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

the past two weeks. Somewhere in the mix is my old habit of avoiding conflict. It’s a quiet voice, and optimistic given my current place.

“Do you know this guy?”

Lucas’s voice cuts the tension, but it also tips the scale. There’s no peace to be had here. I turn toward him as I push my hands into my pockets. I channel the past me and give him the most disinterested look in my arsenal.

“Obviously he’s my ex-boyfriend. He’s real jealous. You should probably fuck off now,” I say in a tone dry enough to rival Freddy’s.

Lucas looks from me, to Freddy, then back. He’s definitely spooked. Freddy tends to have that effect on people. This is too easy. He’d never last a minute on the street. Thoughts betray me to Mona shoved up against my door, like a bitch in a bar bathroom. Chances are he doesn’t last a minute there either.

“You know-I-I mean-I can’t do that,” he answers with a little waver to his voice. Time to step it up.

I say, “You know I’m not strapped, but I guarantee that he is. He doesn’t know you, but I promise he doesn’t like you. And unlike me, it wouldn’t mean shit to him if you disappeared.”

Lucas’s eyes are doing the dance between me and Freddy again. Freddy just stands there, fingers twitching, completely unreadable with those dark shades on in the failing light and lazy rain. What I just said isn’t wrong.

Finally Lucas turns, and all but runs back to the safety of the hotel. I don’t care to stifle the dry chuckle that follows him. When he’s gone, I face Freddy. It says a lot that I trust my back to him more than those who are supposed to represent my side.

“I think that’s the realest I’ve ever seen you be,” he says.

If it were anybody else standing here, I would wonder how they found me. But it’s Freddy, so the why is much more prominent. Never mind what he just said to me. I don’t really know what to say, so I don’t offer anything. Either way, he is the one who found me. He can figure it out.

He takes off the shades and folds them up as he looks at me square. I know his eyes are the color of blue washed out to gray, but I can’t see the details by the streetlight that flickers on.

“Smoke?” he says. I only know it’s a question by the tiny rise in tone.

Fuck. Something is wrong for sure if Frederick is standing in front of me offering a peace pipe. The kicker is that it’s the one thing I sorely need for a glimmer of mental quiet.

“There’s a patio around back,” I answer.

He nods, and motions for me to lead the way. So I do. I’ve lived a long time knowing you shouldn’t give your back away, but I’ve already let him know that I’m not armed. It’s funny to think of how easy it was to trash Freddy to myself while I was throwing out lines on the seashore. If I’m honest now, there are a few things I can appreciate about him.

He doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. He has a personal code that he adheres to with religious conviction. He won’t fill space with small talk, and he won’t shoot me in the back.

The only noise as we walk is our own footsteps, until a mosquito buzzes my ear. Instinct says to wave my arms around to scare it away. The trained part of my brain says no. By the time we reach the patio – screened because this is Louisiana – I have a bite on the back of my neck.

We sit down at a wrought-iron table for two with a glass top. I know he has already scanned the area. As for me, I don’t give a fuck. Everything that happens now is the result of a machine that I can’t fight, and I can’t stop.

The sound of the rain on the roof goes from a patter to a roar. A citronella candle burns on the table. It stinks, but it also provides some light. His hand goes to his pocket and produces a small glass pipe, and a little bag. I’ve seen him take apart a gun and fix it with the same meticulous hands. I also know that he could do it just as well in pitch darkness.

He doesn’t look at me again until he passes the bowl to me. He’s quiet as I take a slow hit, savoring the smell and the taste, and the smoke in my lungs. Tension begins to slacken almost immediately.

I pass to him, allowing the same courtesy of silence. Of everyone in the old crew, we two are the ones who won’t be rushed. It was maddening to some – mostly Maria, even to Charlie sometimes – but just now, I appreciate the match of pace.

We cash the weed to the sound of the rain and the roll of thunder. A few hits and I feel like I’m hovering several feet off the ground. He knocks out the ash and drops it on the patio floor without a bit of hesitation in his movement. As he slips the piece in his pocket, he nails me with a serious-set expression.

“Something stinks,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over the rain.

“Probably that citronella,” I answer.

His eyes narrow, and the muscles of his jaw tighten. I’m pretty sure he wants to punch me in the mouth, but it’s not worth the trouble he’s gone through to get here. He takes a long breath through the nose.

“Josh is in ICU with a bullet hole in his guts.”

My insides do a somersault I don’t expect and can’t explain. Flashbacks of my bloody best friend clearing glass off the counter as he stumbled into the kitchen. My mouth is so dry it hurts when I swallow thickly.

“Abuela has moved me out of the crew. And then there’s you.”

I don’t know what I