Page 12 of Drawn Blue Lines

I wanted to laugh in her face. The Brody Harcourt she knew was a façade. A skin he stepped into the minute he walked into this office and took off the minute he walked out. His palms were just as greasy as his mother’s, and his loyalty was twice as thin. I wanted to take that heroic image she’d created in her mind and twist it until it was nothing but useless dust.

But I didn’t.

As sickening as it was, devotion like Nancy’s could be a useful tool. Besides, I still needed one more thing from her. Luckily, emotional manipulation had always been one of my finer talents.

I shot her a pleading look. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

“All I know is he bought that cantina from one of the Carrera wives.” She glanced up at the ceiling, snapping her fingers as if it held the answer. “Crap, what’s its name?”

“Caliente,” I muttered, more to myself than her.

“Yes! That’s it—Caliente. He bought it to make it respectable and give back to the community.” She beamed with pride, and I wanted to punch her face. “Although I’m not sure he’ll be there.”

She might not be sure, but I was.

The only thing sure in life was that history repeated itself. This whole thing started when I walked into that damn cantina, and it’d end the same way.

“Thanks.” Widening the distance between us, I turned to leave when she grabbed my arm.

“This is going to sound crazy, but do I know you? You seem so familiar.”

So close.

A year and a half ago, Brody Harcourt was an overly ambitious politician tucked into Valentin Carrera’s pocket. I spent many days shadowing and interacting with him, and he never knew it. But Nosy Nancy apparently had a mind like a steel trap.

“I don’t think so.” Each word carried an implied message, spoken with a cold darkness that sent goose bumps scattering up Nancy’s arms. Blood pulsed in my ears and every muscle in my body stiffened. Nancy’s breathing quickened, those bug eyes growing impossibly wide and filling with unshed tears.

Let it go, Nancy. For your sake.

“Oh, well, maybe you just have one of those faces,” she whispered, her skin growing pale.

We both knew I didn’t. However, it seemed Nancy had a brain as big as her mouth. She knew she’d screwed up. She also knew she’d screw up even worse by saying a word.

Call it women’s intuition. We understood each other.

Maybe there was hope for our gender.

I didn’t offer a goodbye and neither did she. I walked out of the district attorney’s office on a mission. Nancy could think whatever she wanted, but Brody Harcourt wasn’t just a bar owner. Every fall from grace came with loose ends. If I tugged hard enough on one thread, the whole tapestry would unravel.

The former public servant had sold his soul and roughened up that shiny penny exterior.

He’d appointed himself my executioner.

And now, I was his.

Chapter Four

Brody

“Adriana Carrera,” I growled into my phone, the sound of my wet shoes clapping against the dusty tiles as I pushed the door open to Caliente Cantina. “I don’t know how, Carlos. But a man with a bull’s-eye on his ass isn’t going to throw out a name like that for no reason.” Approaching the bar, I snapped my fingers at the dumb bitch behind it playing on her phone. “Yes, I’m on it.” I listened to him go on and on until the last thing he said made me come to a dead stop. “Another shipment? Shit, okay. I’ll handle it. I said I’d handle it!” I ended the call without waiting for a response.

Another two million dollars intercepted near Chicago. This was getting out of control and covering my ass while pretending it wasn’t on the line was getting harder. How did people do this shit day after day without staying permanently drunk? Maybe anger and guilt could coexist in some people’s world, but not in mine. Spinning a wheelhouse of emotion was nothing but suicide. The only way to survive was to commit to an extreme and never look back.

Pocketing my phone, I glanced up to see the latest in a revolving door of bartender bitches lift her chin and stare at me, her red lips pressed into a thin line. I couldn’t tell if it was out of intrigue, fear, or brazen pity, but I didn’t give a shit. She needed to mind her own business—a point I made by meeting her curious gaze with a steeled glare and holding out my hand.

“My drink.”

In response, she slid a glass of scotch toward me, eyeing my shirt while arching an eyebrow.

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