Page 60 of Dead Set on You
The man opens the door, and Rafael disappears inside, the door shutting with a bang that makes me startle. Sasquatch Soprano resumes his post beside the door, lights another cigarette, and blows out the smoke directly toward the truck.
On instinct, I duck. My heart hammers. When I peek over the dash, he’s staring at his phone, distracted—my cue to move.
I rush out of the truck and race past him, into the building, ignoring the unnatural sensation of moving through metal and concrete. Whatever Rafael thinks is so important that we have to pause our mission of figuringmeout, I should know. Especially if it involves manila envelopes and hush money.
The hallway is dimly lit, faint music playing from somewhere up ahead. I follow it. Closed doors line the hallway, but one of them is cracked. Tentatively, I peek inside.
An empty industrial kitchen greets me. Stainless steel appliances gleam pristine and unused. Boxes of condiments line the steel shelves. A massive metal counter cuts down the middle like an operating table.
Ohmygod.
We’ve stopped at a restaurant.
Furious, I bolt out of the kitchen, determined to find Rafael and have a long discussion about priorities. Starting with their definition. And how stopping for a snack after hejustate isn’t one of them.
I stomp down the hallway, where doors lead into a sleek, moody restaurant.
Exposed brick and metal pipes stretch across a black ceiling. Plush leather chairs curve around tables and booths. A massive white skeleton—a bony finger held up to its mouth—is painted onto the farthest wall above the wordsLa Clandestina Taco & Tequila Bar.
The logo is vaguely familiar, but my gaze snags on the expansive bar at the center of the restaurant. Or rather, the man leaning against it, his back to me.
It’s bad enough he needed a taco, but a drink too?
Anger propels me forward.
“It wasn’t the only thing.” A female voice has me digging in my heels.
A woman stands opposite Rafael, the bar separating them. She’s tall, tanned, and has curves that make you want to take Pilates. A sleeve of tattoos covers one arm, and her dark curls swish as she shakes the envelope in a menacing way.
I find I’m intrigued.
“I was ready to kill you,” she says.
Veryintrigued.
Keeping out of Rafael’s line of sight, I lean in.
“You can’t do that to me.” She swats his shoulder with the envelope before he can shield himself.
“IsaidI was sorry,” he says, ducking when she tries to swat at him again. She switches to Spanish briefly, her voice sharp. Rafael tenses.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s lost his touch with the female species.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.” Her hazel eyes narrow.
“I promise.” He flashes a smile, all charm.
There’s a pause. A collectively held breath.
“Okay,” she says, lowering the envelope.
And just like that, the tempest passes.
For a minute, I thought Rafael had met his match—someone immune to The Vela Effect™. But nope. Of course not. He has an arsenal. A lopsided grin. A clever quip. Stupidly deceiving puppy eyes. Andbam—he’s bending and twisting you to his will …
And—ohmygod—I’m thinking about his naked body and tangled bedsheets.
