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

“You're so hard now, right?” she asks.

There's venom in her tone, and her words are edged in bitterness, but if I know her at all, I know she's blaming herself for something.

My lips hook into a smile she'll never see. I gently run my fingers along her collar bone, and a slow sigh leaks from her. I wonder if she even realizes she did it.

“I've seen a thing or two,” I answer.

I trail my touch down her bare arm, and she shudders. Now I know she's baited. I could lie and say it was easy, but she is a mysterious, and at times tempestuous creature. At any moment, the scales can tip. She might pull away, lock down her armor, and take a swing.

“Congrats, isn't that what you wanted?” she says, still with that sharp tone that tells me she's the one on the defensive now.

That attitude, the way she's such a bitch, it makes so much sense now. It's a defense, an attempt to deny that regardless of whether she has ever loved me, or not, I can still make her wet.

“That's not exactly what I wanted,” I tell her, and I brush her outer leg at the hem of her shorts.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and it's a whisper.

I pull my hand away from her. Goddamn, I am hard. I'd love to drag her into a bathroom somewhere and fuck the hell out of her. But this isn't about what I want right at this moment. I heard somewhere that sharks will stalk their prey for hours before going for the kill.

I keep my voice in her ear when I say, “I guess I'm breaking the rules. Sorry, it won't happen again. Not unless you tell me to.”

Then I step back, and shove my hands in my pockets. Freddy may talk shit about my wardrobe, but I'm glad these shorts are baggy.

For a long time, Maria doesn't move. She keeps staring into the big tank, her eyes rolling around as she tracks the shark's rhythmic progress. When she turns to me, the mask is up. She's not quite mad, but I've definitely riled her pretty feathers.

She says, “So, shall we see what the Amazon rain forest has that can kill us?”

I bow sarcastically, wave a hand dramatically, and say, “Lead the way, princess.”

“Call me princess again and I'll deck you in the mouth,” she says, and walks away.

Chapter 20 Dirty Hands

Frederick

There are some people in this underworld, a handful maybe, who realize that the information trade is a lucrative one. Even and especially on the inside. The numbers remain few because this sort of exchange could easily be viewed as conspiring against those in power – the kind of treason that gets you tortured and killed. So naturally the whole web must be executed quietly, and carefully.

I meet Johnny Rocks in a seedy biker bar away from the epicenter of our operation, a territory we generally avoid. If Mateo walked in here, he wouldn't walk out, but the club guys don't see me as one of the Mexicans. They've known me since my run with Gram. As for Johnny, well, he's slimier than a landfill. He fits in just fine.

His '86 Camaro is already slung across two spaces when I arrive. I pull my bike up in the remainder of one of them. The humidity is like someone who always violates your personal bubble, no matter how many times you tell them to back up. I'm in a t-shirt and jeans, but I'm sweating in the crushing afternoon. It's not even hot, it just feels like a fucking sauna.

Inside the bar isn't much better. Stale smoke hangs around the ceiling, and the air isn't moving at all. It's early, so there are only a couple other people here: a hulking, scruffy man in a leather jacket with club colors; an old timer who might be asleep sitting up; and the bartender whose age is impossible to tell, and who looks like she's been run through by several generations of club initiates.

Johnny is posted up at a table a safe distance from all of them, drinking a bottle of beer with a koozie on it. He's in his forties, practically an antique in this world. His story isn't so different from mine, used to raise hell with roughnecks, dabbled in some illicit trades, and eventually fell in with someone from Abuela's crew. He never worked for the Reapers, but he was one of my go-tos when I did.

He's wearing a denim vest with stains instead of patches, with the remnants of a white shirt beneath. May those sleeves rest in peace. I guess the fashion statement matches the car.

He has short salt-and-pepper hair spiked up like he's eighteen, and his eyes are bright blue and chemically dulled. His left arm is covered in shaky, shitty black-and-gray tattoos, and the right bears a scar from elbow to shoulder. He's the kind of guy who tells the story of how it happened a lot. Every time I've ever heard him recollect the event, the entire story is different.

The only way you'll ever hear the truth from Johnny Rocks is when you're clever and depraved enough to catch it. He's usually on speed, and he gives the run-around for the fuck of it, but his roots never go deep, and that's something I can appreciate.

I order a Kentucky bourbon, straight up. The ragged bartender stares at me – I think she's staring at me – her lips thin and dark red. I'm not sure if I've confused her or she's about to give me some shit, so I flash some cash.

She says, “Uuuuuh, comin' right up.”

Her eyes roll up and away from the money, and she nods. The way she moves in slow motion says to me she's high on some opiate. She over-pours. I tip two dollars, and go take the stool