Page 8 of Don't Trust Him

“We need to move fast,” I posit.

“Yeah, Eliza, we do,” he sighs, a note of desperation on his voice. “Jesus, Eliza...this is fucked up. I know that cartels don’t fuck around when it comes to their business...but these guys...oh, fuck, Eliza...have you seen what they do?”

“They don’t call them Bonita Muerte cartel for nothing, Juan. Now try and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we’ll get together and think of something like we always do. There’s no way I’ll let these assholes beat us to it.”

I hang up the moment I finish speaking. I know that if I allowed him to, he’d just keep on whining. And, girl, if there’s something I can’t stand...is a whiner. If you’re such a pussy, maybe we shouldn’t be working for a cartel—hey, just saying. Although, yeah...once you get in this line of work, there’s no way out.

Unless you want to end up on the wrong side of the earth, that is.

For a moment, I consider laying down again, but then I just swing my legs off the bed and stretch my back. It’s early as hell, but at least I can get a headstart on the day. God knows I need it, now that other major players are making a move.

Wearing nothing but the skin I was born with, I tiptoe my way to my suite’s bathroom and get the water running on the tub. Then, grabbing the bath bombs the concierge gave me yesterday, I drop them on the water. I stand there, watching as a brightly colored foam starts taking over the

warm water, and then I jump in.

I lay there, just savoring the warmth, when I spot a bottle of champagne on the small table next to the tub. A girl can drink champagne at any hours of the day. Even 4 am.

Reaching for the bottle, I push the cork out with a loud pop! and then I pour a glass for me. I swear, this is the life. Drinking champagne at four in the morning, while laying back on the massive bathtub of my even more massive suite.

I revel in the peace that I be so relaxed when these Bonita Muerte assholes are trying to beat me to coke squared. Sure, they’re probably aching to put a bullet in my head. I take it one day at a time. And I wouldn’t have gotten this far if I spent my days wondering about what might happen. Besides, I’m a big girl, I have the backing of one of the most powerful cartels in the world, and I can handle myself.

Sure, I don’t hang around the frontline. I’m not out there chopping fingers and setting people on fire. And that’s for the best, really, since that kind of works would probably ruin my nails. But the thing is, I know how to use gun. I know how to use a knife. And I know how to use my fists, and how to kick a man so hard in the balls his voice will become high-pitched for the rest of his natural life.

So I’m not worried. I’m ready, and I’m taking a moment of unplugged me time.

I sit up on the tub as I hear my phone buzz in the bedroom.

Okay, maybe not so unplugged.

Sighing, I get up and saunter over to my suite, not even bothering with a towel.

You’ve been tailed, I read on my phone the moment I pick it up. They have eyes on you. I don’t recognize the number, but that’s normal. A lot of the communication we do inside the cartel is done through encrypted channels, or the old method of burner phones. Hey, snapping a phone in half is great fun.

Pressing my thumb on the screen, I open the attachment embedded on the message. There are a few photos of Mexican looking dudes in a car, one of them holding a camera, and there’s a timestamp on the bottom right corner.

Shit.

It’s fresh.

Fuck.

I scroll down, to see the rest of the message. Their enforcer most likely trailing you. Grayson Teague. Be careful.

Pressing the screen again, my breath catches as I see the picture of a tall man with hard eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me—hell, he looks my age—and has everything but the appearance of an enforcer for one of the most dangerous Mexican cartels.

Chiseled jaw, straight posture, and confident grin. And then, muscles that push against the fabric of his clothes, filling them up easily. And then there are his eyes...only they betray how dangerous Grayson Teague really is. There’s a cold edge there, and it almost makes me believe that this man doesn’t have a beating heart inside his chest.

“Grayson Teague,” I mutter under my breath, closing my phone and throwing it on top of the bed. I move toward the large floor-to-ceiling window at the end of my suite, and look out toward the brightly lit city skyline.

Somewhere out there, Grayson Teague is looking for me. And, oh, I’ve heard stories...for the first time in a long time, I feel what seems like fear creeping up on me.

“Get your shit together, Eliza,” I chide myself, gritting my teeth and straightening my back.

If Grayson Teague wants a piece of me, he’s more than welcome to come and get it.

I’ll just pay him in kind.

Five

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