  Maria

  “Yes, it's a problem. Negotiations are closed,” I spit into my mobile.

  The voice on the other end hesitates. I'm standing in a closet, shoving through the clothes hanging in front of me. This is a back-up wardrobe, clothes left at one of the several apartments we operate out of. I don't have much to work with, but I can't stand the dress pants, or the button-up shirt for another meeting. Especially not a meeting with Noah.

  Black shorts and a silky red top will have to do. The outfit could be worn to a club, except I don't go to clubs. I glare down at the offending shirt. It doesn't look familiar at all. And I almost miss the words that come across the phone line.

  “Then you tell him he can run dry until he changes his mind. This is not a debate,” I answer, my fingers tightening around the slinky fabric.

  I hang up without another word. The shirt hits the floor as a quiet fury stirs in my gut. I don't have time for this shit.

  I yank a plain v-neck t-shirt in gray off its hanger with shaky fingers. It's a good thing I'm going to the restaurant. I'm not really sure when I ate last. I'm pretty sure it wasn't today.

  My phone chimes with a text. This is a business only line, so I can damn well guess it's somebody else who needs my attention. I change into the shorts, then swipe across the screen of my phone to bring it to life. I thumb open the message, and start working the buttons of my shirt loose with my other hand.

  “Goddammit!”

  We lost a sale. The last shipment was a bit worse for wear when it arrived. I know it's not worth the agreed price, but that price wasn't set by me. I can't just change shit up after I take the deal to the top – via Abuela, of course. I'm not ranked enough for that. So now we're losing deals. I'm losing deals.

  That's when I hear the front door open. I freeze for a moment, listening. I hear keys jingling, and a giggle. I chuck my phone at the bed and retrieve the S & W .40 from the coverlet. I creep into the hall, my bare feet making no sound on the tile floor. There shouldn't be any giggling bitches here. This base is for business.

  I take aim as I round the corner. There's a flurry of movement and a scream.

  “Shit!”

  It's Joshua, and his hands are in the air instantly.

  “What the fuck!” the female screeches.

  For a moment, I just hold my aim on her. Just a moment. Then I drop it, and nail Josh with an expectant glare.

  His hair is pulled back in a high knot, like it usually is these days, and there's stubble on his chin. He's wearing a white t-shirt. I haven't seen him in three days. His hands are still high, but his gaze slides down to the open button-up, over my nude lace bra and little black shorts, all the way to my brother's gun.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” I ask, and it sounds like I've been gargling gravel.

  “We were just stopping by, I have to grab a phone charger I left,” he says quickly, but his eyes are still on the Smith and Wesson.

  “Excuse me!” the bitch says with a lot of whine and a little attitude. “Who the fuck is she? You said you were single!”

  “Shut up, Carrie!” Josh snaps.

  The fuse is burning. I've been working since the ass-crack of dawn, and her voice is like needles under my fingernails.

  “Yes. Shut up, Carrie,” I say, each word dipped in venom.

  She puffs up her B-cups, and puts a hand in the air. She says, “You can't talk to me that way, you crazy bitch!”

  All the stress of a long day hits perfect harmony, so that I barely notice that I've moved until my fingers are wrapping around Carrie's windpipe. She makes a sickening choking sound, and her eyes bulge as she claws at my fingers.

  Josh is poised to move, but he knows there's not much he can do to save his damsel without laying hands on me. And he won't dare.

  I look her in her terrified eyes when I say, “This is my house, pendeja. If I say you shut your mouth, you fucking do it.”

  I slide my eyes sideways to Joshua, who's wearing a familiar face. It's the same one he's always made when I act without remorse.

  I say, “Get her out,” and I shove her backward when I let her go.

  She stumbles, and gasps. He takes long enough to respond that I think he's about to stand up to me. I almost think he's that stupid. There's too much at stake to lay it out now, in front of this vagina on wheels who will be gone in a week or two. Though she's lasted longer than most of his flings.

  At least that's what I hear from Frederick.

  Carrie begins shrieking again, and Josh spits a curse as he grabs her by the arm. I tune out the words she screams, and Josh pulls her out the door with an arm around her shoulders. I can hear him shushing her as the door closes.

  Silence falls and I'm staring at the door, the .40 hanging at my side. Even if I had met her at my – or her – best, I'd still hate her. Even if it's not her fault. She doesn't know him. She can't. And he knows the rules. This is not a whorehouse.

  My phone rings from down the hall, a punk rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Noah. I sigh, but it doesn't help my frustration. I'm going to be late. Noah won't care, but it will fuck up the rest of my night. I still have to talk to Abuela about that dud sale. She's gonna be pissed.

  I sprint back to the room, but the phone goes quiet just as I reach for it. Right. My luck today.

  I put the gun down beside the phone as I shrug out of my shirt, ignoring it as it drifts to the floor. I pull on the gray shirt. It's pale against my skin. Simple. More like it. I feel better already.

  I grab my phone and tap out a message to Noah that I'm running late. He's the last in the line of people who will be offended. There's a glass pipe in the other room, and there's damn sure always green around. A quiet, smoke-filled moment sounds perfect. In less than a minute, I receive a reply.

