Page 73 of Bad Blood
“Perceptible little thing, aren’t you?”
Condescending piece of shit, aren’t you?
Taking a cautious sip of his Bloody Mary, he rises to his feet. “I’m afraid I must leave it there. I have a meeting with your husband in five minutes.” After this declaration, he’s draining the rest of the drink in one, like he’s the Jekyll and Hyde of cocktail consumption. “Delicious,” he says, smacking his lips together. “Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.”
“You mean the one spent in a cage,” I say sweetly.
“One woman’s bars are another woman’s freedom, Mrs. Carrera. No doubt we’ll see each other again soon.”
I can’t wait.
I’m still contemplating his words when there’s an exasperated sigh behind me.
“Andrew, hit me up with something strong and fast. My brother is in a bad mood again, and if he tells me I make a shit cup of coffee one more time, I’m going to throw it at his damn head.”
A pair of gray crutches and two slim elbows hit the counter next to me, followed by a mass of dark silky hair that’s not unlike mine.
“Hi there, sorry about the drama…” Her words die a death on her lips as she turns to look at me. A beat later, she’s staggering back from the counter as if it’s burning hot.
“Hijo de su puta madre…”
“You must be Lola,” I say calmly.
“And you’re a Santiago scorpion in Chucks,” she gasps back. “You do know who owns this place, right? When my brother finds out—”
“Oh, he knows.” I hold up my hand to show her my ring finger and her brilliant-blue eyes widen to saucers.
“Andrew?” she breathes, sitting down hard on Mr. Spader’s recently vacated stool. “You better make it a double, and fast.”
“How’s your leg?” I ask, nodding at her crutches.
“How’s your mental state after agreeing to marry a Carrera?”
“Questionable.”
She points to her thigh. “Hurts.”
“Stitches?”
“Seven… Not the thirty-seven that my brother seemed to think I needed. Yourpapá’sbullet missed the mark,” she adds, aiming a vicious smile at me.
It’s no less than what I deserve, sitting here in the center of the Carrera lair, with all fingers pointing squarely at me.
“Edier didn’t destroy Legado, Lola.”
She scoffs. “You expect me to believe that? After the hell your father has put my family through?”
“I think you’ll find there are two hells to every story.”
“You know mymamáand I nearly died that night of the wedding?”
“So did mine.”
“Your father fired first.”
“Not according to him.”
Her sneer glides effortlessly into a frown. “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree then, aren’t we? Without the guns, though,” she adds dryly. “Crimson doesn’t match my outfit.”
