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

when he hands me the other tools. I get the notion he wants to ask if I'll tell him when I figure it out. He doesn't.

After today, we won't necessarily be on the same team, but I have to wonder how much Abuela expects to change. I also get the feeling that Maria warned Josh it was coming. He's handling everything pretty well. He deserved to know.

I roll under the car, but for a stretch, I just stare up at the parts. What if she's counting on it? The same loyalty I thought Abuela meant to destroy, she wants to use to her advantage in the face of a rival family. Of course. What a bitch.

Josh's question resounds, though. The only one I can't begin to guess the answer to. Just where does Isaiah play in all this?

Chapter 16 Shots at the Shadows

Joshua

The Challenger growls as I wait for the light to change. It's dark, but I can still see the woman in the car next to me staring. I ignore her. The sound of the engine is haunted by the last thing Freddy said to me before he started his bike.

You should probably check on her. She's a mess by now.

I've never heard that tone from him. It was . . . sad. All this time, I guessed he would have stepped up and been her man. Now I think I was wrong. What a dick, seriously, to have such an unchallenged piece of her heart, and to leave it wanting. For him to turn over so easy, to give me his place without a fight, it doesn't sit right. Maybe that's why I'm driving toward her place instead of mine.

The light changes. I punch the gas and shift her up.

I'm moderately buzzed from the beer and the second joint, but it doesn't calm me much. If Freddy's right, I'm on my own. It's Maria, a ledge, and me. I have no idea what I'm doing.

I shift the Challenger into the lot, and the sight of the Caddy in its spot is a bloom of relief. At least she's safe if she's home.

I pull into the space beside the '73 Calais, white paint covered in a coat of dirt. She's no good at keeping it washed. Charlie would shit a brick of weed worthy of the garbage we've managed – miraculously – to move lately.

Goddammit. Once upon a time, he told me to stay away from her. We partied together. He knew I never invested in a woman for the long term, knew me for the smooth operator that I was. I always thought that was the reason he said that shit. I never was sure of his reasoning, but I can damn well guess that he didn't imagine I'd be the one to show up when no one else will.

I kill the engine, and for a long time I just sit there. What the fuck am I doing? Is this smart, or really stupid?

My gaze tugs toward the Caddy again. Too many memories ride in those seats. Too many ghosts. One memory in particular plays like a dream that won't let go. A roadside moment, a desperate Hail Mary, and my very first experience with a Molotov cocktail. It's the only time I've seen something blow like that, a thought that threatens to turn bitter.

I slip my phone from my pocket, bring it to life, and hit her name. My thumb hovers over the call icon. Freddy's intuition is damn near infallible. I'd be doing him a wrong by ignoring his advice.

The phone rings long enough that I'm sure the voice mail will pick up. It doesn't. All she says is, “No more bus'ness today, Joshua.”

“Are you OK?”

She laughs, but it's not an amused sound. She says, “Soy la reina de Mexico.”

Freddy was right. This is bad. Her words are slurred, but her Spanish is second nature. I wonder if she thinks I don't know what she just said.

I say, “Are you drunk?”

She doesn't say anything for a stretch. I can hear music in the background, punk, so I know she didn't hang up.

Finally she says, “No. It's all gone.”

And something large shatters.

“Jesus,” I mutter, throwing open the car door.

She laughs again, and this time it is amused. Then she says, “Nope. He's in the receiving department.”

The car door slams behind me, but I don't think she notices the sound. I half-run to the stairs that will take me up to her second-floor hallway. I hang up on the way.

When I get to her door, some shadow of me hints that I should knock, respect her privacy. Whatever. I try the knob, and it turns, so I rush into the open kitchen-dining room area.

She's still holding her phone to her head. She's wearing a plain white tank top, no bra, and a pair of tiny shorts. Her hair is down, but it's a tangled mess. Her eyes are red, and her cheeks are wet. Broken glass litters the floor around her. She's barefoot.

She turns to me, not the sharp, seasoned girl from the street. She's not drunk. She's wasted. Her expression transforms into open confusion, then to suspicion. The phone lowers to her side, and she sways. If she stumbles, there's a good chance she'll cut the shit out of her feet.

“Why are you here?” she spits with venom that I don't believe is really meant for me.

“I was worried about you,” I answer steadily, tone soft against her agitation.

Her expression twists and she gestures broadly. She slurs again when she says, “An' that gives you permiss'n to come on in? I don't fuckin' think so.”

She takes a shaky step toward me, and my gut twists. Christ, if I thought I had some kind of patience and diplomatic skill, I was wrong. This situation is quickly pissing me off. Not because of her decision to dive off the deep end into a bottle