Cocked: A Stepbrother Romance (9 page)

“It feels so fake.”

“I know.” I moved closer to her. “Did you take some money from my bag for this coffee?”

She blinked for a second. “Uh, yeah.”

I grinned at her. “Thief.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I really hope not.”

She stood and walked into the bathroom, and I smiled to myself.

We straightened ourselves up and left not long later. I drove us farther into town where we found a department store. I let Lacey buy herself a few things and a bag to keep it all in and got myself a change of clothes. We stopped at a drug store next for toiletries, and then we were back on the road before ten. 

She wasn’t much interested in talking. I didn’t want to push her, and I didn’t feel interested in an argument. She needed time to adjust to her new reality, which made sense. Most people couldn’t go from a comfortable life at home to being chased down by violent Mexican gangsters in one afternoon without some adjustment issues. And honestly, she was handling it better than I expected, or at least she hadn’t broken down completely yet.

I didn’t know how long that would last, and I was afraid for when it happened.

We drove for a few hours that day, not stopping for anything. I wanted to put as much distance behind us as possible, and I was afraid that we’d argue again if we stopped.

The truth was, even though I hated the strained silence between us, it felt better than the alternative. I hated the way she looked at me, with the anger and the loathing, as if I were the worst person in the world. In her mind, I probably was. She had no clue what I was doing for her and what I had to do, no clue at all.

I couldn’t blame her for hating me. If that was what she needed to get through everything, then fine, I would deal with that.

“I’m starving.”

I looked up from the road, surprised out of my thoughts. She hadn’t spoken in a few hours.

“We can stop soon,” I said automatically, even though I didn’t want to.

“Not a rest stop.”

“Okay, princess. Only the best for you.”

“Look,” she said, turning her head toward me. “If we’re doing this, we might as well be civil.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly mature.”

“Don’t talk to me about being mature.”

I laughed and grinned at her. There was the anger again in her voice. “Okay. Just trying to say that I agree.”

“Then say that instead.” She sighed, exasperated. “I think you’re a cocky asshole and I think you ruined my life, but this is happening. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“This is happening,” I agreed.

“So we might as well try and get along.”

“That works for me.”

“Okay then. Let’s find a diner and eat.”

I smiled to myself and made my way to the right lane. I got off at the next exit I found and pulled over at the first gas station I saw.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Well, we don’t have phones, so we need to ask for directions.”

She laughed. “I have my phone.”

“Fuck,” I said, eyes wide. “Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“Have you used it?”

“No. I’ve been saving the battery.”

“I need it. Please.”

She dug the phone from her pocket and handed it over. I ripped off the back, pulled the battery, and tossed them both out the window.

“What the fuck!”

“They can track these things,” I explained.

“You could at least warn me.”

“Sorry. Didn’t want an argument.”

She scowled. “Whatever. Go get directions.”

She was quiet after that as I went inside and got directions to the closest diner from the guy working the register. I was worried that she’d had her phone for so long, though I wasn’t sure how much info it was really transmitting. Still, it probably gave the cartel some idea of where we were, but I didn’t want to panic her. We drove another few miles and pulled into a blue and gray, beat-up looking place, complete with semitrucks in the lot and potholes all over the place.

“Perfect,” I said as we climbed out.

“Why’s this perfect?”

“The crappier the diner, the better the food.”

“Yeah? They have a lot of diners in Mexico?”

“No. But I did spend some time across the border now and again.”

We walked into the building, the ’50’s-notaglia décor a hilarious mix of doo-wop and proto-punk. We were seated immediately.

“What was it like, anyway?” she asked after the waitress brought us both sodas.

“What was what like?”

“Mexico.”

I shrugged. “Not bad, actually. Mexico City is pretty huge. Aside from the crime, it’s pretty fun.”

“You mean, aside from you and your people.”

“Pretty much.”

“What did you do for them, anyway?”

“Stole cars at first. Ran packages, did security. Grunt stuff, basically.”

“Just at first?”

“It got a little different after that.”

“Like what?”

I paused and took a sip of my drink. A memory came back to me, harsh and unwanted.

She was tied up in the trunk like a hog, her eyes wide and wild, her hair a mess. My stomach dropped as I looked up at El Tiburon and his three goons, each of them grinning.

