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

first person I run into, but I won't walk in smiling like I know I'm about to steal the show. Like a stupid girl.

The guys stay mindfully and quietly close, as if anyone here would ever question their loyalty. As I hold my head high, and hold my bitchy mask, it occurs to me why Abuela would rearrange my ranks. Because they are loyal to me, not to her.

My gut flips, and my head spins, and for just a moment I'm sure I'm about to lose to a panic attack. My steps slow a fraction, but I don't stop.

By now, the attention is on me. I can hear soft murmurs, and feel hungry eyes, and maybe I was wrong about being able to handle this. Maybe this is all a little too much attention.

“Maria!”

My name in a deep baritone, smooth voice and sharp accent. Mateo.

The anxiety disappears, replaced by hot rage, the perfect thing to pull me off the ledge. When the switch flips to anger, I'm not inclined to hesitation. The hardest part is not decking him in the mouth for saying my name.

I take a long, silent breath, and turn to him with a smile. It's not an incredibly fake smile, nor is it full of warmth. It's a sultry thing, the kind that gets you free drinks at the bar. His eyes widen, and – I'm waiting for it – he can't help himself. His attention drags all the way down to the gun.

He doesn't move in for a hug, rather he stays at a safe distance. Pussy. I reach my hand out to shake, and he kisses the backs of my fingers. I feel his lips brush my skin and I want to break his nose. So now he's some brown-skinned knight who kisses ladies' hands? This is a special kind of bullshit.

“You look devastating,” he says.

He's fully fluent in English, so I don't believe he means anything but devastating. The two behind me would agree. It's most likely a jab, and it feels like a kidney shot.

So I say, “That's fitting.”

One of his eyebrows lifts. I wonder if he even notices that he shows me his surprise. I scan past him, sizing up who's here and who's not, getting and giving that first impression. I've simultaneously dismissed him for the moment.

I don't see anyone else from the ranks of Security, a fact that is glaringly off. Surely Abuela wouldn't announce a move like that in front of everyone without ever even telling me it was coming.

“Josh, Frederick, good evening,” says Mateo, maybe in an effort to save face. Maybe not. He didn't address Frederick when there wasn't a crowd around.

Josh shakes his hand, but Freddy just nods. I can't even imagine the effort he's making to fake it.

I swing my attention back to Mateo, and nail him with my own surprise – a much more contrived affair. I say, “Flying solo tonight? Ballsy.”

It's bad form to ask about internal issues across divisions, so I can toe only so close to the line.

He bristles, but then he smirks and says, “Don't worry, I've got enough heat for two. See you at dinner.”

He struts away, and I swipe my hair over my shoulder. I cut a glance at Frederick, but the mask is up when he meets my eyes. I can be assured in one thing, he won't lose his composure here.

He looks past me to Josh. When I turn the other way, I see that Josh is openly glaring at Mateo's back. Not at all what I was expecting.

“Joshua,” I say softly, so that it doesn't reach past us.

His gaze cuts to me, and the glare melts. Something more melancholy replaces the anger, then he looks away.

A bell rings three times. Good, we timed our arrival damn near perfectly. Dinner will begin shortly, and I don't have to make small talk with anyone else.

I notice that Abuela's normal table, large by most standards, has been replaced with something even bigger. Each place setting is marked by name, and each crew is seated together. Through whatever misfortune, Abuela has seated me opposite the head, facing her at the other end of the long table. Frederick is on my right, Josh to my left. This is a test.

Tension is beginning to buzz among the twenty or so people present. I can't tell if anyone has an idea as to the content of this meeting. Everyone brings their poker faces to this table. I'm not much for praying, but right now I devote some to the thought that Abuela isn't about to publicly tear me apart. I don't think I can pull through this night if she does.

Servers begin pouring wine, and when I'm asked if I want red or white, my voice shakes when I say, “White.”

I hear Frederick say, “Red,” then he nudges my knee with his under the table.

I lock eyes with him, and we could be standing in a bar on Decatur. It's just like old times. He's checking me, reading my stability. My knee starts bouncing. I know he can feel it, and it gives me away, but it's some small outlet for the mounting friction on the inside.

Then his hand lands on my knee, a gentle touch that widens my eyes before I can stop myself. He squeezes softly, a silent assurance that he's got my back, no matter what happens. The move is also a reminder that though he tries to shut it all down, he's still in there, under the mask. And it works. I go still, take a long breath that's not quite a sigh, and rest my arms on the chair arms.

We don't have to say a word, that's always been true. He can read me like a book, bravado or no. I nod, and he looks away to scan the table.

Josh is staring at his wine, pointedly ignoring us. I know he wants to drink it, but no one has touched their glasses. They won't until the toast.