Page 15 of Stolen By the Hit Man
I don’t understand.
Smirking, he pours a drink for me.
“What is that?”
“Tequila.”
“Won't that give me a headache?”
“Not unless you drink like an idiot. And I won’t let that happen.”
I take the tiny cup he offers me again, and I sip it. The taste feels as if my lip was just bitten by a snake.
“Sip it slowly.”
I do the opposite of what he tells me to do and swallow the rest of it down quickly. I cough at the burning sensation coating my insides. “Ugh! That’s terrible!”
“So terrible, yet so right,” he growls.
Trying and failing to wipe the burn from my lips, I focus on my unanswered question. “S-so,” I stutter, trying to regain the feeling in my mouth, “what is it that you don’t want to give a fuck about?”
Again, Joaquin won’t meet my gaze. “It’s a ritual. I do it before I do a job. It helps.”
I take a step closer and set the shot glass on the desk, then meet his gaze. “If you need tequila to do your job, then maybe you need to look for a new line of work.”
He glares. “You sound like Grady.”
“Who’s Grady?”
Finally, his denim-blues meet mine. “My dad. Well, not my biological father. Grady became my dad long after I’d aged out of the system.”
I feel oddly relaxed and find myself smiling at him kind of stupidly, considering the subject matter.
“System?”
“Foster care. And don’t ask me how I ended up there.”
“I won’t,” I answer quickly, sensing the tenderness in that particular topic.
“Grady Samson was a powerful board member of a nonprofit charity that took an interest in the group home where my best friend, Jefferson, and I washed up. That group home had a number of violations on the books. Corrupt directors. Reports of abuse. Constant fights. The list goes on. Grady got a bunch of people fired and is responsible for the creation of an oversight agency for family court. Meanwhile, he took Jefferson and me—the worst of the bunch—into his home. He gave us jobs, put a roof over our heads, and said we’d always have a place to land as long as we got our diplomas, got jobs, and stayed out of jail. Had goals in life.”
Emotion clouds Joaquin’s face. He clearly loves that man, and I’m happy he had someone like that in his life.
“And did you keep up your end of the bargain?” I say.
He smiles. “On all counts.”
The tequila settles into my bloodstream. I feel oddly warm and soft.
“And what was your goal in life?” I mentally take a guess at what it might be. Underwear model? Stunt man? Stand in for Tom Hardy? That’s what I wonder. But what I say out loud is, “Being a contestant on The Ugliest House in America?”
He snorts.
Where did I get that from? That show … that’s my favorite show. But how would I know about that show when I don’t have a TV?
“Good one. But no.” Joaquin looks me dead in the eye and shoots back another shot.
The only explanation he gives is, “Revenge.”
