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

of attention. Every eye goes to her save mine. I watch Isaiah, and I see the loathing that flickers across his gaze when he sees her.

His eyes skip to me, like he can feel my attention, and when he sees that I'm watching him, he gives me a wry smile. This cocky motherfucker. It takes most of my resolve to hide my surprise, so the best answer I can give is a slight narrowing of my eyes.

I hear Abuela say in Spanish, “Oh, Maria, it's good that you're here. I need to speak with you, please.”

Abuela doesn't say ‘please.’ Still, I can feel the tension shift as Maria must yield to her grandmother's wishes also as she doesn't ask about Jorge's business – that includes Isaiah, her brother's old right hand.

Is there no bottom to the depths of Abuela's cruelty? It's a small part of me that wants to scream the question out loud, one that would never actually do it, and so the better part of me wonders if Isaiah ever learned Spanish. Even Josh can carry on a basic conversation now.

“Of course,” says Maria, and her voice is tiny.

It's controlled, I'll give her that, but it's so small and weak. If I had any doubts about warning her of what was coming, I'm goddamned glad I did now. If I hadn't, she'd lose it on the other side of that door. She'd lose it without me there to catch her.

Isaiah looks from me to Josh, and that fucking smile fades so slow it's almost comical. Or it would have been, if his next move weren't to slide his hands in his pockets like he's modeling for a clothing advertisement. I know damn well from the slip in his expression, and the way he used to dodge everything, that he doesn't give a good goddamn if Abuela addresses him. She has suddenly appeared to defuse the situation, and he'll let her.

I slide my eyes sideways, also to Josh. He's got one gun on his hip, and his hand is mere inches from it. He, too, has hesitated to draw here, but he wants to. He's always needed Isaiah to kick his ass, just once, to knock him off the peg he didn't earn.

Or maybe I should shove him off the edge. These days, I have to rely on him, and I even kind of like him sometimes. He acts hard, but he's still soft. He performed under pressure, but he wasn't tested after that.

Maria turns her back to me, and I miss her reaction in favor of his. He hesitates for just a flash, staring Izzy down. I almost want him to move, to act for all of us, but that would be a disaster. Then he turns away, that hard-set expression still in place. Abuela never so much as glances at the others, although none of us would believe that she didn't see them.

The door closes, and I look back in time to see Izzy realize that I'm not going with them. His gaze grazes over my guns, and mine skips to Jorge, who jumps like I've screamed at him. Fucking weasel.

There are no answers to be had here. It's not worth risking an altercation with either of them, because if I heard either of them speak right now, I would probably discharge two firearms multiple times within city limits, and in Abuela's house. I don't have a death wish just yet, so I square my shoulders and hold the grim expression as I walk toward them.

They're both frozen, no doubt readying themselves for anything. There's no reason to make a move now, my point has been made. Whether either of them will catch the point? Who am I to say?

As I pass him, Isaiah makes eye contact, a sideways look. I hold it long enough to confirm my earlier observations. Reckless is a perfect description of what I see shining back at me. He apparently doesn't have a death wish just yet, either, because he doesn't move a muscle. He just holds his stance, doesn't tense up, doesn't flinch.

The moment passes. I'm walking away, and he's standing there, and I'd bet these 1911s that he'd rather be where I am.

Chapter 15 Free Agent

Frederick

I roll the Indian into the garage lot, and park it. I let the engine growl for a bit before I shut it off. The only time I enjoy turning heads is when they hear this streamlined beast coming. This bike came back from the dead. Only true fans could understand.

Josh is already here, the garage door is up, and so is his hood. A greased-up Cajun by the name of Spanky is checking out the car's guts. I think that’s his name, anyway.

Spanky is one of the few associates of mine whose interest lies almost solely in a legal trade. He knows where to get old parts for real cheap, and though sometimes I don't know what the fuck he's saying to me, he's reliable. He owns the place, and for a fat sack, he lets me use his space when he can. He's used to seeing the Caddy. The Challenger is a new treat.

I swing a leg over my bike, then replace my road goggles with my wire-framed glasses. The days are fading earlier the closer we get to fall, and the air has cooled from the mid-summer shroud of humidity and heat. The ride over was nice, wind against my face, carrying what last bits of aggravation lingered from the earlier part of the day.

Everything changes tomorrow, but tonight, I've agreed to do a tune-up on Josh's Challenger. He offered me money, but I won't take it. I just want to get elbow deep in that machine.

I've dressed down in a pair of stained jeans, my old motorcycle boots, and a pristine white t-shirt. It's something of a ritual, the process of getting a clean shirt dirty.