Page 10 of The Wild Charge

It was at Yale, apparently, that Luis had first connected with Jensen Waverly.

“As in Jack Waverly?” Walsh had asked, brows shooting up.

“The film producer,” Tenny had supplied in Reese’s ear, his breath very warm, his lips soft on the shell of his ear, and raising the fine hairs on the back of Reese’s neck. “Not like you’d know that.” Smug and superior, but in a way that Reese found a little bit exhilarating these days, rather than annoying.

(He was aware that there were probably grown-up words for the way Tenny made him feel, but right now, he was content with the sensations alone, the pleasant warmth in his belly.)

“His son,” Luis confirmed. “Studying at Yale Law.”

Luis went on to explain, in a rambling, roundabout way that left Walsh clenching his jaw and Mercy smacking a screwdriver into the palm of his hand, a dichotomy that boiled down to something far simpler than the words he used to describe it. He’d had money in Mexico: a rich step-father, coastal villas, access to gorgeous cars, and women, and expensive champagne. Paid servants, and pools to lounge by, and all the recreational drugs he could want. A lavish life the likes of which no one else in the warehouse with him could relate to. Everyone in town had known who his step-father was; had bent, and scraped, and catered to Luis’s every whim. His tone had indicated how this had bored him, being revered and feared.

“Little cunt,” Tenny had muttered, with unusual feeling.

But then he’d gotten to Yale, and, through his fast, easy friendship with Jensen Waverly, he’d been exposed to the upper echelons of American old money, and, through them, the staggering wealth, power, and influence of the uber-rich, highly powerful people attached to Abacus.

Jensen took Luis along to a party being thrown by Abacus, he said. A stodgy, black-tie, museum-hosted affair. But there had been a back room, and an elevator, and a trip down. And there had been an auction.

“Girls. Gorgeous girls.” He sounded wondrous.

Reese’s stomach lurched unpleasantly, as he thought of his sister, and Tenny made a disgusted sound that felt like solidarity.

“They were just…selling them. To the highest bidder. American girls – they had American names. Not Eastern European, like I thought.”

“Right. Because only Eastern European girls get trafficked,” Walsh deadpanned.

“You know what I mean,” Luis huffed.

“Gettin’ awful mouthy for a guy taped to a chair,” Mercy observed. “How are those unbroken fingers feeling?”

Reese watched Luis pale, and gulp, and noted that his tone was meeker when he next spoke – but he also noted that, unlike some, Luis had been able to push past the fresh, bright pain of his finger, and focus on the conversation; he was being huffy, and self-righteous. That showed a certain amount of toughness, he thought, grudgingly. Or, at least a tolerance for pain.

“Look, I’m just telling you what happened. That’s what you wanted, right?” A challenge…tempered with a healthy dose of apprehension when he glanced at Mercy again.

“Get on with it, fuckwit,” Tenny chimed in.

Mercy chuckled.

Luis looked like he started to retort again – but thought better of it. Swallowed, sweat sliding down his temples, and said, “It was an auction, yeah. American girls.”

“Were they drugged?” Walsh asked.

“Obviously. Opiates, I’d guess. Could barely stand up.”

Tone hardening the barest fraction, Walsh said, “Did you make a purchase that night?”

Luis’s mouth twitched like he nearly grinned; pleased to hear a note of anger in Walsh’s voice, Reese thought. “Jensen did. I was less financially stable, then.”

“You’re not financially stable now,” Mercy reminded. “How’d you go fromEntourageto having your cartel funded?”

It seemed amazing that, given the current circumstances, Luis could still sniff and act superior. Offended, even.

Whatever Luis was, he had nerve, Reese granted. Or was perhaps more mentally ill than they’d thought.

“Jensen took me to meet his dad, and I offered him a proposition. I explained that I was the head of the Chupacabras, and that, with a loan, I could get the cartel working for Abacus.”

“But you weren’t the head of the Chupacabras,” Walsh pointed out.

“Not yet. But I knew I could be. I had resources. I had ideas,” he defended, hotly.

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