Page 8 of His Deadly Lies

There’s no answer, but I know he’s heard me.

Rafel is quiet; he’s always quiet. That’s what I like most about him. He simply nods his head from his perch, in control of this tiny kingdom on wheels. I’m not sure what I’d do without him. He is one of those steady presences you can always count on not only to get the job done but to do it thoroughly and without hesitation.

He switches directions, taking a right rather than heading straight, and in the distance, I make out the dull gleam of a familiar sign for a coffee chain. It will have to do.

“Thank you.”

I’m quick with praise when it’s warranted, unlike some people.

Too late, I tell myself, and too much liquor. Good liquor, but it’s making me antsy. What I should probably do is stop and fill myself with junk food, enough to make me sick. But that won't serve any purpose other than to numb my feelings.

And if alcohol didn’t work, then a Big Mac won’t either.

The loud backfiring of a car sounds from a side street, and I wince. Loud enough to make my ears ring. The small jerk of my knee surprises me, especially when the other one jumps at the sound of a revving engine following the backfire. My heart starts to race like a jackrabbit.

Nerves, I tell myself.

Nothing but nerves after a long day.

“I swear,” I say out loud. “If men had to divulge the size of their dicks everywhere they went, then these muscle cars and ridiculous street races would cease to exist.”

The statement, although true, doesn't do anything against the pounding in my chest.

Tires screech against pavement as Rafel slows in front of the coffee shop. He cuts the engine, the sound louder in the silence. I glance over my shoulder but see nothing in the street, nothing headed our way.

Rafel walks around to my side and pulls open the door, holding out a hand for me to take. A sliver of ice trails down my spine.

Ridiculous.

That’s what I’m being right now. But I take his hand regardless and step out into the open.

Ridiculous allowing myself to get spooked by a dick-measuring contest. They happen all the time, especially along these side streets where the general populace knows better than to traffic.

Another engine backfires, too close for comfort. A quick rat-tat of sound.

No.

Not an engine.

A gun. A gun goes off, and this time there is no mistaking it for a car.

“Get down!” Rafel yells out, his arms around my torso. He launches himself at me just as another shot fires.

We topple to the ground together, with Rafel’s body providing a shield around me, my bare leg scraping against the pavement, and my knee and hip taking the brunt of the hit. My head meets the sidewalk in the worst possible way, bone cracking against cement hard, teeth clenching together. Warmth spreads from my chest all the way through to my shoulders.

Blood. And it’s everywhere.

3

MIA

Blood. Death. Killing.

It’s the way of life in the Balestra house.

My heartbeat pounds in my ear, the only sound in the world, and I’m caught between hard muscle and cold cement.

Straining to breathe, to exist.

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