Page 85 of Brick

It wasn’t a question. A hundred denials ran through his mind. None of them would hold water with Sucre. The man was trying to prove something. If he turned down the offer, it meant he had something to hide. Once Sucre caught wind of a secret, he would be a dog with a bone until he uncovered it.

The laugh track from next door felt like fate crowing at his misery.

He pointed to one of the girls without even looking. “Her. Thanks, boss.” The woman stepped forward, and he started leading her toward the bedroom. Hopefully, he could figure out a way to buy her silence.

“Ah. Ah. Ah. Now you wouldn’t rob me of the chance to watch you unwrap your present. You can fuck her right here on the couch, no?”

He couldn’t have sex with another woman.

He couldn’t.

Turning down this gift, however, practically shined a spotlight on Olivia. Sucre might not find her today, or even tomorrow, but he wouldn’t stop until he figured out who had stolen his heart. He’d be putting a loaded gun to her head for the rest of her life.

The girl he’d selected, who he could see now was a buxom brunette with bright red lipstick, rubbed against him. “Maybe just a little blow-job, Papi?”

His hands moved to his belt, but he froze as bile churned in his stomach. Sucre had broken him in a hundred different ways over the years. Some were big, like the times he’d fucked him to prove he could. Others were subtle—or at least as subtle as Sucre could be—like when the doctors “couldn’t find” his grandma for a couple of hours last year after he’d disagreed with Sucre over how many fingers needed breaking on Paul Franco’s left hand.

But this? This was, perhaps, the worst cruelty of all.

He finally had something good in his life. Someone who cared about him. Someone who someday might even love him.

And Sucre was forcing him to destroy it.

“No,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” Sucre narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t want a blow job. I don’t want a girl. I want to go to sleep.”

Sucre grabbed the brunette by her upper arm and jerked her back. “Get out,” he hissed. All three women grabbed the clothes piled on the sofa and scrambled out the door. The moment it slammed shut, the boss turned all his venom on him. “Who the fuck do you think I am? Un pinche idiota?” Spittle flew from his lips with the force of his words.

“No, sir.” He kept his voice calm and even.

Sucre slammed his walking stick into the old mug Brick had left on the coffee table the day before. It bounced onto the carpet, the handle snapping off in the process. In stages, he drew his rage inward until his face was once again a placid mask. “Give me your phone.”

On instinct, he did as Sucre commanded. Only then, did he question what might be there for the man to find.

His boss clenched his teeth as he swiped through the screens.

No GPS. No contacts. He’d cleared the call history—

A satisfied smile lit Sucre’s face. “Tell me, Brick, who exactly did you text when you got home?”

Fuck. Why hadn’t he erased it the second after he sent it?

He couldn’t think. His ears locked in on the commercial playing the familiar Andy Griffith whistle. None of this felt real. It was some kind of fucked-up nightmare.

Only it wasn’t.

“Cat got your tongue?” Sucre tutted. “Why don’t we call and find out?”

Before his words could sink in, Sucre had connected the call, and turned on the speaker.

Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer. Let it go to—shit—not voicemail.

The phone stopped ringing, but thank fuck, Liv stayed silent.

“Don’t you want to say hello, Dove?” Sucre’s voice came out syrupy sweet, but his face contorted when Olivia refused to take the bait. He shoved the phone into his pocket. “No me importa. You think you’re so smart. Let’s see what your lover thinks of the real you.” He spun on his heel, then smirked over his shoulder. “It always pays to have insurance, Brick.”

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