Burn (3 page)

Michael smiles broadly, eyes quick and rather amused. "His father is my godfather, too, if that's not enough of a commendation for you?"

"Did you happen to mention this to Andreas when he brought you down here?" Julio’s turned a queasy greenish color. His face is covered in a considerable sheen of sweat, which only adds to the ill colour, making him look decidedly unwell.

"He didn't ask." Michael raises both shoulders and eyebrows at the same time, the epitome of indifference. "He seemed more interested in using his fists on me. There wasn't much time for talking."

I've sat through this whole exchange on the edge of my seat. Thankfully Teo and Julio are completely distracted by Michael’s announcement to be paying attention to my reaction. And honestly, I don't really have any idea how I'm supposed to react. Michael’s an idiot. He's a grade A moron of the highest order to be lying about something like that. The next thing that is going to happen is that Julio’s going to phone Rebel and ask him if he has any family in the area who might turn up unannounced on his doorstep. This is the point where Rebel will tell Julio, “No! Of course not! Better kill the lying fucker just to cover your ass.”

Rebel's the kind of guy you don't want to cross. The kind of guy gang bosses quake in their boots over. The kind of guy who has power enough to shut down any single operation, legal or illegal, in the United States that he should see fit to shut down. Head of the largest motorcycle gang in California, Washington, and Oregon combined, Rebel also happens to be the same vile piece of shit that bid to purchase Sloane’s virginity from Eli two years ago. He's a violent motherfucker. Even more violent than me. He has a penchant for girls in the skin trade—he buys them or hires them and then they tend to disappear. That's why I stepped in when I found out about Sloane. And Michael’s just claimed that he’s related to the guy.

Can this situation possibly get any worse? Probably not. Julio doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. He leans back, scratching at his belly. Sits forward again, scowling. “And how do you propose I verify this claim of yours, then? Because that is one motherfucking crazy ass claim,
ese
. If you’re lying to me, you know I can't just kill you now. I'll have to get my boys to beat the living shit outta you, and then I’m gonna have to have them bring you back from the dead all over again so Rebel can kill you himself for using his name.”

Holy fucking shit, he’s right. He’s absolutely right. Rebel will undoubtedly want to kill him personally. Michael doesn’t even blink at the description of what will happen to him if he’s caught in this lie, though. He’s calmer than fucking ever.

“I tell you what, Signor Perez,” Michael says, his voice laced with just enough disrespect to make me cringe. “Why don't you take a photo of my ravishingly handsome face and send it to my cousin? He'll tell you straight up if we’re blood.”

The cogs inside Julio’s head grind in protest as he works this one through. Eventually he decides that this is the only way to confirm what Michael’s told him. He takes a picture with his cell and taps out a brief message, and then his cell makes a dinging sound: Sent.

The next few minutes are brutal. Julio’s cell phone sits on his knee, while Julio stares down Michael. He may be fat, and he may be getting old now, but there’s no doubting the threat in his eyes. I’ve always known I’ll die a fairly grisly death at some point—you can only dodge bullets for so long before one of them eventually hits something vital—but I have to admit I never thought it would be in a Mexican brothel. And I never thought I’d be experiencing such fear for the safety of the woman I’ll be leaving alone in their midst if I get—

A bright white light illuminates Julio’s cell screen, and the thing almost jumps off his leg when it starts vibrating. He’s calling. Rebel’s actually calling. A text would have done it. A brief message to let Julio know he’s being played. But no. A phone call? What the hell does that mean?

Michael eyes the phone, one eyebrow raised. “If you know my cousin, Signor Perez, then you’ll know how little he likes to be kept waiting.”

A sneaking suspicion begins to develop in the back of my head. There’s just no way. No way Michael would be this sure of himself right now. Not unless…not unless…

“Rebel, my friend,” Julio answers the call gingerly, as though he’s working his way toward the same conclusion I am. “You’re well, huh? I’m sorry to bother you with such a—”

The low rumbling voice on the other end of the line cuts him off. Julio’s eyes grow fat and round as he listens, the fingers of his free hand tapping distractedly at the side of his chair. Teo’s on edge, too. He keeps glancing from Michael and then to me, clearly expecting either one of us to take this opportunity to attack Julio when he’s distracted. Regardless of whether these guys believe that Michael and I don’t know each other, they clearly don’t trust me, either.

“Well I didn’t order that, my friend, I assure you. I’m—” Julio closes his eyes, exhaling sharply. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I know. I’m—” Doesn’t look like Rebel’s in the mood to be letting Julio fit a word in edgewise. Julio’s cheeks drain of color as he continues to listen to whatever the man on the other end of the line has to say for himself. “Yes, I agree, my friend. I totally agree. It’s unaccept—”

A muffled roar erupts out of the cell phone’s speakers, and then…nothing. Julio lowers his phone in order to look at the screen. Unaccustomed as he is to having people hang up on him, the look on his face indicates that he can’t believe it’s actually just happened to him.

“How goes my cousin, Signor Perez?” Michael asks.

So it’s true then. I can’t believe Michael’s been keeping that shit under lock and key for so long. And why the hell has he been working for me when he would be a big fucking deal in his uncle’s organization? The smug bastard does a good job of hiding the smirk that’s desperate to bloom and flourish on his face, but the tone of his voice is too satisfied to conceal. Julio’s just the sort of person to kill someone for being a cocky shit, and yet he doesn’t kill Michael. He instead inhales deeply, thoughtfully setting his phone to one side.

“He was decidedly unhappy at the condition of his only nephew’s bruised face,” he says slowly. He looks up at Michael. “I have to apologize for the mistreatment you’ve suffered at the hands of my men. If I’d known, then…”

Michael just nods. “An easy misunderstanding, I’m sure.” He holds up his hands, jerking his chin toward the restraints. “I’m assuming you have no problem with removing these now, though? They’re a little tight.”

