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

a car. I unfold from the huge seat, and aim for the careless, easy grace I used to have. Then I pause, fully aware that we are just inches apart. I look him in the eye.

“Why are you doing this?”

Not the words I thought I wanted to say, though I can’t remember what those were. I can’t take it back even if I’m not sure I want a real answer, so I let the question ride.

He blinks, like I caught him off guard. But I don’t believe that pretty act anymore. He catches damn near everything, then plays dumb. Sometimes he plays dumb with me. Lately it’s been a direct approach that grates my fucking nerves - something I believe he also knows.

He pushes the car door hard enough that it slams, but his eyes never leave mine. I’m not fool enough to think he’ll back down from me, either. Those days are long gone. The blue of his gaze accentuates the way his forehead creases into a frown.

“You have no idea how many hours I lost at nights wondering how you could fuck me then kick me to the curb. Long nights cycling through questions like what did I do wrong? Why did I ever tell you that I love you? Why would you bother with the rookie when you could have anyone with the snap of your fingers?”

The quiet challenge that has been present all day ebbs into a different kind of honesty. Tension still ricochets between us, but it’s strung with a lot of pent-up regret. That’s the part that finds a hole in my armor. He regrets everything.

“It took a year of distancing my emotions from you, and a parade of twats to distract me. I thought I had let it all go, then here you came, barreling back in through all my defenses with a move so simple as closing a door. I’ve learned so much in the last few days, enough to realize that the first time you fucked me, it was for escape. I don’t think the second time was much different. I’ll be damned, but I don’t care if that’s all it is. The truth here is that after all of that, I still want to be close to you. If being your escape is the way to do it, that’s what I’ll be.”

My breath hangs in my chest, my voice tangled with it in a painful knot. Tears fight to rise despite my resistance. I’m tired of crying, but it hurts so damn much. He’s willing to be used to be at my side. And if I’m completely honest with myself, I know he’s not the only one I used. That’s why I’m so alone now.

Suddenly his attention snaps toward the road, and his frown hardens to a scowl. Before my eyes can follow, three shots rip into the peace of the night. A strangled cry comes from Josh, and he’s moving like a whip to shove me hard down to the pavement. Tires squeal. He lands on top of me and doesn’t move.

I’m shaking beneath him. Everything happened so fast. He groans, and the panic that threatens to consume me flatlines. Cartel Maria emerges, ordering what details I can remember. Shots fired. None of them hit me. No chance of catching up to the source now. I’m not even strapped. What was I thinking leaving my gun at home?

“Josh!”

I roll him off of me as gently as I can. He grunts, so at least I know he’s not dead.

“Answer me!” I cry.

My hands are still shaking, but it’s anger now. How dare anyone fire in my direction. How dare they hurt my right hand.

“Are you…all right?” he asks through clenched teeth.

He’s shaking, too, but I don’t think it’s anger. More likely shock.

A string of angry Spanish pours from me as I search him for the inevitable. They’re all too easy to find, the bloody hole in his left side, and the one in his arm. Frantically I look for a third.

“I’m fine. What were you thinking!” I snap.

“Doing my…job,” he says.

More curses pour from my lips.

“You’re gorgeous…when you’re…pissed,” he says between winces.

I can’t find a third bullet, which is less of a relief than it should be. The shot to the arm isn’t fatal, but the one in his side has disrupted some organs. The shaking in his limbs is getting worse.

“Shut up and help me get you in the car!” I growl.

I believe he tries to move, but I mostly drag him to the back seat of the Caddy. I’m losing precious moments. That’s all I can think as I heave both of us backward into the huge seat. I need to stem the bleeding if I can. I need to get him out of here.

Once he’s lying across the seat, I climb out the other side. I race to the trunk and throw it open, searching for anything that might help me. My lips are moving in a silent prayer to any force that might listen, as my eyes scan clothes from my various meetings, a crowbar, a toolbox.

Yes! I flip the lid of the toolbox open and snatch out a roll of duct tape in one motion. I grab whatever piece of clothing is the closest and slam the trunk down. Back in the seat, I stuff the shirt against his side, wrap the tape around him.

Two minutes later, I’m shifting into reverse and punching the gas. Now tears rise and drain. I ignore them, just as I ignore the blood on my hands and the memories it stirs. I throw the transmission into first only because I have to, and my tires squeal as I shoot down the alley.

Once I navigate onto the main road, and I’m weaving through traffic, I grab my phone. I don’t care that blood smears all over the screen.

“Call Frederick!” I scream.

“OK, calling Frederick,” answers the automated female voice.

“Please pick up,” I mutter on repeat as I listen to it ring,