“What did this guy do to end up in the oasis?” Jackson asks, knowing I selected him for a particular reason.
“He’s on the run from the cartel for skimming grams of cocaine from the outward shipments for personal use. And he beat up a whore and left her for dead. The fucker messed her face up so badly that she can’t work. She has a young kid to feed.”
Jackson mutters under his breath, “And you're giving him a second chance?”
“I’m using the asshole.”
“Do you think he knows Miguel?”
My palms fist at the sound of that name. “He knows him all right. And I’ll extract every detail. This will be the last nail in Miguel’s coffin before I put a bounty on his head. I might even do it myself just to see the shock on his smug, murdering face. Maria is an open book. All the intelligence I have on her is straightforward. A poor woman from the favelas with no way to escape. Even if she was doing it for the money, the bitch knew all along she was betraying me. It was her choice to get involved with those men and weave herself into my life.” A flash of her false smile stings my chest. I fucking hate her. “Low-lifes like Miguel are the puppets. I want the puppeteer. I’ll finally be able to trace the fucker who ratted me out.”
“And the whore he beat up? I’m guessing you’ve already taken care of her.”
I shrug. “Yeah. I’ll fly her in when all this is over. You can fix her broken nose and reset her jaw. They’re in a safe house outside of Rio.”
“Fuck, I hate this guy.”
“Easy, Jackson. You know I need this asshole alive. Once our guest returns to the city, I’ll monitor his new life. If any shady shit goes down, I’ll press delete. He’ll be on the streets in seconds. A worthless nobody. Destitute and desperate.” And if I feel like it, I’ll put a price tag on his head too.
“What about your Scottish guest? How’s that working out for you?” Jackson smirks.
Beija flor. “I’ve tasked Sal to manage her. She’s still a threat. The woman will run to the feds at any opportunity.”
“What do you expect when you wiped out her life?”
A tidal wave of guilt crushes into my lungs. My paranoia took over. I was protecting myself against frauds and murderers. It was essential to discover the truth. And now that I’ve tasted intimacy with this woman, I’ll never grant her permission to leave.
15
Iris
Iris Kitson really is dead.
This morning I woke up in a king-sized bed with a thin sheet neatly draping relaxed limbs. I was alone with a spine-tingling nightmare playing on repeat.
Sunlight twinkled on the pool, fracturing the surface with thousands of royal jewels. The early morning wildlife chatter announced the dawn of a new day. The day after my jailor drugged me and all I could recall were eyes masked with a deceitful sheen of virtue. There’s no honor among thieves or within a manipulator using masculine supremacy over a defenseless hostage.
Squeezing my thighs together, I wasn’t sure if we had sex––if he penetrated me with an angry cock while I lay unconscious, solely at his mercy. If he stole the final shred of my existence. Yet when I sat up, I was dressed in a clean nightdress and wore a skim of slimy healing balm on my cheek.
When I rose from the bed and studied the room, there were no visible signs of a struggle or a whisker of proof that I shamefully wanted to dance with his darkness. That I welcomed a warped notion of romance. Or was subjected to an unforgivable invasion of the mind and body. There wasn’t a bedsheet out of place or an empty cocktail glass with the telltale evidence of drugs.
The inconclusive smart down below could have been a consequence of something more than the memorable orgasm met with his primal grunts of approval.
“Eat up,” Sal cajoles. “We have a busy day ahead of us.” He smiles before sipping syrupy black coffee. “Are you always this quiet? From my experience with women, they like to talk. A lot. All the time, in fact.” His tone switches to playful.
“I didn’t sleep very well.” I fork a wedge of ripe mango. I’m guessing my chaperone doesn’t know about my uninvited guest or what we did together.
“The jungle can do that to you. Have you tried meditation? I can help you with that.” Sal’s breezy solution tells me he believes I merely had a restless night. Minus possible unprotected sex. I grip the fork to stop myself from throwing it across the cabana.
Why didn’t I claw his eyes out or fight for my dignity? I swallow the lump of disgust. My shoulders sag under the strain of bitter shame.
Sal’s handsome face ducks down to my eye level. Feigning a smile, I return his gaze. There’s a kindness to his eyes that breathes with his stare. Friendliness spills from his jolly demeanor, and I wonder if he could be a true ally amidst the uncultivated land. It’s hard to believe he agrees with my unorthodox situation. That scary truth sinks to the bottom of my gut. He’s the only other person I know, aside from the king himself.
“I was thinking strong medication was the way to go.” I smirk intentionally, not wanting to alienate him. “Knock me out for a few weeks.”
He ignores my snarky comment and flicks a scrunched up empty sugar wrapper at me. “It’s all about focus. Drawing your thoughts inward and concentrating. You could start by bringing your awareness to the sound of your heartbeat or the sensation of your clothes.”
I giggle quietly. “These clothes? This unattractive shirt and these ghastly long trousers. I had to roll them up at the ankles.”
“Cute.” He laughs with me. “You are very short.”
“Petite,” I correct.
“I’ll order you a pair of shorts. How about that?”
“And a razor.” I point out.
He smirks. “Yeah, I’ve got you.”
My mouth forms a tight smile, hiding all the arguments I could unleash and cruel accusations that have no place in this conversation—my black fury clouds el Fantasma, not Salvador.
“Were you in my room this morning? Or did you ask anyone to check in on me?” I ask, wondering if someone had found me on the bed, used and abused, then tucked me up and tended to me with pity and secrecy.
Bushy brows snap together. “No? Why?”
Because the last thing I recall in my vivid nightmare is the intensity of earnest eyes with obsidian pupils circled by hues of forest green. They transformed from malignant to benign. Tousled waves framed an unkempt beard, and bared teeth held back the demon from breaking his shackles. After that, darkness. Then sunshine and birdsong.
“No reason. It looked tidier than before I went to sleep.”
Sal chuckles. “Try bunking up with a bunch of men.”
I pop the moon-shaped mango slice into my mouth and chew. “At least you have the option to leave.”
His mug thuds onto the coaster. “Not an option, so to speak. I have a moral obligation to stay.”
“Obligation?”
He scratches his jaw and sighs. “Yeah. I owe him. Plus, I like it here. Without him, I’d be brushing a shop floor by day and running errands by night.”
My back straightens with intrigue. “So, you’re working off a debt?”