Page 30 of El Malo

I can’t stop staring at him.

For a bad guy, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

His black hair is styled in a tousled way and he’s left some black scruff on his cheeks rather than shaving. My palms itch to run my fingers along his sharp jawline and down his neck that’s corded with lean muscle.

The rain patters on the car, but Javier isn’t bothered as he weaves through the streets as though he comes this way all the time. It makes me realize how sheltered I’ve been due to my job. Michael has made it clear that my job was to remain on the estate and to not venture out into the dangerous city. Whenever we’d go out to dinner, it was always someplace we could walk to and bring back to the hotel room. I’m now passing buildings I’ve never seen before. Even in the rain, with them all lit up, it’s beautiful. We pull up to a building that has people standing outside the door with umbrellas waiting.

“They look too busy,” I say, a slight pout to my voice when I realize it’s a restaurant.

“Not too busy for an Estrada,” he replies cockily. He climbs out of the car where Arturo waits with an umbrella. When my car door opens, Javier stands beside it with his arm outstretched and the other one holding an umbrella. I accept his hand and he pulls me close to him to protect me from the rain. It’s hard to remember sometimes that he’s evil personified. A murdering leader of a Mexican cartel. Él es el malo. He is the bad guy. But with his strong arm wrapped around my waist and smelling like heaven as he behaves as a perfect gentleman, I find the line blurring for me.

Michael never opened doors for me.

Not even back in Virginia where we met. Then, it was always drinks after work and I’d end up in his bed. In the beginning, our relationship was hot and had hope for a future. But about six months after coming to Acapulco, he changed. Started drinking more. Keeping me at arm’s length when it came to emotions. Fucking me as though it was his right, but he didn’t even seem to enjoy it half the time.

Javier’s fingers tighten around my waist when we pass a guy who eyeballs my tits in the dress. He walks us past the line and into the dark, tiny restaurant. As soon as he closes the umbrella, an old man with a mustache rushes over to him.

“Javier, mijo!” the old man greets with a wide grin. “Siéntate con tu bella dama.” Come sit with your beautiful lady.

“Gracias, Jorge,” Javier says and flashes me a smug grin as we follow the old man.

“¡Levántense!” Jorge orders a couple of teenage boys when we reach a table near the back.

The boys groan and leave, carrying their plates with them. Jorge produces a wet cloth from his belt and quickly cleans the table as if two seconds ago people weren’t just dining there. This place reminds me of my favorite restaurant and the old man treats Javier like Ana treated me.

Like family.

Pain crushes my heart as I take my seat. I can’t look at him. I’ll see their eyes. The ones who stormed in and shot up everyone I cared about. He is the enemy. I need to remember that.

“Dos margaritas de cocos,” Javier says to Jorge. His tone sounds dismissive. “Rosa.” He grabs my hand and I wince. “What is it? Do you want to go somewhere nicer?”

My eyes sting with tears and I blink rapidly to rid them. “N-No. This is perfect. Just reminded me of a restaurant I used to eat at as a girl in Ciudad Juárez.” I lift my gaze to find him staring intensely at me. The slivers of light brown in his dark eyes seems to brighten and flicker with worry. “I’m fine,” I assure him. “I just really miss their tacos al pastor.” That’s not a lie.

He studies me for a minute before he reaches for the menus tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers and about seven different types of hot sauces. This place is kind of dingy and old, but it’s perfect. It even smells like my childhood.

“Lucky for you,” he tells me, his eyes narrowed as if he’s watching my every facial tick and blink. “They have the best tacos al pastor in all of Mexico.”

I lift a brow. “I doubt it could beat Miguel’s. He was the master.”

“Was?”

Swallowing, I throw him a bone. One thing we learned in training was that you give them nibbles of the truth so that when you deliver your lies, they flow more easily from you.

“He was killed,” I tell him softly. “Gangsters he owed money to.”

The tense moment is interrupted when Jorge sets down two giant margarita glasses. They each have a skewer sticking out of them with cut bananas, strawberries, and fat marshmallows. I’ve never seen a drink like this before.

“Rosa no cree que sirvas los mejores tacos al pastor en México,” Javier tattles, a playful grin back on his handsome face. Rosa does not think you serve the best tacos al pastor in Mexico.

“I didn’t say that,” I argue.

Jorge puffs out his chest and waggles his meaty finger at me. “Verás, bella dama.” He storms off as though he’s on a mission. You will see, beautiful lady.

“I can’t believe you told him that,” I say with a groan as someone sets some chips and salsa down in front of us. My stomach grumbles in appreciation. I pick up a tortilla chip and dip it. “He’ll probably poison us now.”

He pulls his gun from his back and sets it on the table. “Jorge knows better than to fuck with El Malo.”

I glance around the bustling restaurant and nobody notices his chrome and black, long barreled Desert Eagle. One glance tells me it’s .50 caliber. Same one he pulled on Marco Antonio this morning. They hold seven rounds.

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