  “Lunch was crazy. Running late too. No problem. See you soon baby doll.”

  The words bring an unexpected smile to my lips. Noah is always good for resetting the pace, a natural for talking you off the ledge even when he doesn't mean to. And he's the only fool who would ever call me baby. I click the phone to darkness, grab my gun, and leave the mess.

  Chapter 4 Not a Word

  Maria

  The sun is in the midst of its final assault before descent when I swing the Caddy into the grass patch beside the boys' vehicles. It's shaded behind the restaurant, but it's still hot. September has begun, but we're still in the eighties, and the humidity never really leaves.

  The drive and the weed have calmed me. Usually, I don't like long intervals alone. It's too much time to think, and there are too many skeletons lining twenty-twenty hindsight. But today, the heavy traffic and my stereo turned up way too loud was a good distraction.

  The cooks at Couyon are used to seeing me walk in the back door by now, so there's a chorus of greetings when I enter the kitchen. Jack is at the helm, flipping some giant prawn next to some steaks of some sort on the grill. I give them all a smile.

  “Hey, boys, smells fant
astic in here!”

  “It's surf and turf for lunch,” says Jack, in his stained apron, with his long hair pulled up into a bun. “Nice of you to join us.”

  I cock a hand on my hip. Of course. Noah wouldn't mind my lack of punctuality, but Jack just has to bring it up. He's such a fucking big brother. The thought tugs at a familiar emptiness, threatens to irritate an internal wound that's only barely healed, so I shove it away.

  I say, “Yeah, yeah, I'm late. It was unavoidable.”

  “I bet.”

  He winks when he says it, but something deep down assures me he's not joking. Maybe it's the way he flips a steak while he's looking at me.

  I roll my eyes playfully, and proceed into the server alley. I'm abusing my position in the face of someone from Charlie's level, but just like a little sister, I need to believe that I wouldn't be late unless I had to.

  A couple of girls dance around me in their quest for drinks, or dressing, or whatever. One calls out to me as she passes. The other cuts me a dirty look before ignoring me. Eva. I've never been able to figure out what her fucking problem with me is, but I don't actually care enough to pursue it.

  I flick my hair over my shoulder and turn to the bar. My eyes find him immediately. Since he almost died on my behalf, I tend to incessantly make sure he's OK.

  He's still, and straight, his arms resting on the edge of the bar. He's wearing his glasses, and his dark hair is tousled. He's staring forward at a bottle of Southern Comfort, like it has insulted him. He's not approachable in the least, and I'd be a damned fool to think he's not keeping track of everybody around him. There's a beer in front of him, but it's full. He's tense.

  He's pissed.

  I sidle up to the chair beside him, scanning down the bar for Noah. He's not there.

  Frederick doesn't move when he says, “Any reason in particular that I had to hear from Noah you were running late?”

  I bristle, and my buzz dulls. He's right, but his tone grates on my nerves. He's my right hand. I should have let him know, but I forgot in my haste to get high. I don't want to fight, especially not with him.

  “I'm sorry.”

  He sighs, but the edge in his voice softens just a bit.

  “Where's Josh?”

  I grab his beer and take a deep drink. It's an Italian dark, and it's perfect after the day I've had.

  I say, “Don't get me started on that fuck stick right now.”

  There's enough venom left over from the afternoon that it seeps into my tone. It's not really a suggestion. Maybe he won't push the issue.

  Finally he turns that hard look on me and says, “He's supposed to watch your back.”

  A furrow is forming in my forehead, and my nerves are fluttering in my gut. I don't like the anxiety, but it seems to be winning.

  I say, “Well, I guess he's too busy watching Carrie's back, if you catch my drift.”

  One of his eyebrows lifts slowly, and he looks back to the liquor.

  “Cattiness doesn't suit you,” he says quietly.

  Rage bubbles over the rim of my inner cauldron.

  “Hijo de puta,” I hiss. “It does when he's been bringing them to our traps.”

  He's quiet for a long time, long enough that I know the news pisses him off as much as it did me. Josh has been jeopardizing everything, and for how long? And when he has his own place.

  Finally Frederick says, “I'll handle it.”

  It's definitely not what I expected him to say, but it closes the subject well enough, so I leave it alone. Freddy and I don't talk about Josh unless it's business. It's easier that way, and there's not much to be said about the past. I choose not to ask about the strange and strained sort of friendship that grew between them after Josh saved Freddy's life.

  Frederick's tension doesn't ease, though. Something else is bothering him, something he doesn't want to talk about.

  “Maria! My radiant sunbeam!”

  It's Noah. He reaches out his tattooed arms for a hug, and adds, “I see you've found our resident rain cloud.”

  “Eat a dick, Noah,” Freddy says.

  I fold into the hug. For just a moment, I feel like a human.

  “Eva! Watch the bar, if you'd be so kind?” Noah calls over my head, and I can only imagine the daggers she glares at my back.

