Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

Finally, Abuela walks to the head of the table. You could hear a pin drop, the room goes so quiet. She's done up in a black gown with a modest neckline and broad straps. Her hair is pulled into a simple up-do, and there are pearls around her throat. Abuela has also decided to shoot from the hip. She has double holsters, gold-plated custom 1911s nestled in them. Their presence strings chills across my skin.

She picks up her glass, red, with the grace of a dancer, and lifts it into the air. We all follow suit and wait for her to speak. She makes a show of looking around at everyone before she says a word. I must only imagine that her gaze lingers a bit longer on me.

Then she says, “I've gathered you all here because Jorge has made a very important connection for his division. With our lives being so busy, we don't come together enough to celebrate the good things. Well done, Jorge.”

She gestures toward him with her wine glass, and everyone drinks. Except me, I pretend to drink. My heart is banging against my ribs, and my stomach is somersaulting toward the floor. If I drank anything, it would come directly back up.

Not a word about my operation, and a nod to Jorge. He's not division head, but the right hand who handles the massive amounts of heroin and prescription pills that come across the border. Well, good for us. It has nothing to do with me.

Abuela takes her seat, and a soft chatter breaks out around the room. A tentative conversation about sports buds between Josh and one of the guys from packaging. Even here, Frederick isn't approachable, and he broods quietly as we begin our meal.

I look around. We're celebrating, but we're all wearing black.

From here, it's eat, endure protocol for another hour or so, and get the fuck out. There's no actual business to be had, and this dress has a time limit.

On one hand, I'm glad Abuela was not the bitch I expected her to be, it leaves me wondering what she's really trying to play. Her tests are relentless, and exhausting. Right now I'd rather curl up on a couch with a blanket and a stupid movie, a bottle of tequila, and forget my name. I can't, though, not if I want to take the ranks by storm. And what other point is there in all of this than getting to the top?

So I'll grin and bear it. Well, I'm not actually grinning, but I'll suck it up until this shit is over. Later, alone, in the dark, that's when I'll break down.

Chapter 11 Dinner and a Show

Maria

The car ride back into town is long, and quiet. Frederick drives, and I wonder if he feels my eyes on him occasionally and sideways.

Sometimes I wish that if I looked hard enough, I could see what he does. He keeps it all too far away, though. It's too dark to see the scars he wears for me, but I know them like I know this road. The scars on his psyche and his soul, those are the ones I'll probably never see. And those are still because of me.

Joshua shifts in the back seat, and with him, my thoughts. It's easy to direct my anger at him. Sometimes I think he craves it, like he wants me on edge. His reaction to my betrayal has been the most interesting.

Sure, it made sense for Izzy to walk away, and for Freddy to close up. But Joshua has, in the truest sense of the words, learned his lesson. I didn't intend to be the one to show him that the curveball can come at any moment, from any direction. I sure as hell didn't want to break his heart.

Just as he promised, he's never said another word about us. Nothing about the way he held me gently in the rising morning, among a doomed and chaotic aftermath. Or the way he pleasured me slowly, attentively, reverently. He told me once that it's not a lie if he doesn't speak it. He doesn't talk to me about anything but business, and sometimes I wonder if his denial has hardened into hatred yet. If it hasn't, it's close.

It's easy to forget that he's one less level deep in the shit. He doesn't have a clue that there's a strong possibility that he's about to get a promotion. At least, I don't think Frederick would tell him. I can never tell with those two anymore. It occurs to me that this is an ugly mirror of a past mistake.

The easiest route back into town for everyone is to drop Freddy off, and take Josh back to his car at my place. Freddy swings the Caddy into an open parallel space close to his apartment. His vintage Indian is parked across the street, a bike he bought for next to nothing and nursed back to road worthy.

He throws the car into park, and we all get out. A moment of nostalgia washes over me like nausea, and for a flash, it's like we're all going home together. We're not, we're just changing drivers.

I tell Freddy, “I need you around 9:30 tomorrow, I have a couple errands.”

He hesitates long enough to stir that nagging anxiety in my gut, then says, “I can't. Josh will have to do it.”

“You can't?” I ask, and I feel like I'm choking.

Again the silence stretches, and my hand tightens on the door handle. I can guess what he's about to say. I don't want to hear it. I don't ever want to hear it.

Quietly he says, “I have a meeting, with Abuela.”

I turn abruptly to Josh and say, “Does that work with your busy schedule?”

There's too much edge on my words. He hasn't done shit to deserve it, and his brow creases. There's no edge at all when