Page 97 of The Slayer
“Don’t worry about it.” Chuito closed the door and put the car into gear. “I haven’t had shit to do for three years but figure out how to speed without having Wyatt pull me over. That’s how I live hard these days.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tino must have had less than he admitted; either that, or he had a little toilet funeral for his blow like Chuito had. Therewassomething profoundly scary about getting picked up in a town like this on felony possession.
Gangsters liked to go down on their own turf.
Chuito was sure the Morettis had the federal correctional facilities completely under their thumb. Going down in New York would be like Club Med without the pussy, as Marcos used to put it.
Going down in Garnet was a whole other issue.
Chuito sat on the weight bench next to Tino, who was currently taking a fucking nap in the middle of the Cellar. He eyed Tino, seeing that his skin had become pale. He was tan, as tan as Chuito, because this motherfucker wasveryItalian, but there was just a strange, sickly gleam to him now, as if the lack of blow had sucked part of his heritage out of him.
Chuito remembered feeling like he was paying back a loan shark when he crashed, with triple the interest. Every fake good feeling he had ridden off of had simply been borrowed, and paying it back had been a bitch. He had honestly thought he’d never be able to have even a semblance of a good feeling again.
Tino’s hands were folded over his bare chest that was rising and falling too hard, making it obvious whatever he was dreaming about wasn’t good. Chuito looked around, making sure Romeo and Clay were still training in the cage.
Then he leaned over and touched his shoulder.
He jerked with how fast Tino knocked his hand away and then shoved Chuito back against the other bench. Between one blink and the next, Chuito had Tino’s hand wrapped around his neck. Chuito’s stomach knotted, because he saw the way Tino reached behind him, as if looking for a gun in the back of his pants.
Specialty.
No fucking kidding.
This guy tried to take out motherfuckers in his sleep.
Chuito was pretty sure he wasn’tthatbad.
“Should I be glad you aren’t strapped while you’re working out?” Chuito asked curiously as he dropped his gaze to Tino’s hand still wrapped around his throat.
He wasn’t fighting back. It wasn’t Tino’s fault, but knowing someone almost pulled a gun on him didn’t exactly leave Chuito feeling warm and fuzzy either.
Tino sat back down on the bench without an apology. “What’re you doing here?”
“You are in a gym.” Chuito glanced around and then leaned into him. “Are you okay?”
“I flushed it,” Tino admitted as he buried his face in his hands. “My brother is nailing the sheriff’s sister. He could come after us with a real vendetta when he finds out. Can you imagine going down in this town?”
“I can imagine it. I have spent years having nightmares about that shit.”
“Madonn’.” Tino fell back against the bench and put a hand over his face.
It took less than thirty seconds for Tino’s hand to drop back to the floor.
Motherfucker was asleep again.
Either Chuito had a bigger tolerance for crashing, or Tino had been snorting a lot more blow than he’d admitted. Chuito leaned over and shook him again. This time, when Tino jerked, Chuito knocked his arm away and cupped Tino’s face in his hand. He squeezed his cheeks as he spoke to him the same way he would Marcos. “Keep your eyes open. You’re being obvious, and this town gossips. You’ll have Wyatt on your ass in two seconds.”
Tino blinked at him as he fought to stay awake. “Do you—”
Chuito shook his head before he could finish. “I haven’t done blow for three years.”
“Fuck.” Tino shoved his hand away and then pushed him once more for good measure. “I should just eat my Beretta.”
“Do you have a Beretta?” Chuito asked in concern.
“Fuck, yes, I have a Beretta. It’s in the Ferrari.”
