I knew it in an instant. The white dress. The building in the background.
The image before me blurred as tears and memories drowned me, dragging me back in time. The smiling face staring back at me looked familiar yet so foreign. Maybe because she was a version of me that no longer existed.
Crushing the picture against my chest, I openly wept for the innocent girl in the picture. I wept for the plans she made that would never happen. But mostly, I wept for the memory I thought I was the only one who remembered.
April – Four Years Ago
The first thing I noticed as I stumbled up the hill was the slow, steady beat of music. I froze, and Matty’s fingers fumbled with the blindfold. Once it dropped, I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.
“Why did you bring me here?”
His soft chuckle fluttered against my ear. “It’s your senior prom, Star. You shouldn’t miss it.”
My heart pounded. No one could see me here with him. It was too risky.
“I told you, I don’t care. I hate this place and the people in it.”
“That may be true, but you don’t have to go inside to attend it. Besides, do you think I’d let you go with anyone else? When I said you were mine, I meant it.”
“What are you talking—” I spun around to face him, squinting as a bright flash blinded me. “Did you just take my picture?”
“I’m preserving the moment.”
I prepared to launch into a lengthy protest, but my words lodged in my throat at the sight of him. Gone was his usual T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket, and in place stood a man I didn’t recognize. Tailored black pants covered his long, muscular legs and met a somewhat wrinkled white button up shirt in the middle. A loose-fitting jacket covered it all, cinched with a black and gray striped tie.
“Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer me, stepping forward with a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Dance with me,” he said, offering his hand.
“What? Why?”
“Because I like this song, and we may never get to dance like this again.”
“Matty, what are you talking about? I’m only eighteen. Are you saying that—”
He rolled his eyes and grabbed my waist, pulling me into him. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much? I said I like this song. Don’t ruin it for me.”
So we danced outside of my high school—him in a second-hand suit, and me in a simple white sundress. We danced with his hands holding me tightly, and my head nestled in the crook of his neck.
The night was perfect. He was perfect.
He’d done all the right things and said all the right words. Even though some of them would prove to be truer than he realized.
We never did dance like that again.
Present Day
I glanced down at the tear-stained photo crumpled in my hand. If I closed my eyes and listened, I could still hear the song in my head—the melody like a knife slowly cutting my heart out piece by piece. Back then, we were just a couple of reckless kids who thought love was enough.
Love was never enough. Not in my world and definitely not in his.
I have to get out of here.
Tucking the picture back into his pants pocket, I stood up and scanned the room for my car keys. However, I could look all I wanted, and it wouldn’t make a difference. I’d never find them.
Because my keys were at Caliente. Along with my car.
“Shit!” Falling backward onto the bed, I let out a groan. Mateo drove me home last night, and now I was trapped in this cartel owned whorehouse like a kept woman—just waiting for him to come back and offer me a rescheduled fuck.
As much as I didn’t want to, I was going to have to call for reinforcements. Rolling over, I pushed onto my elbows and reached toward the nightstand for my...
“Fuck!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Muffling my screams against the comforter, I pounded my fists against the mattress until I eventually collapsed.
This was why alcohol was bad for you. Nine shots of vodka and a snap decision may have very well tipped the first domino in my destruction.
My phone wasn’t here because it was in the pocket of Swenson’s trench coat, which currently lay crumpled in the floorboard of Mateo’s Tahoe.
Chapter Nineteen
Mateo
Fucking red lipstick.
Committing the address my informant had given to me to memory, I balled up the napkin and flung it across the Tahoe. All I needed was a pen and she gave me lipstick. How the hell was I supposed to concentrate on torturing information out of some asshole when all I could think about was her perfect red lips wrapped around my dick?
The image conjured a thought that had consumed me for over twelve hours now. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I replayed the overwhelming memory of feeling her again in that parking lot. She’d screamed, and the minute her muscles clenched around my throbbing cock, I knew she was still mine. Luis may have tainted her, but he hadn’t changed her. They didn’t have what we had. If they had, it wouldn’t have felt like coming home.
Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I cursed and dialed. Thinking of Leighton had already put me on edge, so I was amped up to an eleven by the time he answered.
“You on your way?”
“What do you think?”
“Someone’s grumpy today.”
“Fuck you.” Making the left onto Turner Street, a row of two-story plain brick buildings sat in front of me. Hector Diaz’s neighborhood reminded me of the shithole Luis lived in back in San Marcos.
Fuck, how bad did these idiotas suck at selling?
My informant found out the identity of one of the numbers on Luis’s phone. Hector Diaz. I made some calls and discovered Diaz was a low-level Carrera seller, trying to work his way up the ranks. Since he’d been with us for six years and he was still working the streets, the chances of that happening were about the same as Luis rising from the dead.
“Well, enjoy your time with Diaz,” he huffed. “I’m still working on the other number. Either it’s not one of ours or no one’s talking.”
“You have twelve hours.”
“You’re welcome, asshole,” he growled right before hanging up.
After parking the car, I walked toward the back of the cluster of buildings, the scene not getting much better. Air units were tucked into most of the open windows, and laundry was strung along wires tied between poles. An old man sat on the stoop of building 3, blocking the stairs, and of course, Diaz lived in 3C.
This fucking day.
“Estoy aquí para ver a Héctor. Soy un viejo amigo.” I’m here to see Hector. I’m an old friend.
The old man scraped his chair a few inches to the left and laughed. “Good luck,” he answered in our native language. “No one has seen that asshole in three days.”
His words stopped me on the first step. “Three days?”
He nodded. “Can’t say I’m sorry. I live right under him in apartment A. People are always comin’ and goin’ at all hours of the night. It’s been nice to get some sleep for a change. I don’t care if he ever comes back.”