Page 176 of Lone Star

The water was cold, and crisp-tasting. A stray drop ran down her chin when he pulled the glass back, and he gently swiped it away with his thumb.

“That should help,” he said, sitting back, setting the glass on the floor by his chair. “Now, where were we?”

“I’m curious about something,” she said, grateful for the water, for the smoothness it lent her voice. “If you wanted to know about the club, why did you start small? Why Pacer and Melanie? Why not kill a Dog outright?” Just asking left her tingling all over unpleasantly. It was all too easy to imagine the scene: Jinx, or Blue, or Gringo, or Cowboy laid out dead, and Candy seething, raging, wreaking havoc.

She supposed she’d answered her own question before he flicked a tight smile and said, “Experiments are delicate things. I wanted to really see them, your men – your man,” he corrected, flashing sharp canines. “Candy, isn’t it? He’s the president. He’s the only one whose opinion counts. President first.”

“Club first,” she corrected. “It isn’t a dictatorship.”

“Ah.” He wagged a slender, ringed finger. “That’s what you tell yourselves. But?” An invitation.

“Candy’s the president,” she said, firmly. “What were you wondering?”

“I thought you were wondering.”

She gave him a look.

He laughed. “Oh, you’re adelight. Yes, I was wondering, same as you. I figured if I killed one of his brothers” – he said the word mockingly – “he would be irate.”

“Good guess.”

“I didn’t want irate. I wanted tounderstandhim.”

“Do you?”

“I understand all he really cares about is you. He’ll be coming, soon. Unless my father has a better hold on his tongue than I think.”

“Your father,” she mused, quelling the sharp, inquisitive energy that spiked. Candy had said Luis’s father was the cartel boss, but no one had seen hide nor hair of him. “Does he know what you’re doing here?”

He flashed teeth. “Maybe. Probably. He doesn’t care.”

She affected a snort. “Dads always care.”

“Does yours?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t put up much of a fuss – he’s got too much else going on. But do you think he wanted me to marry another club president?”

He tilted his head, considering. “It does keep it all in the family, so to speak. What would you have done with a poor civilian man? Eaten him for breakfast?”

“Something like that.”

“My father doesn’t care,” he said, growing thoughtful; growing morose. “He never has.”

“He put you in charge, didn’t he?”

Another smile. “In a manner of speaking, I guess.”

There was something there; a tender spot, an old wound, a barely-concealed mountain of daddy issues ripe for the exploiting. But she didn’t know enough, and wasn’t sure she had the time to tease it all out of him.

Softly, in a voice laced with understanding, she said, “That’s why you created the Holy Father persona, isn’t it?” His expression tightened, her first warning sign. “You don’t strike me as a zealot. This isn’t about religion; it’s about you, and your dad.”

All the languid, performative grace evaporated. He bolted to his feet, tense as a wire, and produced a gun from inside his robe – a gleaming, ridiculous gold-plated Desert Eagle.

It was a stupid gun for a spoiled child trying to look cool – but it was massive, and Michelle could imagine all too well the way it would carve her face off her body and leave her nothing but a pulpy mess on the pillow.

He shoved the muzzle into her face, smile a rictus. “I know what you’re doing.”

She wanted to shrink back; wanted to close her eyes and will this moment away. Instead she stared at him, blinking, as blankly as she could manage. “What am I doing?”

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