Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (the false prince .TXT) 📕

I take another drink, and eye the folder. I don't pick it up or open it. They've handed me the key to their empire, enough financial bullets to riddle their mansion with holes. Unfuckingbelievable.

“When do I leave?” I ask, and lazily lift my gaze back to Mona.

She's still watching me with that sly calculation. She's trying to read me again.

I add, “The sooner I don't have to see you anymore, the better.”

She takes a slow drink of water, and the suspicion thins to something that might be hatred. I hope I've escalated it to that already. In my periphery, I can see offense all over Lucas's expression, but he doesn't say anything. Could it be that he still doesn't know he's not a part of this anymore?

Mona looks away to the ocean, like she can dismiss me now, and says, “We leave tomorrow.”

We? My horror and disappointment flood my body so that I can't keep it off my face. Just when I'm sure this situation can't smell any more like a cow pasture, my ex drops another pile of shit on top of my sigh of relief.

My next thought is that I guess they don't have quite as much confidence in enlisting my help as they seem to be trying to portray. It could be a number of things: one, they're not entirely convinced I won't defect; two, they don't believe the Mexicans won't just kill me; or three, they think their would-be business associates will enlist my help to fuck them over. So Daddy's sending his little princess.

As unlikely as it is, I can't help but imagine Mona sitting across the table from Maria. What a rocky meeting that would be, Mona's pampered ass trying to stand up to Maria's fine-tuned steel of a mean mug. A little audible laugh rolls from me, and I remember my company.

Mona is staring at me expectantly, and Lucas looks puzzled and pissy simultaneously. My momentary joy deflates, and it occurs to me to wonder if when she says ‘we,’ she means we three. Judging by the disdain in her lover boy, I bet that's exactly what she means.

“Greeeeaaat,” I drawl. “I've missed the city of sin.”

What a blatant lie. I can think of a million things I'd rather do than trudge through air thick enough to cut with these two assholes. Diving head-first off the fishing trawler in international waters and swimming back to the shore comes to mind. But I might as well milk the situation for what clout I can with my new partners-in-bureaucratic-crime.

Mona's eyes narrow back to suspicion, but she doesn't speak. A few strangled minutes pass, during which my eyes wander out to the ocean. Then Lucas quietly says, “I'll confirm travel plans with the right people.”

I wonder who he's talking to. Doesn't he realize no one is listening?

Chapter 9 From the Hip

Maria

When there's a family dinner, you dress. You represent your operation, you show face, and you pack heat. The general idea is that if anyone decides to get stupid with a weapon, everyone else is just as armed. I never realized how difficult it is to accessorize a little black dress with a .40.

I'm staring at my reflection, full length. The dress is simple, strappy, and hugs my curves. I don't wear shit like this often, so when I do I make it an occasion. The heels are modest, classic pumps, but they do the job, and I won't break an ankle in them.

Besides, the dress is a big enough deal, flashy shoes would just be tacky. My eyes are darkly lined, and my hair is loose in big curls against my shoulders and back. The Smith and Wesson is in my hand. That's a whole lot of gun for a thigh strap, and a shoulder holster will kill the outfit. What would Charlie do?

He wouldn't wear a little black dress, for starters. He would go from the hip. A quick draw with this big-ass gun wouldn’t mean shit to him. I bet this gun never once felt heavy to him.

My holsters are hanging in my closet, between the business casual stuff and a couple of long-sleeved shirts I will never wear. I sift through them until I find the matte black belt and hip holster. It's a little big, so it cocks at an angle across my hips. I leave it that way and dock the chrome piece.

Charlie loved to hog the attention, enjoyed being the center of everything. I check myself in the mirror again. I'm not like my brother was. The center is a perpetual nebula of scary shit. The more the spotlight shines on me, the more I'm starting to prefer the shadows. And the more I realize why Izzy taught me chess. What's that called? Irony.

The thought of that ghost stirs a familiar pang in my gut, the same damn feeling I had when he pulled up in a red truck to save my stupid ass: guilt. Nothing doing to change shit now, but the look on his face that night still haunts me. I can't afford to start wondering what became of him before a family dinner, so I shake it off. Just then, my doorbell rings.

It's either Frederick or Josh, because if this night wasn't already stressful enough, they both have to be there. I leave myself behind with the mirror, and click through my open apartment to the door. The place was quite the find, a house modified into units, on the fringes of the Garden District, the price low on the list of shit that matters.

I check the peephole, and bite back a curse. Why didn't I even consider that they'd show up together?

I swing open the door and step back to let them in. For one dramatic and frozen moment, neither of them moves. They're framed and backlit by the hall light so that the details of