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

I learned about this place from Noah, after he recovered from the Reaps’ retaliation on us. I kept the bartending shifts during his recovery, and I learned a thing or two from Eva. The money was negligible, but the normalcy was nice. I still pick up a shift here and there if the guys really need me. That's why I know that Cape Cod is a stupid, fancy name for a vodka and cranberry.

I take a pull off my Killians draft and watch her attention wander. It's not the first time it's happened today, and I'm just as weak to it as I was the first time. Her gaze still drifts back to me. It's not strange that she knows I'm looking at her.

For a heavy moment, I let the silence stay close and hold her gaze. I used to envy the way Frederick could look at her and know her thoughts, the way he could anticipate her by checking her. These days, I've started to realize that it's not impossible, once you recognize her bluffs. I have to be honest, I don't really like poker.

She looks away first, to her drink. So I say, “I can't believe you've never been here.”

Her eyebrows lift in demure surprise. She cocks her head to the side a little. Thunder cracks outside, and she jumps. The storm rolled in about twenty minutes ago, took us all by surprise.

She says, “Surely you can understand why we never spent much time in the Quarter.”

A few beats pass, and she adds, “Except Charlie. He always went against the family's warnings.”

The corner of the bar separates us. Still, she's close enough that it makes my blood hot. One of my hands is on my beer. The other is on the bar, abandoned inches from her forearm. It might as well be a million miles until she says the word. The air is thickening in the ambience, so I slip into a more casual tone.

“Charlie never brought me here, either. He liked Decatur, a lot. The bartenders loved us, and the girls were easy to charm.”

Her eyes widen, and for a stretch, I don't think she sees me. It hurts us both to talk about him, something I think she forgets when she drowns in herself. Then she lifts her chin and takes another drink.

Her reaction could be a way of shielding thoughts of her dead brother. Or it could be the strange bitterness she showed me when she was drunk, the jealousy over other women in my life. The second sentiment doesn't make a lot of sense, seeing as how she fucked me and kicked me to the curb. Yet Maria is a fiery woman, and those types don't seem to require logic on their war paths.

“He liked stirring a minimal amount of trouble, but never more than he could smoothly get out of. I wish it were so easy.”

Her voice is quiet, not the defensive edge I expected. In those softly spoken words, there is honesty. Somehow I've earned just a glimpse of her inner sanctuary, and the skeletons that stalk after her. Somehow. A little push, and a little patience. A system of checks and balances that's in the process of changing. A dash of self-control.

I feel like the wheel is spinning in my hands. I'm careening toward showing her everything I've kept hidden. I'll be damned if she's ready or not to really see me again.

I choke up on my beer, and say, “He didn't do it alone.”

She sets her drink down on a coaster. I expect her to look away now, and dodge the subject she doesn't want to address, as she usually does with me. Instead, she watches me intently with eyes narrowed the slightest bit.

She says, “Right. He had the boy wonder at his side. How could I forget?”

There's just enough tension on the edge of her words that I believe they're driven by two forces, the bitterness of missing a dead sibling that vengeance can never quell, and a defense mechanism. When all else fails, give 'em attitude.

I crack a smirk worthy of my mentor, and say, “I learned from the best, as they say.”

May God or whatever else is out there running this show bless your soul. Not a day passes when I don't miss you, Charlie.

She takes a slow drink from the rim of her glass, and keeps her eyes leveled on me. The look is so overt, it's strange coming from her. It occurs to me while she looks at me that way, that though I've baited this game, I've never seen her play. This could be my greatest mistake.

If it is, of course I'll still make it.

“Oh yes, you have some impressive credentials now. He'd be proud and shit,” she says.

Her tone is flat, but there's truth hidden in the words. There's also a glaring otherwise, and damn it all to hell, I'm the one who looks away first. There's a problem in honesty. It breeds the same.

I'm watching my beer glow red when I say, “He told me to stay the fuck away from you. His words. I think he'd be a little pissed.”

She releases a breath that's too slow to be a sigh. She doesn't retreat to the period decorations, or the beer tap and liquor bottles. Her eyes are on me. She hasn't broken yet.

This conversation feels so natural, like we've been spending days like this for years. We know each other, yet we've been at odds with our world. This is the conversation that always could have happened.

She's quiet for long enough to win my attention back. Her brow has creased, and her eyes are sad.

“And you did,” she says, so soft I almost miss it.

Three words and that tiny tone, and it feels like there's a bleeding hole in my center. Truth be damned, this is not where I wanted this night to go. I prop my elbows on the edge of the bar and