Page 13 of The Vows We Keep
The softness in her features hardens. “He’s aggressive, brimming with patriarchal machismo. That aggression was compelling to some of the club. He wouldn’t shy from violence and created a reputation for Los Reyes as a club that would handle dirty business for a price. Becoming hitmen for other organizations was a lucrative gig. I suspect that’s why they came here, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me what you know.”
“I’m ...” Shit. I was going to introduce myself. My knee starts to bounce, and I will it to stop. I’ve been tied up too long.
Telling her she doesn’t have King is a really important piece of information. If there is something more subversive at play here, my president needs to be protected at all costs ... just like I protected his father when I was fifteen. But for some reason, I don’t want the next thing out of my mouth to be a lie. “Was there bad blood between them?”
Catalina leans back in the seat and purses her lips. “I never thought so. There was banter about it occasionally. But once, I stayed over at the clubhouse when no one knew, and I heard Perrito remind Papá that he’d hadn’t won the vote, so he should back off from trying to lead the men behind the scenes. So maybe there was more bad blood than I want to admit.”
I sift through fragments of memories of everything that had been said since Cat took me. I was awake long before they realized, but I kept my head down to gain information. “You were with Felipe? The president’s son?”
Her eyes meet mine unwaveringly. “Only when it was useful.”
There is no hint of shame. Nor does there need to be. But I catch within myself the first feeling of jealousy that he’s slept with her, and I haven’t. Yet.
“Playing both sides. Clever. Were you getting intel from Felipe for your dad or passing info to Felipe to enable him to take over the VP position from your father?”
Catalina stands up so fast, she kicks the chair down behind her. “Who I slept with and why I slept with them is none of your business. I answer only to myself. I don’t care about the politics of a club that won’t accept me as a member. I answer to myself, and occasionally to my family.”
“Was just asking the question. No need to freak the fuck out.”
She takes a breath and walks behind me. I can’t see what she’s doing, but I hear cupboards close and a cutlery drawer open. When she returns, she’s got a coffee, and it smells so fucking good, I start to salivate.
Coffee always tastes great with the gingerbread I make.
Can’t remember if I turned the coffee maker off at home before I left for the club yesterday.
Which reminds me I need to piss.
I could overwhelm this chick and get the fuck out of here.
But I’m intrigued by Catalina Flores and her problem. I want to know what happened that day too. I don’t like loose ends for my club. I can feel the problem sucking me in. In my head, I’m already organizing all the moving pieces.
“I just remembered something. Doesn’t help locate your dad, but changes what we know. That day, three riders broke off and chased one of my brothers and his old lady. But all three of them died. We buried eight. But not your dad or the two that never showed. So, who were the other three fill-ins? And could I please get one arm free and a cup of that fucking coffee before I die from this hangover?”
She eyes me carefully.
I huff. “You want trust? Then trust me, I’m better after caffeine.”
“You’re right-handed right?” she asks.
“I am.”
She reaches forward with a knife and frees my left arm.
“Clever girl. Free my weakest arm.” I roll the wrist joint around, then my elbow joint, and finally my shoulder. I’ve no idea what time it is, but the sky is losing its darkness. The sun’s up around seven thirty this time of year. Let’s say I was unconscious for an hour, then drugged for an hour, then Cat slept ... it must be at least six hours since I was taken. Maybe seven.
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she says before heading back to the kitchen. I shimmy the chair around so I can watch her as she pours me a cup. “You take anything in it?”
“Not a thing. Stiff and black is how I like it.”
She places it on the round kitchen table next to me. The first sip is heaven. It’s hot and burns my throat as I swallow it. But seeing my mouth feels as though someone filled it with sand overnight, I’m utterly grateful for it.
“Better?” she asks, before taking a sip from her own mug.
“You have no idea.”
We drink in silence for a moment, but my brain starts whirring with questions. I went on a true crime rampage last month. Every waking moment, I binged those fuckers. Podcasts. Shows. I’d stay up until four in the morning because I couldn’t rest until I knew the ending. Loved guessing. Loved trying to figure out the clues they might have missed. Went on a road trip to North Carolina to kill a guy who went on the run with club money for a shipment not delivered. Listened to the podcasts all the way there and back.
“What if we draw out the timeline? Who left, who came back, how long they were gone. Felipe and Mateo have obviously already spun a version of what happened. Los Reyes already know it was us who took them out. We thought we’d cleaned everything up tight. And I’d swear we did. Even down to the number of bikes we sold. So, let’s map it out.”
