The Wrong Kind of Love

Fear wars against resignation as the silence ratchets the tension in my body.

“Jude…” Caleb pleads.

I open my eyes and meet Jude’s merciless, hard stare. “If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone about you.” More tears blur my vision, and I stumble on, trying to bargain any way I can. “I promise.”

A mildly sympathetic smile crosses his face. One that tells me nothing I say can convince him. “And you expect me to believe that?” Then Jude shoves away from me, and I watch him leave, knowing I only have twenty-four hours to try and find a way out of here.

Only an idiot would sit around and wait for the ax to fall.

Jude

I’ve spent the last two days trying to find that little shit.

He hasn’t used his bank card.

He hasn’t made a phone call.

And come to find out, he skipped town the same day he gave Victoria up.

Now I’m pretty sure I’m not only out twenty-grand, but I’m stuck with a girl who knows way too damn much. And that I have no idea how to handle because if I let her go, I’m not only risking myself, but every guy I work with. My brother. My home.

The only other option I have… I don’t fucking like.

I pull off the highway and park my pickup at the back of The Longbranch. I’m already in a shitty-ass mood, and this meeting with Domingo Garcia will only make it shittier. I have a good mind to tell him to fuck right off, but that’s not how a man who values his life handles the cartel.

Cursing my friend Gabe under my breath, I get out of the truck and head into the nearly empty bar. Knowing Gabe, he drank too much and popped off at the mouth, jerking his shit while he told Garcia he had a better cleaner–me. And while my handful of stripclubs makes it easy to launder money, I’m not trying to do it for anyone else. Especially not Garcia.

When Gabe gets out of prison, I’m going to kill him.

I pinpoint Domingo the second I walk into the lounge. He’s at the bar, his gaze trained on the TV as he swipes a hand over his slicked-back black hair. A tangle of gold necklaces hang inside the neck of his crisp, white dress shirt, and his shiny alligator shoes rest on the rung of the barstool. Unlike me, the cartel doesn’t make a habit of being inconspicuous.

The two men in suits to the side of the room fold in behind when I pull out the stool beside him. Like some orchestrated move, they sweep their jackets to the side, revealing the guns tucked into their pants.

It’s so cliché, I almost roll my eyes.

“Bookie,” Garcia says, lifting his drink to his lips.

“Let’s skip the shit,” I say. “I take fifty percent.” It’s a lie. I clean Gabe’s money for twenty-five, but I don’t want to do this. Gabe’s a friend, this fucker is a devil.

He turns to face me, a slow smile showcasing a gold front tooth that gleams under the bar lights. “Fifteen.”

“I take it back, fifty-five. Because you’re fucking insulting.”

His head tilts to the side. From the way he’s studying me, I imagine he’s picturing a hundred gory ways he could kill me, all of which will most likely end with my damn head on a stick in the middle of Juarez city.

“I give you thirty because you’re good. And because I know, Gabriel Estrada pays less.” He taps a finger over the bar, and the two men behind him step in closer, fingers looped through their triggers. “I do not suggest you turn me down, Bookie.”

I don’t want any more ties to the cartel than I already have with Gabe, but thirty percent… fuck it.

I grab a napkin from the bar and jot down the number to Marney’s burner phone before passing it over. “Only contact me via this number. I take drop-offs once a month. Hide the cash in crates of tequila, Corona—I don’t care.”

“Very good.” He folds the napkin and stuffs it in his shirt pocket before polishing off his drink and pushing back from the bar. “Send Estrada and his sister my thanks.”

I’ll be sending Gabe something alright.

Later that evening, Caleb comes into the kitchen and grabs two plates from the cabinet. “Ah, hell yeah. I love hamburger steak.” He tosses patties onto the china, then licks the grease from his finger.

I push up from the table, and go to the sink to dump my plate, watching as he slops out massive helpings of mashed potatoes on each dish. What the hell am I supposed to do with her? I can’t just keep her locked in my brother’s room forever. I can’t let her go.

I try to imagine pulling the trigger and putting a bullet in her head, and even in my imagination, the scenario won’t play out. The trigger locks. The chamber is empty. Maybe I can convince myself she’ll keep her mouth shut. “I’ll take it up to her.”