Julio goes purple. With horror, embarrassment or fury, I don’t know, but he signals to Teo all the same. “Uncuff him.”

Teo, the ever-obliging employee, does as he’s told without blinking. Michael massages his wrists, that smug fucking look still on his face. “I wonder,” he says. “If you might have a bathroom I could use? I’ve been stuck down here for three days. A shower really wouldn’t go amiss.”

Most men would flee for their lives after escaping an ordeal down in Julio Perez’s cellar, but not my guy. By the glint in his eye, he seems dead set on sticking around. Julio’s double chin wobbles; he’s mad after all but he can’t say a word about Michael taking liberties. “Of course, my friend. Of course.” He stands and gestures toward the door, still twitching with what I can only imagine to be affront.

Michael goes to follow, but first he turns to me. He holds out his hand. “Sorry to hear about your trouble, man. If you need any help with this Charlie Holsan guy, just let me know. I’m sure I could pull a few strings.”

I wanna slap the cheeky fucker upside the head. If I’d have known he was Rebel’s cousin, I may have asked him to try and pull fucking hard on those strings a while back. Maybe not, though. Dancing with Rebel is like dancing with the devil. I wouldn’t want to owe the man a thing. I shake Michael’s hand, squeezing way harder than necessary. In return, Michael provides me with a saintly smile and saunters out of Julio’s killing room like he just had a pampering weekend in the Ritz.

“What the hell was that?”

When Zeth comes back to the room later on in the day, he doesn’t look happy. In fact, he’s furious. He’s had nearly eight hours to calm down since Julio’s office this morning—he must have been itching to find me and ream me out ever since then. He stalks into the room and stands in front of me where I’m laying on my stomach on top of the bed, phone in hand. He leans down, placing his hands either side of me, glaring at me with a level of intensity that makes goose bumps break out across my skin.

“What are you doing, Sloane?”

“I’m texting my dad to make sure your friend is still alive. That okay with you?”

The anger temporarily fades from his eyes. “And is she?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the phone.”

“What?”

“Give me the phone.” He goes to take it from my hand but I sit upright, holding it protectively against my chest.

“I don’t think so. I’ve had enough of you stealing my phone.”

“Sloane, just…” He stops himself. Scrubs his hands across his face and then over his head, growling deep in his throat. “Just tell me what she’s been doing.”

“She’s been helping my dad prepare for his church youth camp.”

The expression falls straight off Zeth’s face. I may as well have just been speaking Swahili; he clearly did not comprehend a word of it. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Church. Youth. Camp.” Those are the three words that matter here, I should think. I haven’t told him that my dad’s planning on actually taking the girl
with
him on the camp yet, either. I don’t know how well that’s going to go down.

“And she’s okay with that?” Zeth asks.

“She says she is in the text she sent me.”

“Oh my god, just give me your fucking phone!” He lunges for it again and this time I let him have it. He seems genuinely worried about the girl and me being pissy with him is only making matters worse. I shouldn’t do it. I should be doing everything I can to soothe him after the stunt I pulled earlier, but instead I feel like baiting him. Pissing him off some more. Seeing just how far I can push him. The problem is I’m still mad at him. Still mad because of this morning when he showed a side of himself that I just didn’t ever think could possibly exist. A sweet, vulnerable side that made my chest hurt.

“You’re confusing me.”
That’s what he’d said as he let me stoke his back, his hair. As he’d held onto me, still inside me, after we’d just had crazy, confronting sex. And then he had promptly dragged that side of himself back into the dank, dark dungeon where he clearly keeps it locked up and has gone back to asshole mode. And I know I didn’t imagine it. Zeth Mayfair
does
have a vulnerable side.

I watch him as he scrolls through my messages to both Lacey and my dad, observing his reactions. I know what he’s reading:

Lacey:

You used to really like pink, huh?

Me:

Yep. I also used to like nsync and dungarees.

Lacey:

Yeah. Your mom showed me pictures.

Me:

She refuses to let me live that down! I’m gonna burn those pics.

Lacey:

Don’t. She’ll be devastated. She’s really lovely. Your dad, too. He’s got me pitching tents with him all day today.

Me:

Make sure he’s not using you for slave labor, Lace. If you leave, just let me know and I’ll send in a rescue, okay?

Lacey:

It’s fine. I like it. It’s fun. Say hey to Zee for me?

And then, of course, there are the messages from my dad.

Dr Sloane, MD:

Your mother caught her crying in the bathroom this morning. You didn’t tell me so I won’t pry, but this girl seems a little broken?

Me:

A little, yes. But please, don’t go trying to fix her. She’s already seeing someone for that.

Dr Sloane, MD:

Well, they don’t seem to be doing a very good job.

Me:

Just keep her busy, okay?

Dr Sloane, MD:

Already on it, kiddo.

I’m just thanking the stars that Lacey didn’t write,
say hey to my brother
instead of
Zee
in her message. That would be a pretty rough way for him to find out the truth—that the young girl he’s been watching over for the past six months is actually his blood relative. His sister. Zeth looks adorable as he frowns over my phone, re-reading the texts. Adorable in a terrifying kind of way.

“Is he gonna try and convert her?” he asks.

I shrug. “He might ask her what she believes. He won’t push, though. He’s not like that.”

Zeth just nods at this. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s withdrawn to some place deep within himself; somewhere I’d have trouble reaching him. And then just as quickly he seems to realize what’s happened and he surfaces again, tossing me my phone. “You didn’t answer my other question. What the hell did you think you were doing this morning?”