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

cooler goes still. What ever-loving-fucking-fresh-hell is this?

“I said you've got the wrong guy.”

A hand lands on my shoulder. I glance down at the perfect cuticles and French manicure without moving a muscle. It's a small hand, fragile, yet it carries the weight of a distant betrayal.

She says, “Oh no, I've got exactly the right man. Aren't you going to offer me a drink? It's been so long.”

An old rage explodes in the very depths of me, and it paralyzes me. I want nothing more than to flip the cooler open, turn on this bitch, and put a bullet between her eyes. I stare at the ocean, retreating behind the mask that's so easy, hiding the tumultuous storm inside me. I have to be smart. She's not here alone, there's a gun somewhere close by, a bodyguard watching over her.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Her fingers play along my collarbone, and I get the urge to punch her in the mouth.

She says, “My god, you have turned into a big meanie. A little balls looks good on you, Isaiah. So does that tan.”

It's my name, but I haven't heard it in long enough that it sounds strange. It's been more than a year. I can practically feel her attention on my bare torso, and the swim trunks falling off my hips.

This bitch.

She pulls her touch away and steps up beside me, silently demanding the attention I'd rather deny her ‘til Armageddon. Grudgingly, I shove the hat back, and cut my eyes hard to her.

She's fucking gorgeous. She always has been, in that pampered high-class way of hers. She's wearing a linen sundress that probably cost a few hundred dollars, and it's pale against her tan skin. It's the kind of tan that white girls work on, are proud of. Not a natural brown.

Her dark blonde hair flirts with the breeze against her neck, held down by a big floppy hat. Her eyes are hidden by ridiculously oversized shades, but I know they're bright blue. Her lips are red, and smiling down at me with a hint of condescension. Her natural state. The years and money have been kind.

Mona. My ex-fiancée.

She says, “Now, why don't you invite me up to your quaint little porch, offer me a drink, and let's catch up.”

She flicks her chin at the fishing pole.

“Nothing is biting anyway.”

I clench my jaw to stop what I want to say from coming out. Choke on a dick. This doesn't seem optional.

The thing about fishing is that it's not about the catch. It's the process that soothes me. Sure, I enjoy a good snapper or snook, but it's casting out into the great blue nothing and drifting that's kept me sane.

All of the grace I've found at sea is suddenly crumbling. Somehow, I've been snagged in a net against which I have no defense. Just now, I think I'd rather drown.

Chapter 2 Heat and History

Isaiah

My “quaint” little porch is a faded rectangle of wooden slats, no railing, no screen. Just a small table, and two dining room chairs that don't match. The surfaces of them are worn by the constant salt wind. Dune vegetation creeps from beneath the slats, and there's a stretch of other apartments to the right. My neighbors have a privacy fence, which suits me, and my corner of the building is nicely secluded.

Mona sits primly in the chair that used to be red. She makes a production of removing her stupid sunglasses, setting them on the table, and scanning the sorry excuse for a porch. Her gaze sweeps the charcoal grill just off the edge, then the coral paint that seems to be requisite for buildings around here.

The apartment beyond isn't much more than two rooms, and I'm sure she can guess as much. Just her presence here brings back haunting memories of yachts and trophy wives in pearls, big to-do parties with champagne and politicians, a lot of bullshit I confused as love. So much shit.

I pop the tops off of my last two Negra Modelos and put one in front of her, as I take the seat across from her. I didn't bother to find a shirt. She glances down at the beer with a disapproving purse to her lips, a look I remember too well. It always made me want to shove my cock in her mouth.

I hook one arm over the low chair back, and slouch as much as possible. I take a long drink, watching her the whole time, waiting. She can't think I have much to say to her.

She sips gingerly at the beer, makes a little grimace that makes me want to laugh. Dark beer is definitely an acquired taste, a quite different part of the palate than expensive wine and caviar. I don't crack, though. I've come too far to give myself away now.

Finally she folds her hands in her lap, and trains her baby blues on me. She says, “Tell me something. Why the Cape? You're practically in our backyard. Did you think we wouldn't find out?”

Right. She hails from the Gulf Coast, and she would claim the whole of Florida is her fucking backyard. A playground, as far as she is concerned. There's a bitter tang in the back of my throat, and it's not the beer.

For a flash, I miss Charlie. I miss a crew that didn't have a high-class bone in their collective bodies, and I realize I have forgotten something. I hate rich people.

I shrug.

“Maybe I missed the beach a little. Maybe I wanted one that didn't come with a backstabbing cunt in the deed.”

Her eyes widen before she can cover herself. I don't know what her life has been like for the past six years, but I can damn well be sure she's not used to men talking to her like that. Then she smiles, and it's a cruel thing.

She says, “Yes, I heard you're two for two