Page 10 of Bad Blood
More empty promises fall from his lips, faster than a golden-tongued auctioneer. Pointless, of course. They’re nothing but wasted energy and white noise.
That’s when I hear a familiar, throaty laugh behind me. One that knows better than to show up three hours early.
Good men follow the rules. Smart men follow their instincts.
My own words chisel into my skull as I rise from my chair, ignoring the frantic bargaining still going on. Ashcroft is throwing himself on the mercy of the devil’s court, and at any other time, I’d enjoy delivering his sentence.
But not today.
He gets a reprieve.
She doesn’t.
Pulling out my phone, I make my way over to her, unsurprised when RJ answers before it even rings—a hallmark of his upbringing. “Platinum Bar Lounge,” I say before disconnecting the call and tucking the device back inside my jacket. In five wide steps, I make my way to the counter, my hands fisted by my side. “Still can’t follow directions, I see.”
Two slender shoulders stiffen under a curtain of long, dark hair. “Why start now?”
“You weren’t supposed to be here until five o’clock. Explain yourself.”
“Boss.” Like a phantom, RJ, my second in command, appears by my side.
Announcing his presence wasn’t necessary. I knew he’d arrived by the sudden wave of whispers rippling across the bar. The man is a genetically engineered tank stuffed inside a designer suit. It’s what makes him so dangerous. People focus on the muscles shaping his body, ignoring the most lethal one of all.
His brain.
A diabolical machine with the IQ of a genius.
Despite his appearance, RJ Harcourt can blend in better than any of us. Having been born in Mexico City and raised in Houston he’s a cultural chameleon—able to look the part of a hardened narco and speak with the eloquence and civility of a silver-spoon fed CEO.
I nod at my ill-fated casino floor manager, still sitting motionless where I left him. “Please escort Mr. Ashford downstairs.”
Where he’ll pay until his skin drips red.
RJ crosses the room and engulfs Ashford’s arm in his grip. Impressively, the doomed man doesn’t say a word, simply stumbling along the trajectory of his fate, his face the color of spoiled-milk.
Once they’re both out of sight, I shift my attention to my left and the college asshole at the bar with his eyes attached to my sister’s chest. “Leave.”
Cocking a blond eyebrow, he offers a disinterested scan down my handmade Italian suit. “Man, fuck off. I’m buying the lady a drink.”
I don’t argue; I act.
One glance at the bartender is all it takes. With a subtle nod, he discreetly hands me a credit card.
I glance down. “Channing Yeager.”Stupid name for a stupid fucker.
“Santi…” a soft voice groans next to me.
“Quiet,” I snap. “I’ll deal with you in a minute. Now, Mr. Yeager...” I say, redirecting my focus. “You have thirty seconds to leave the premises of your own free will”—leaning in, I lower my voice—“and in one piece.”
That cocky smirk melts off his face like a crayon in the sun. “Y-you’re Santi Carrera…” I have to admit, my blood sings at the terror my name etches into his face. With a shaking hand, he retrieves his card. Glancing briefly at the fuming woman beside him, he sprints toward the exit. “You’re on your own.”
Silence dances an out of step beat between us as I slide into the newly vacated barstool. Both of us wait for the other to speak first, neither wanting to concede.
Without asking, a glass ofAñejotequila appears in front of me. Biding my time, I lift my glass, savoring the familiar burn to the familiar tune of spinning slot machines in the background.
“That was a little over the top, don’t you think?” she says finally.
Setting my glass down, I fight a smirk. “No.”
