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

train, and walk back into the kitchen. I grab two shot glasses and the bottle of Patrón from the counter. When I clunk them down on the table, Josh's gaze darts up.

His eyes round, and he looks from the liquor to me, and back in three quick seconds. Fair is fair, maybe I failed to realize how blindsiding this combination of elements would be. It just happened to be the booze I have on hand, and also a ritual of our origins.

He's staring at the brown liquor, and his hands have stopped moving. His eyes are wide, like the first time I disarmed him. He's drifting, maybe drowning.

So I say, “I don't think I've ever seen a shitty blunt from you.”

It's true. It's small, but it's easy to give. What am I doing? Moving from the gut, more so than from the hip. I won't let what's left of my crew dissolve into awkward silences and whispered secrets. We at least owe it to my brother to not be that, and I'm the one who has to figure out the ‘how’ part. I feel like I'm about to lose to no one other than myself. And Abuela. Of course.

My words don't win his attention. They rarely do anymore. When he looks away, it's back to the blunt. He doesn't say anything until he's finished, and I don't push him to. I watch his blue eyes squint as he sparks his work, and I watch his fingers roll it in the flame for an even light.

To speak now would ruin it. I don't smoke with others very often anymore, and it's only on the rare occasion when I do that I realize I miss it. We both sat through that dinner, all the bullshit and appearances and celebrating. But we've both been there when it was a meal prepared by Abuela's own hands, and when dessert consisted of a blunt – rolled by Joshua – and poker. This is a mutual first high of the day, the first moment of relaxation. He passes it to me.

I used to love to hit it long and hard, but lately, I've enjoyed the small tokes. Just a little at a time, let it build. It's probably just a habit I've developed from smoking alone. I mostly smoke out of glass now, and a little bit goes a much longer distance. If I were being completely honest, I wouldn't have suggested a blunt, because I don't know if I'll still be standing at the other end of it. Well, sitting anyway.

I pass.

Who am I kidding. No one would be standing or sitting at the other end of this blunt. My personal is the highest grade. So is his. It's the same shit. Yet he accepted my challenge, knowing exactly what he was doing the whole time. The point here has nothing to do with the end.

That first hit was sacred, but it's the second hit that activates release. I let him have his before I pop open the tequila. Some people can smoke and drink in any order or increment. Josh has always been better to smoke first, then drink. I used to use his shaky nerves as an easy target, but now his soft spots are guarded, and I understand the jitters better than I'd like to.

I set the bottle to the side and hit the blunt again. It's still burning evenly, and I set it in the tiny flower-shaped ashtray from the box. To Charlie.

I nod to the shots. This has always been the first step.

He accepts, no grimace, no hesitation, no bravado. He looks me in the eye as we clink our tiny glasses, tap them on the table, and toss them back. He doesn't flinch. Not a fucking twitch or indication that he has tasted anything. Could it be that he's outgrown me?

He looks at his empty shot glass as he says, “I can see there's more going on here than dinner and a show. I'm sure I'll get the low-down when I need to know. I'm sure there are all kinds of details and deals that I don't need to know, that keep you from telling me what's actually going on. So for fuck's sake don't be coy.”

I'm staring at the same thing as a familiar buzzing creeps through my limbs. Still, my movements are on point as I immediately pour two more shots. Then I level my gaze on him until he answers my summons.

I don't touch the shot, don't move at all, and neither does he. He's looking me in the eye when I say, “The last intel I received indicated that Abuela wants to restructure our division.”

I can feel the tears gather against the bottom rims of my eyes. I refuse to blink. I won't let them fall. He snatches the blunt out of the ashtray and hits it hard.

He passes the smoke to me with a certainty that I won't refuse him. He's right. I just take it. And I hit it.

Then I say, “She wants to move Frederick out.”

The blunt burns between us, and the shots beckon us. He's thinking, slow, methodical – and I realize again what I've already realized a million times. I don't know him anymore.

I add, “That's all I know, and it's from the grapevine.”

When he sets the blunt in the ashtray, his expression contorts into a raw kind of pain. He nails me with his bright blue eye contact, and says, “How far down the grapevine?”

“Just a rung,” I answer, more breathily than I like. I was trying to be smooth, but even I don't believe me.

He's looking right at me, so I don't have much faith in my stealth. I've seen Josh get red, seen him fight, and I've seen him get an attitude. The emotion that's coming across the table, I've never seen that look on him: rage.

He moves like slow motion when he picks up his shot, and he watches me the whole time. The blunt burns