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

this time. If I’m anything, it’s patient. There are still a lot of questions pervading my thoughts, but most of them are pretty much none of my business. Better to wait it out to see if he’s done with the conversation.

He passes, and levels a frown in my direction. As I hit it, he says, “I’m leaving my number with you.”

For a while, I don’t answer. It’s ballsy, and probably dangerous for him to even be here. To leave me a way to contact him is damn near mutinous. It doesn’t bode well. And the paper makes sense.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I’ll take the shot in the dark. He can always choose not to answer.

“What exactly do you think is going on? And how could I possibly be any help? I’m basically a prisoner.”

The furrow in his brow deepens, but he relaxes a little against the back of the chair with a quiet sigh.

“Maria was there when Josh was shot, a good, old-fashioned drive-by. From what she says, it’s like they were aiming for him, like there was no intention of hitting her. But why take the risk of a drive-by to take out a right hand?”

He pauses for a hard hit that makes him cough. Thoughts drift around me with the weed smoke.

“The bullet they pulled out of him at the hospital was a nine,” he adds.

“Sounds like a set-up.”

The words fall from me of their own volition. Maybe he wasn’t looking for my input, but it sounds just like a fucking set-up. Sounds like Abuela is up to her bullshit.

He stares at me for a long moment, hand poised to pass the pipe, which must be close to spent.

“Yeah,” is all he says when he does speak. He hands me the last hit.

Of course, if I came to that conclusion that quick, he already had. It must be the ‘why’ part he can’t figure out.

“Damn, man,” I say into the hit. It’s the best I’ve got as far commiseration. I thought I was in a bad spot, but nothing in the world could make me want to trade shoes with him.

“Yeah,” he says again as he clears the bowl and puts it up again.

He doesn’t touch the paper, or even look at it as he stands.

“See you around, Izzy,” he says.

I watch him leave in stillness, well aware that just as I turned my back to him, he does the same to me. Maybe because I don’t have a gun. Or maybe it’s another peaceful gesture.

Izzy. I haven’t heard that nickname since I left this fucking place. Has it really only been a year? It feels like a lifetime.

When I’m alone, I slouch down into my chair and let my head fall back. The rain is a haphazard fall now, and the humidity is less of a crushing fist and more like a heavy hug. For the first time since I got back, I don’t feel like I’m going to shake apart. I can almost hear the waves crashing against the side of the ship. I suddenly miss the smell of salt, and fish.

It’s funny, really, that I enjoy fishing so much. Don’t I know how it feels to be strung along by a hook in the jaw?

I’m not entirely sure what just happened, but I know that some bonds hold through a lot more than you could ever expect. Sometimes you don’t ever realize there are bonds until you think they’re broken.

A foundation built below sea level is shaking. It’s clear now that my involvement here is just another power play, always power that I don’t have, and never will. It’s completely out of my hands at the moment. My eyes slide to the paper on the table. Maybe it is, or maybe it’s not.

Chapter 26 Precarious Games

Frederick

It’s not even nine yet, and I’m tired. Exhausted is more the word. I’ve been awake for the better part of forty-eight hours, and I still have to report to Abuela.

She didn’t say much last night when I told her I wouldn’t leave Maria alone. From a security standpoint, it was the smart thing to do. But because Abuela is the kingpin, her schedule throughout the day was already full. She still wants to see me. My only consolation at this point is that Jack and Noah have agreed to take shifts staying with Maria at the hospital.

I’m high. The meeting with Isaiah is running in the background of my mind. I definitely wasn’t expecting brutal honesty from him. That might be the most unsettling part about seeing him.

I’ve caught a glimpse of him now. I used to wonder how he could walk away, where my first instinct would be to break some face. Now I know. I am violence bred from violence. Apparently he’s from a whole different world.

I’m standing in my tiny mockery of a kitchen, staring into a fridge that’s empty. Aside from a wrapped up half a sandwich that I brought home from Couyon. Problem is, I don’t remember when I brought it home. Chances are it will make me sick.

I slam the door. This minuscule inconvenience is enough to send the meter into the red. A dangerous rage wells up. I freeze in my own apartment. Every molecule of me is tense. It hurts. Yet this is the only way I’ve ever been able to get my shit together without breaking some stuff first.

If I move, I lose. Something in my vicinity is a goner. I need to eat. Anxiety only gets the best of me when I forget to.

It takes a while for it to pass, time I spend staring ahead without seeing a thing. Isaiah’s voice saying “Sounds like a set-up” rolls through my brain. Then there’s myself saying, “Why?”

Finally, I pull my hands out of fists, and exhale. That’s always the kicker, the why part. The first part of the answer is usually because it