  We take a table in the back, and Jack joins us. The other server, Lydia, takes our drink orders. I sit with my back to the wall, Frederick to my right, where we can both see the front door and the sidewalk beyond. Noah is in front of me.

  Once we're eating, and the server is gone, I say, “So, we have a problem.”

  “Oh, I love those words. They're my favorite,” Noah says, tone edged in sarcasm.

  “Shut up,” Jack says, without missing a beat. “Let's hear it.”

  “The latest shipment looks like shit. I don't know what those guys across the border are trying to pull, but it's sub-par to our standards. The problem is that I'm already getting grief over pricing.”

  Noah is sawing into his steak, but his bright eyes are on me. Jack's too. I pause for a bite, and a drink.

  “Since you boys have a substantial order, I'd prefer to delay the deal until I can talk to Abuela about the issue. I have to figure out some way to avoid losing a bunch of customers, and hurting all of us. And I still have to move this shit somehow.”

  “How long are we talking? We're already past the point of ordering. If we wait too long, we'll go dry,” Jack says.

  I glance at Frederick. He's taking a bite of mashed potatoes, but his eyes are scanning the room. He won't speak up. He never does.

  “I'll try my best to have a resolution by tonight,” I tell them.

  Jack and Noah aren't usually all that hard to read, but when we start talking business, they close up. They're good, been doing this for a long time. They'll play it smart. It's something I count on.

  “That's my girl,” Noah grins.

  “You only wish I were your girl,” I reply.

  Bang bang, quick to the trigger. Gotta keep 'em on their toes, keep up the mean girl, for my audience's sake.

  “Buuuuurrrrrrn,” Noah says. “A guy can hope, right?”

  I throw my napkin at him, and he laughs. His laughter is contagious, to me. Not to Frederick, nor to Jack.

  Sometimes I think it bothers Freddy when I flirt with Noah, or anyone, but he'll never say it. He stays farther from me emotionally these days, doing his best to avoid situations where we might get caught up in the heat. It's smart, I have to agree, considering he's ranked directly below me. We've all seen what happens when the lines blur.

  Still, I miss him sometimes, and he's sitting right beside me.

  He doesn't speak for the rest of the meal. He doesn't say a word until we're in the front seat of the Cadillac, and we're pulling onto Magazine Street. He's driving. I love watching him behind that wheel, the reverence he shows the machine. She's as much his baby as she is mine these days.

  “So what's your plan?” he asks, and his tone is much more relaxed now that we're alone.

  The windows are up, the AC working overtime, but I feel sticky. I drag my hair over my shoulder and work a quick braid into it. Then I rest my head against the seat back, and watch the city roll by. He doesn't seem to mind the yawn of silence that stretches behind his question. How do I put this delicately?

  “No fucking clue.”

  “Excellent,” he answers flatly.

  I watch him openly, but the mask is up. He's pushing me away. In the fading dusk, I can see the scar that runs along his cheekbone, the remnant of the shit he endured for my sake. He's never talked about that time spent alone with his old mentor, getting beaten so close to death, or the weeks spent in a hospital bed with a spiderweb of fractures across his rib cage. Like any of his scars, he simply doesn't mention it.

  “What's bothering you?” I ask. Just now, I can't stand the distance.

  He glances at me. He's been caught. He ought t
o know better by now, he has to know I can feel him.

  Now he's the one who lets the silence go on. He flips the blinker on, makes a smooth turn. He's doing what he does, internalizing the anger – at least I think it's anger. It usually is when he gets this quiet. But then, it could be desire.

  He stares doggedly at the road, and says, “Abuela wants to move me.”

  Every nerve in my body sings. My breath sticks in my throat, and the lights in my vision blur. I feel like I've been thrown off a cliff, with no idea when I'll hit bottom. Five words, and they shake me to my foundation.

  “What?” I choke on the word.

  He glances again, checking my stability, choosing his words carefully.

  “She wants to put me under Mateo,” he says.

  “Without a single word to me?” I cry, and it's nearly a scream.

  He had to know the indignation that would come with this conversation. No wonder he didn't want to have it.

  “And without a single word from you,” he answers, his words edged. Then, softer, “Please.”

  My mouth snaps closed, and the sting of tears hits the bottom rims of my eyes. I look away, out the window, at my favorite city on earth. It doesn't do much to comfort me now. For all the way I've made it up the family tree, I'm still crying like a stupid bitch.

  He says, “I don't want it. I shouldn't have to tell you that. But I don't see there being much of a fight in it. In the end, we do what she says.”

  I bite down on my lip, and my reaction. The urge to bawl threatens every ticking second.

  “She can't do that to us,” I say to the glass.

  He laughs, and it's so bitter. He says, “Don't give me that bullshit. You chose that, remember? She can do whatever she wants. And she thinks I should be in security, instead of distribution.”

  He has to know I'll fight it, no matter what he says to me. I'll wait, but I'm not going to quietly let my grandmother disassemble my crew. My crew. The remnants of my brother's crew.

  What's she trying to pull by taking my right hand, and putting him with the son of some other prominent family within the cartel?