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Chapter Seven - Stitch
Four days. Four fucking days since Gunnar and Cross had a closed-door meeting about doing business with Reed and I hadn’t heard one single goddamn word. From either of them. It was total bullshit, stringing me along like this. I expected it from Gunnar, he was an old ass grouch, always complaining about shit instead of trying to enjoy what he had. A cute little girl and a club full of brothers who always had his back. Still he bitched and moaned. About everything.
But Cross not saying anything surprised me. So far, he had proven to be a great President despite all the shit we’d been through and all the stress he was under. And he’d always faced shit head on. Except this. It pissed me off, but I refused to show it, not when they still called me ‘kid’ and ‘youngster’ and anything else to remind me that I was years younger than all the older guys. And younger than some of the new prospects.
Instead, I stayed at home, inside my crappy little two-bedroom apartment. I didn’t need or want more. Not yet. What I did want, though, was some food.
My fridge was bare so I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. At the same time a knock sounded. When I pulled the door open my jaw nearly fell to the floor at the sight of Marisol, all tan and curvy and luscious. And she looked scared. “Baby, what are you doing here? I’m so glad to see you. Come on in.”
She sighed, wringing her hands. Those big brown eyes full of fear as she stepped in closer and wrapped her arms around me. “Stitch.” Her voice came out on a shuddery whimper.
“Shit, babe. What’s wrong?”
She held on tight for nearly a minute before sucking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Sorry.” She stepped back on a shaky grin. “I just wanted to see you.”
“As much as I want to believe that, I’m gonna have to call bullshit sweetheart.” Everything about her screamed woman on the run and that had me on edge, blood pumping through my veins hot and thick like lava. Maybe it was the woman and her curves. Or maybe it was something else. I shut the door and said, “Come on, Marisol. Tell me what’s going on.”
She let me guide her to the sofa where she dropped down with a heavy sigh. “It’s all so fucking cliché, Stitch.”
“Tell me and our old friend Jack all about it,” I said and poured two glasses of Tennessee’s finest. “I assume this has to do with the married boyfriend?”
Marisol nodded and took two big gulps before she sank into the sofa with a sigh. “Yeah, who else?” She huffed out a bitter laugh and finished her glass before shoving it in my direction. “I woke up the day after your last visit to find Carlito sitting in my living room, drinking a cup of coffee. He sounded so fucking reasonable, the way he always did. At first.”
A chill ran down my spine but I kept my mouth shut and listened. With a death grip on my glass. “And then?”
“Then he went totally fucking psycho. I walked straight past him and fixed a cup for myself and when I turned around, he was there like a creepy fucking turtle.” She shivered at the memory. “His gaze narrowed and he looked at me with hate in his eyes before grabbing me by the throat. You’re mine, Marisol. You belong to me. Remember that,” she repeated, mimicking a thick Spanish accent. “You can fuck that white boy but don’t ever forget, you are mine.” She shoved her hair back, tucking some of the strands behind her ear so I could see her full face.
And the fucking bruise that was forming. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
Marisol’s soft hand wrapped around my wrist and tugged. “I laughed at him. Told him that I’m his employee, one he forces to fuck.” I opened my mouth to protest but she waved me off. “He backhanded me and for some reason I laughed even harder.” The memory held her captive for a few seconds, her hands absently fidgeting with the hem of her tank top, her teeth nibbling her bottom lip. “He only proved my point and I told him as much. I’m stuck with him until one of us is dead but he likes to pretend it’s a love match. Most days I can take it, but that morning I just couldn’t let the charade go on, you know?”
Yeah, I fucking knew. “You can stay here, Marisol. As long as you need.” No, that wasn’t a good idea. “It might be better—”
“No, Stitch. Stop. I’m not here for your help.”
I frowned. “And you’re not here because you missed me, so what the hell, Marisol?”
“Carlito took my phone. That’s why I haven’t been in touch. Anyway he knows about you, I don’t know how much but he knows and I had to warn you.”
“I can handle myself, Marisol, but I appreciate your concern.” I tried to pull her close, to offer her comfort but she pushed me away.
“Dammit, Stitch will you listen to me? He isn’t just some shady businessman. It’s Carlito Esteban, also known as El Jefe. He’s the head of the Salinas Cartel.”
Aww, shit. “Damn girl when you go big, you go big as hell don’t you?” I needed a moment to think. If I was smart I would have called Cross but I quickly talked myself out of it. For now. “Is there anything you need from
Reno? If not, we can grab some stuff from Target and I can get you out of town.” It wasn’t ideal but it was all I had at the moment.
She shook her head again, long thick hair spilling all around her shoulders. “I can’t. There is no disappearing, not from them. Carlito will find me wherever I go. I have to go back.”
“Okay. I’m going to Reno with you.” I told her firmly, so she knew I wasn’t asking.
“No, they’ll kill—”
I held up a hand to stop her tirade when my phone began to vibrate across the coffee table.
It was Gunnar. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Cross gave the go ahead and he’s already talked to Reed. We leave tomorrow at 0900 hours. Don’t be late.” He hung up like he always did. Rude fucker.
