Page 17 of Blurred Red Lines
“Odio ese pedazo de mierda!” he yelled, his native Spanish coming out in a tirade of insults.
I giggled into the receiver. “I don’t know what you said, but I’m assuming it had something to do with him being a piece of shit.”
Emilio’s low chuckle vibrated in my ear. “You’re one of a kind, Eden O’Dell. If I wasn’t married…” He trailed off, and I cringed at his use of my married name. It had been on my driver’s license when I’d applied for the job, and it’d just been easier never to correct him.
I’d have to fix that soon.
“Yeah, yeah…you’re too old for me, Emilio. You’d break a hip in the first two minutes.”
He snorted with a chuckle. “Mañana, Eden.”
“Mañana,old man,” I joked, hanging up on him.
* * *
Alittle over an hour later, I’d switched off the main lights over the bar, leaving just enough on inside to deter would-be criminals. I closed the front door and turned the lock with thoughts of eviscerating Davis with the blunt end of the dead bolt key. The bite of the betrayal still stung as sharply as it did a year ago. Maybe it always would.
Even though it was close to one o’clock in the morning, the muggy thickness of the June air mixed with pelting rain hit me in the face as I power walked to my car. The summer would be intolerable if it was already this sticky. Southern humidity deserved its own special circle in Dante’s Inferno. It stuck in your lungs, ruined your hair, and made even the primmest of debutantes sweat like a two-ton pig fucking a donkey.
The inside of the Cruiser was no less than sweltering when I turned the ignition, flipped the air conditioner on full blast, and dug in my purse for my phone. After a few moments, I cursed to myself, remembering I’d let it bounce from my shoulder to the bar while being hypnotized by Val’s gold-flecked, chocolate eyes.
Groaning, I slammed the door and ran the length of the parking lot back to the cantina. Once inside, I shook off the droplets, scooped my phone into my hands, and dialed Nash’s number. If he was awake, maybe he’d be up for some company. When the call went straight to voice mail, I glanced at the ceiling as another idea came to mind. Walking toward the front door, I scrolled through my preapproved list of non-clingers, deciding who would suffice for an early Sunday morning screw. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I knew whose face I’d see anyway.
Damn you, Danger.
As I was about to dial, a crash and a muffled grunt echoed from the back. An electric shock shot down my spine while anticipation and dread chased its trail. My fingers went numb, as if preparing the rest of my body for the same sensation. Every instinct pleaded with my legs to turn and run in the opposite direction, but as if tethered to an invisible line, they moved toward the kitchen.
Locked somewhere between a dream-like state and morbid curiosity, my hands reached for the swinging doors. My pulse roared in my ears, my skin a vibration of energy ready to explode.
At the last moment, I glanced at a side table and grabbed a fork.
Sure, fork them to death.
Another loud crash masked the sound of the door being pushed open. Breathing heavily, I slipped through unnoticed, feeling my way around. The light was dim, and my eyes took a moment to adjust as I furiously scanned every corner for activity. They came to rest on a figure slumped in the corner, jeans tattered and stained, t-shirt darkened, hands behind his back and burlap sack over his head.
Gripping the fork until I lost feeling in my fingers, I quickly slapped the other palm across my mouth to stop the cries that threatened to tumble out. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to take a breath.
Before I could contemplate a strategy in my head, the back door opened again, and a man walked in, his boots making a loud clomping sound against the tile floor. Paralyzed by fear, I twisted my body into the shadows behind a chef’s cart. Hunched over and trembling, I glanced between the metal bars of the rolling cart as a steel-toed boot landed a swift kick in the hooded man’s ribcage. I closed my eyes, unable to stomach the seven that followed.
When the silence returned, I opened an eyelid a sliver as the steel-toed-boot man crouched down. “Hola, señorLachey. We finally meet.”
Chapter Seven
EDEN
Lachey.
As the words reconciled in my head, I opened both eyes and rose to my knees, leaning forward for a closer look. All I could see was the back of the intruder’s head.
This wasn’t real. Surely, I’d heard wrong.
“My men tell me you’ve had a problem paying us our money. You should know we don’t tolerate outstanding debt.”
Debt? What debt? Oh, God, what had my father done?
A muffled voice rumbled from inside the burlap. “Fuck you.”
The steel-toed-boot man laughed maniacally. “No, fuck you, Lachey. See, the boss is getting his ten one way or the other.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket and pressed a button, releasing the blade. “So, you can count them out on your stealing fingers, or we can just count your fingers.” He jerked the sack off the limp man’s head, as he proudly displayed his blade.
