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

“Yes. Shut up, Carrie,” I say, each word dipped in venom.

She puffs up her B-cups, and puts a hand in the air. She says, “You can't talk to me that way, you crazy bitch!”

All the stress of a long day hits perfect harmony, so that I barely notice that I've moved until my fingers are wrapping around Carrie's windpipe. She makes a sickening choking sound, and her eyes bulge as she claws at my fingers.

Josh is poised to move, but he knows there's not much he can do to save his damsel without laying hands on me. And he won't dare.

I look her in her terrified eyes when I say, “This is my house, pendeja. If I say you shut your mouth, you fucking do it.”

I slide my eyes sideways to Joshua, who's wearing a familiar face. It's the same one he's always made when I act without remorse.

I say, “Get her out,” and I shove her backward when I let her go.

She stumbles, and gasps. He takes long enough to respond that I think he's about to stand up to me. I almost think he's that stupid. There's too much at stake to lay it out now, in front of this vagina on wheels who will be gone in a week or two. Though she's lasted longer than most of his flings.

At least that's what I hear from Frederick.

Carrie begins shrieking again, and Josh spits a curse as he grabs her by the arm. I tune out the words she screams, and Josh pulls her out the door with an arm around her shoulders. I can hear him shushing her as the door closes.

Silence falls and I'm staring at the door, the .40 hanging at my side. Even if I had met her at my – or her – best, I'd still hate her. Even if it's not her fault. She doesn't know him. She can't. And he knows the rules. This is not a whorehouse.

My phone rings from down the hall, a punk rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Noah. I sigh, but it doesn't help my frustration. I'm going to be late. Noah won't care, but it will fuck up the rest of my night. I still have to talk to Abuela about that dud sale. She's gonna be pissed.

I sprint back to the room, but the phone goes quiet just as I reach for it. Right. My luck today.

I put the gun down beside the phone as I shrug out of my shirt, ignoring it as it drifts to the floor. I pull on the gray shirt. It's pale against my skin. Simple. More like it. I feel better already.

I grab my phone and tap out a message to Noah that I'm running late. He's the last in the line of people who will be offended. There's a glass pipe in the other room, and there's damn sure always green around. A quiet, smoke-filled moment sounds perfect. In less than a minute, I receive a reply.

“Lunch was crazy. Running late too. No problem. See you soon baby doll.”

The words bring an unexpected smile to my lips. Noah is always good for resetting the pace, a natural for talking you off the ledge even when he doesn't mean to. And he's the only fool who would ever call me baby. I click the phone to darkness, grab my gun, and leave the mess.

Chapter 4 Not a Word

Maria

The sun is in the midst of its final assault before descent when I swing the Caddy into the grass patch beside the boys' vehicles. It's shaded behind the restaurant, but it's still hot. September has begun, but we're still in the eighties, and the humidity never really leaves.

The drive and the weed have calmed me. Usually, I don't like long intervals alone. It's too much time to think, and there are too many skeletons lining twenty-twenty hindsight. But today, the heavy traffic and my stereo turned up way too loud was a good distraction.

The cooks at Couyon are used to seeing me walk in the back door by now, so there's a chorus of greetings when I enter the kitchen. Jack is at the helm, flipping some giant prawn next to some steaks of some sort on the grill. I give them all a smile.

“Hey, boys, smells fantastic in here!”

“It's surf and turf for lunch,” says Jack, in his stained apron, with his long hair pulled up into a bun. “Nice of you to join us.”

I cock a hand on my hip. Of course. Noah wouldn't mind my lack of punctuality, but Jack just has to bring it up. He's such a fucking big brother. The thought tugs at a familiar emptiness, threatens to irritate an internal wound that's only barely healed, so I shove it away.

I say, “Yeah, yeah, I'm late. It was unavoidable.”

“I bet.”

He winks when he says it, but something deep down assures me he's not joking. Maybe it's the way he flips a steak while he's looking at me.

I roll my eyes playfully, and proceed into the server alley. I'm abusing my position in the face of someone from Charlie's level, but just like a little sister, I need to believe that I wouldn't be late unless I had to.

A couple of girls dance around me in their quest for drinks, or dressing, or whatever. One calls out to me as she passes. The other cuts me a dirty look before ignoring me. Eva. I've never been able to figure out what her fucking problem with me is, but I don't actually care enough to pursue it.

I flick my hair over my shoulder and turn to the bar. My eyes find him immediately. Since he almost died on my behalf, I tend to incessantly make sure he's OK.

He's still, and straight, his arms resting on the edge of the bar. He's wearing his glasses, and