Page 21 of When Sinners Dare

“This is important, Abel. Hear me out.” I start out confidently and wait for Abel to say something, but the line’s just quiet.

Okay then. Here goes. “Abel, there was an accident.” My words are calm and paced, but I can feel the rush gathering in my throat, the guilt and worry forcing them out. “Mother and I got into a fight. Not a physical fight, not like you would, and we were both so mad. She… fell backwards and hit her head. I called Dante, and he said he’ll come and help, well, sort it, but I had to call you.” I pause. My tongue feels too big in my mouth to say the next words, but I have to. “She’s dead, Abel.” I choke. “And I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t stay in the house.” I want to say sorry. I want to apologise, but I hate that it would make me sound guilty.

I’m not guilty.

I repeat the words, even though I’m not sure I believe them.

“Mariana, what are you saying?”

“Mother’s dead.”I’m sorry.

“Where are you now? Have you called the police?”

“I’m…” I stop, not sure I want to tell him. “I’ll be back soon. And no, I didn’t. I called Dante. And you.” I hang up.

Staring at the phone, I half expect it to start blaring again, but it remains black.

I sit and stare at it. Part of me wants him to ring back, but it stays quiet. The sobs are gathered in my chest, threatening to escape, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to cry.

I need a drink.

Looking up at the bar, it’s not even close to the trendy wine bar I was in the other day, but then look what that got me. It’s a drink, I don’t have to love the place. I walk up to the steps and pull open the mesh-covered door to walk inside. There’s a pool table at the far end, and the bar stands at the other, with a row of velvet-topped wooden bar stools for company. It’s lively, and I make a beeline for the bar.

“Tequila. Neat. Silver Milagro or Patron,” I order as I take my seat.

The middle-aged barkeep looks me over like he doesn’t approve. “I’m afraid all we have is Jose Cuervo,” he announces.

“Fine. Salt and lime. You got those, right?” I snap.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He grabs the bottle, pours the shot and slides it across to me with a lime wedge on the side, passing me a salt shaker, too.

I lick my hand after shaking the salt and throw the shot back. It’s cheap and reminds me of Knox’s party, where we all toasted to the past and the future. The hit of lime rounds off the taste, but the drink doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Another,” I order as I take a glance around the bar. My eyes land on a guy drinking at the other end of the bar to me. Older, but in a hot way. His dirty blonde hair is messy and gives him an air of bad-boy. He turns his head to look right at me and raises his shot glass in a toast.

“Salut!” he tips back his shot of Bourbon, I presume, and twists on his stool to face me. “Can I get you another?” he asks with a smile that has trouble written all over it.

“Sure.” It’s an easy answer.

He stands and combs his fingers through his hair, pulling it off his face before coming to sit on the stool next to me.

“What are we drinking to?” he asks as the barkeep lines up our shots.

“Forgiveness,” I answer.

Salt, drink, lime. I don’t wait for him to catch up.

“To forgiveness.” He ignores the salt and lime and downs the tequila. “Now, call me a presumptuous asshole, but I’m going to guess that the bottle might be a good shout.” He tips his head towards the guy behind the bar, still holding the bottle.

I smile. “You read my mind.”

Sharing a bottle of tequila in a bar with a stranger isn’t usually my style. In fact, it’s nothing like me, but maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong. I’ve spent my life trying to be someone that my family accepts and approves of. The perfect Cortez daughter, trying to fit into her brother’s world. Well, screw them. Getting drunk in a dive bar sounds like Dante, anyway. Besides, Mother’s not here to disapprove this time, is she?

The guy refills my glass, and this time I wait. “On three.” I count us down, we clink glasses, and we both down the shot.

“Gotta say, tequila’s not my drink. Yet here you are drinking it like water.”

“Family tradition,” I say. “And this stuff barely passes for tequila anyway.” I grab the bottle and refill our glasses. The alcohol hasn’t started to warm me up yet, and I’m not leaving until I’m a helluva lot more drunk than I am now. And hopefully, the drink will numb my pain. “Cheers!” Another shot down.

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