Wrong Kind of Love

The entire drive to Elysium, Tor stares through the window. A paranoid part of me wonders if she’s trying to memorize things to turn me in if she ever escapes—escapes? My foot lets off the gas for a second, and the reality of the situation sinks to the bottom of my gut like a heavy, acidic stone. And while I hate the fact that I can’t say I’m not holding her hostage, calling her that is one hell of a slippery slope—she was eating Cheerios at my table this morning like a live-in girlfriend. She’s not locked in a room. She has free reign of the house, she’s choosing to stay, I’m choosing to keep her, and all the while, we’re tiptoeing some fucked up line of attraction like virginal teens.… My head’s spinning by the time I swing off the highway and into Elysium’s parking lot.

I park by the back door and cut the engine just as a delivery truck pulls in behind me. Of course, Garcia’s guy would be a little early. I give the bill of Tor’s ball cap a tug, covering most of her face. “Keep that pulled down,” I say before climbing out and going to the passenger side to open her door.

“Who knew you were a gentleman?”

I wave at the driver, telling him to give me a minute as I usher Tor toward the club.

The scent of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume hit me when we step in, and she mumbles something under her breath about the scent of cheap sex. It’s a strip club. I don’t know what the hell she expects. I lead her down the hallway to the office, and her gaze immediately goes to the security cameras on the wall. On a snort, she cocks a brow. “Is this your…establishment?”

Establishment. Cute. “My strip club? Yes.”

“It’s uh....nice?”

I want to get this shit done and over with and get back home. “Stay here,” I open the door and catch a slightly pissed-off look from Tor as I close it behind me. I hesitate for a second before pulling the key from my pocket and locking it, then push the awful feeling away as I head out back to take care of the other shitshow I have brewing.

The guy’s already got the rolling door lifted and about two hand trucks full of beer by the tire. “Garcia said he needs it within a week.”

“How much is it?”

“A million.”

I feel my jaw go lax. “Is he fucking crazy?”

The guy cracks a chuckle. Like this is funny. Who in their right mind thinks anyone can clean a million through a club in a week? Seriously, I’m killing Gabe when he gets out of prison. “Just help me get it inside.”

I grab one of the hand trucks. Garcia’s guy follows me into the club. We stack the boxes in the storage room, and when we come out, Marney’s behind the counter, thumbing through stacks of cash, an unlit cigarette gripped between his lips. His eyes narrow, following me as I cross the bar to let Garcia’s guy out. The second the door closes, Marney clears his throat. “What’s that shit about, boy?.”

The old man’s going to hate this. “We’re gonna need to have a few events, give away Patron or something to get this place packed.”

“Free bottles of Patron?” He pushes the cash to the side and takes a long drag from his cigarette. “What the hell have you gotten into now?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Like hell. The last time you pulled some stunt like this was when you started cleaning money for Estrada...”

“And now I’m cleaning money for Garcia.”

The cigarette between his lips bobs up and down as he mumbles a string of obscenities. “Getting in bed with the cartels, boy. I’ve told you Estrada was gonna get your ass in some shit.” He jabs a finger over the counter. “And this is some nasty shit right here.”

He isn’t a fan of Gabe. Mostly because of his ties to the cartel. My dad had been big on respect and codes. The cartel has neither. They are feral, but Gabe saved my life when I was twenty-two. “Come on, Marney, if it weren’t for him in Los Desperados bar, I’d be dead.”

Marney lights his smoke on a glare. “Yeah, yeah. You got your throat slit, and he packed your ass in the ice chest—then got you to clean his damn drug money!” He blows out a stream of smoke. “Real upstanding citizen, that one.” Like Marney has a pot to piss in when it comes to morals. He’s a retired hitman.

“Just figure something out to clean the money, old man.”

I’m halfway to the back office when a text from West buzzes the burner phone in my pocket. West: We’ve got a problem. Where are you?

Me: Elysium.

West: Be there in five.