Page 29 of Depraved

Two days later, I stood on the tarmac of a private airstrip in Tahoe, squinting against the harsh sunlight. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, a far cry from the arid heat of New Mexico we'd left behind. Layla paced beside the jet, her stilettos clicking a staccato rhythm on the asphalt.

"You know, if you keep that up, you're going to wear a trench in the runway," I drawled, lighting a cigarette.

Layla shot me a withering glare, but I caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Fuck off, Alex."

I grinned, taking a long drag. "Now, now, is that any way for a queen to speak? I'm wounded, truly."

She flipped me off, resuming her pacing. I watched her, drinking in the sight of her long legs and the way her ass looked in those tight black jeans. The last two days had been a whirlwind of activity, arranging Raul's funeral, consolidating our power base, dealing with the fallout from Carlos'sdisappearance. Through it all, Layla had been a force of nature, cold and ruthless and utterly fucking magnificent.

But now, as we stood on the precipice of reuniting her with the mother, I could see the cracks in her armor. Her fingers twisted nervously at the hem of her jacket, her eyes darting between the empty sky and the tree-line surrounding the airstrip.

I took another drag of my cigarette, savoring the burn in my lungs. "You know, if you're having second thoughts, we could always turn around. Head back to New Mexico, maybe stop for some green chile cheeseburgers on the way. I hear there's a great little dive bar just outside of Albuquerque that serves them with a side of meth and regret."

Layla's lips twitched despite herself. "You're an asshole."

"I won’t deny that." I shrugged with a wink.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. The motion sent a waft of her scent my way—jasmine and soap, a combination that never failed to make my cock twitch. "What if she hates me, Alex? What if she takes one look at what I've become and decides she wants nothing to do with me?"

I stubbed out my cigarette, closing the distance between us in two long strides. Gently, I cupped her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Listen to me, Lala. That woman has spent the last twenty years mourning you. Trust me, she's not going to give a fuck about anything except having you back in her life."

Layla leaned into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment. When she opened them again, I saw a vulnerability there that made my chest ache.

"You can't know that," she whispered.

I smirked, brushing my thumb across her cheekbone. "I know everything, remember? It's part of my mystique."

She snorted, pulling away from me. "Your mystique? Is that what we're calling your inflated ego these days?"

"Ouch, gorgeous."

The roar of an approaching engine cut off whatever retort Layla had been about to make. We turned to see a pickup truck rumbling down the dirt road that led to the airstrip. Dust billowed behind it, obscuring the driver from view.

Layla tensed beside me, her hand instinctively moving to the gun holstered at her hip. I placed a steadying hand on her lower back, feeling the coiled tension in her muscles.

"Easy," I murmured. "Let's see who our welcoming committee is before we start shooting, yeah?"

The truck skidded to a stop a few yards away, and a familiar figure emerged from the driver's side. Gage Warren, looking like he'd aged a decade since I'd last seen him. His hair was longer, pulled back in a messy bun, and a scruffy beard covered his jaw.

I glanced at her, taking in the rigid set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on her gun. Her eyes blazed with a fury that could melt steel, fixed on Gage like lasers homing in on their target. For a moment, I genuinely wondered if she would gun him down right here on this godforsaken airstrip.

"Well, well," I drawled, breaking the tension. "If it isn't our favorite turncoat. Looking a bit rough there, Warren. Suburban life not agreeing with you?"

Gage's lips twitched in a ghost of his old smirk. "Fuck you, Cortez."

Layla remained silent beside me, her body thrumming with violence. I could practically feel the heat of her rage radiating off her in waves. It was intoxicating.

"You know," I mused, lighting another cigarette, "I seem to recall a certain promise you made, baby girl. Something about hunting down our dear Gage here and making him suffer for his betrayal?"

I watched with wry amusement as Layla stalked towards Gage, her movements predatory and fluid. The poor bastard visibly flinched as she approached, no doubt remembering herrather colorful threats. I had to admire his balls, or perhaps his stupidity, for showing up here at all.

"Hold on now," I drawled, sauntering after her. "Let's not spill blood on this lovely runway. Think of the cleanup costs."

Layla's eyes flashed dangerously as she whirled to face me. "Don't test me, Alex. I'm in no mood for your bullshit right now."

I held up my hands in mock surrender, unable to keep the smirk off my face. "Wouldn't dream of it, my queen. Just offering a friendly reminder about the virtue of patience. After all," I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear, "revenge is a dish best served cold. And I do so love watching you work when you take your time."

A shiver ran through her at my words, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. Even in the midst of all this tension, I could still get under her skin.

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