“Mañana, old man,” I joked, hanging up on him.
A little over an hour later, I’d switched off the main lights over the bar, leaving just enough on inside to deter would-be criminals. I closed the front door and turned the lock with thoughts of eviscerating Davis with the blunt end of the dead bolt key. The bite of the betrayal still stung as sharply as it did a year ago. Maybe it always would.
Even though it was close to one o’clock in the morning, the muggy thickness of the June air mixed with pelting rain hit me in the face as I power walked to my car. The summer would be intolerable if it was already this sticky. Southern humidity deserved its own special circle in Dante’s Inferno. It stuck in your lungs, ruined your hair, and made even the primmest of debutantes sweat like a two-ton pig fucking a donkey.
The inside of the Cruiser was no less than sweltering when I turned the ignition, flipped the air conditioner on full blast, and dug in my purse for my phone. After a few moments, I cursed to myself, remembering I’d let it bounce from my shoulder to the bar while being hypnotized by Val’s gold-flecked, chocolate eyes.
Groaning, I slammed the door and ran the length of the parking lot back to the cantina. Once inside, I shook off the droplets, scooped my phone into my hands, and dialed Nash’s number. If he was awake, maybe he’d be up for some company. When the call went straight to voice mail, I glanced at the ceiling as another idea came to mind. Walking toward the front door, I scrolled through my preapproved list of non-clingers, deciding who would suffice for an early Sunday morning screw. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I knew whose face I’d see anyway.
Damn you, Danger.
As I was about to dial, a crash and a muffled grunt echoed from the back. An electric shock shot down my spine while anticipation and dread chased its trail. My fingers went numb, as if preparing the rest of my body for the same sensation. Every instinct pleaded with my legs to turn and run in the opposite direction, but as if tethered to an invisible line, they moved toward the kitchen.
Locked somewhere between a dream-like state and morbid curiosity, my hands reached for the swinging doors. My pulse roared in my ears, my skin a vibration of energy ready to explode.
At the last moment, I glanced at a side table and grabbed a fork.
Sure, fork them to death.
Another loud crash masked the sound of the door being pushed open. Breathing heavily, I slipped through unnoticed, feeling my way around. The light was dim, and my eyes took a moment to adjust as I furiously scanned every corner for activity. They came to rest on a figure slumped in the corner, jeans tattered and stained, T-shirt darkened, hands behind his back and burlap sack over his head.
Gripping the fork until I lost feeling in my fingers, I quickly slapped the other palm across my mouth to stop the cries that threatened to tumble out. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to take a breath.
Before I could contemplate a strategy in my head, the back door opened again, and a man walked in, his boots making a loud clomping sound against the tile floor. Paralyzed by fear, I twisted my body into the shadows behind a chef’s cart. Hunched over and trembling, I glanced between the metal bars of the rolling cart as a steel-toed boot landed a swift kick in the hooded man’s ribcage. I closed my eyes, unable to stomach the seven that followed.
When the silence returned, I opened an eyelid a sliver as the steel-toed-boot man crouched down. “Hola, señor Lachey. We finally meet.”
Chapter Seven
Eden
Lachey.
As the words reconciled in my head, I opened both eyes and rose to my knees, leaning forward for a closer look. All I could see was the back of the intruder’s head.
This wasn’t real. Surely, I’d heard wrong.
“My men tell me you’ve had a problem paying us our money. You should know we don’t tolerate outstanding debt.”
Debt? What debt? Oh, God, what had my father done?
A muffled voice rumbled from inside the burlap. “Fuck you.”
The steel-toed-boot man laughed maniacally. “No, fuck you, Lachey. See, the jefe is getting his ten one way or the other.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket and pressed a button, releasing the blade. “So, you can count them out on your stealing fingers, or we can just count your fingers.” He jerked the sack off the limp man’s head, as he proudly displayed his blade.
I clamped my hand over my mouth again. Time slowed as a fog drifted into my brain, distorting the connection between what I witnessed and what I could process as reality. As my vision swam, one word repeated on a tongue that never moved.
No no no no no.
His face was bloody, broken, and so familiar that I saw it in my own reflection.
Nash.
It took everything inside of me not to call out to him. My brother barely hung on, and I hid behind a chef’s cart like a fucking coward. As I leaned against the metal, it shook with tremors from my body that refused to listen to reason or rationality.
What meaning did those two words hold when my brother lay broken no more than eight feet away from me, and I couldn’t help him?
The platinum blond chunk that always hung in his face lay matted and soaked in his own blood. His eyes were swollen and purple, his lip busted open and bleeding onto his shirt. Open cuts on his cheeks marred his skin. I could see the labored breathing from his chest rattling with each exertion.
Broken ribs.
Terror ate at my soul as I crouched in my confinement, tears rolling down my cheeks. My brain was a jumble of prayers, divided by shuddered breaths.
Please let him go. Please let him go.
“Let’s have some fun, shall we, Lachey?” The steel-toed-boot man knelt beside Nash and in that moment, my world stopped. The voice connected with the face, and the tears rolled harder.
Emilio.
My boss. My friend. The man I trusted everyday as I sat alone with him in a darkened office of a dirty bar had beaten my brother near death.
“Screw you.” Nash coughed, blood creating a splatter pattern on Emilio’s white T-shirt. “I’ve had enough fun for one day, thanks.”
Emilio laughed, seemingly amused. “I have to admit, you put up more of a fight than most of my junkies.” He scratched his chin with the tip of his knife. “I like that, Lachey. You’ve got balls.”
“I’m no junkie, asshole.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I told you,” Nash wheezed, his breath coming out weaker by the minute. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I never touched your damn drugs.”
“They all say that too.” Emilio chuckled, his laugh hollow with impatience. “But see, Lachey, the problem is that I’m bored with you, and I’ve got other shit to do. So, let’s get this over with so we can both get back home, all right?”
The lump in my throat grew the minute Emilio wrapped a hand around Nash’s wrist as he struggled against him. Garbled curse words fell from my brother’s mouth as his hold on his mask of indifference slipped. The moment Emilio dragged him to the wooden chopping block and held the blade against the tip of Nash’s right forefinger, reality set in his eyes.
This was no mistake.
This was no joke.
This was real, and the only person left to protect him hid in the corner crying for her own pathetic life. I willed my feet to move, but the signal from my brain to my feet short circuited, leaving me paralyzed.