“What you think, gringo?”

“She’s pretty.”

“No shit, man. But what you think?”

“What are you asking me here?”

El Tiburon walked closer. I could smell his cheap cologne and the tobacco he always chewed.

“She’s gonna be one of our new girls, you know? Work her in the factory.”

I nodded. I knew they employed poor peasant girls to work in their drug factories, weighing and packing the bags and doing whatever else they needed. Usually, they kept the girls naked to make sure they weren’t stealing.

“She’ll be good for that.”

“Yeah, man. After, if she works out, you can have her.”

“Have her?”

He stood close, grinning this evil grin, while the girl squirmed in the trunk. “Have her as your bitch. Use her how you want then get rid of her.”

“How do I get rid of her?”

“How the fuck you think?” He mimed shooting a gun.

I felt sick to my stomach and looked at her. One day, when El Tiburon was sick of looking at her, I’d be expected to rape her and eventually murder her.

“Sounds fucking good to me,” I said, keeping my face straight, though inwardly I was sick to my core.

“Well?” Lacey asked me, drawing me back into the present.

“Nothing you want to hear about.”

She was about to say something else but the waitress returned and took our orders. As she walked away, I spoke up before Lacey had a chance to start asking more questions.

“What was college like?”

“Okay, I guess. I did a lot of studying.”

“Didn’t party all the time?”

“Sometimes. Not as much as other people, I guess.”

“Come on. Don’t tell me you weren’t out getting wasted and meeting guys every night?”

She laughed. “Hardly. That wasn’t really my college experience.”

“What a shame. You’d have been really popular in Mexico.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Look at you. Nice skin, beautiful hair, curvy fucking body.”

“Curvy? Don’t call me curvy.”

“It’s a good thing.”

“Curvy is what they say in bad romance novels, though.”

I laughed. “You read lots of bad romances?”

“Sometimes. Don’t change the subject.”

“Okay. What I’m trying to say is, you have an incredible body.” I leaned forward, smiling at her, looking into her eyes. “You always have. I never stopped thinking about it.”

“I bet. You were probably too busy with your Mexican girlfriends.”

“Sometimes. But none of them tasted quite like you do.”

She blushed and looked away. “Don’t bring that up.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I can’t help myself around you.”

“Try harder then.”

“Tell me more about college.”

She sighed and sipped her drink. “It was freedom, you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I had classes and stuff to go to, but also a lot of free time. I worked, but even still I could do pretty much whatever I wanted.”

“What did you want to do?”

“Read, mostly. Make sure I got good grades. Hang out with friends.”

“Sounds pretty nice.”

“What about you? I mean, you haven’t said much about living in Mexico.”

I sat back as the waitress returned with our meals. We began to eat in silence, distracted by the food. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I was putting a burger and fries into my mouth.

It wasn’t until I finished half the meal that I decided to speak.

“I lived in apartment.”

Lacey looked up at me. “What?”

“In Mexico City. It was above this old bar, a real piece of shit, but the owner liked me. Sometimes when I got back from a job late at night, he’d sit there and drink tequila with me and tell me stories about being in the military.”

“What was his name?”

“Felipe, I think, but I called him Señor Anciano and he called me Cara Blanca.”

“What does that mean?”

“White Face, basically. And he was Mister Old Man. I remember this one time I got back around three or four in the morning, and he was just closing up.” I paused and took another bite, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “I walked in and helped him sweep up, and he told me this story about how he had a threesome with two American girls. I asked him how he made that happen, and he laughed and said the one girl was missing a leg, so it was really like a two-and-a-half-some.” I smiled and shook my head. “He was crazy as shit. And an asshole.”

Lacey laughed. “How old was he?”

“At least in his eighties. And he could drink me under the table if he wanted to.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I had this other friend, this kid who ran errands for the cartel guys sometimes. He’d bring me the paper in the morning and sometimes get me beer and food.”

“How old was he?”

“Maybe twelve.”

“That’s so young. Why was he hanging out with cartel guys?”

“He was poor. When you’re poor and you live in Mexico City, you either stay poor or you join a cartel.

“He wanted to join?”

“Maybe eventually. But I remember this one time, I had gotten home from a job late the night before and was pretty flush. He showed up with the paper and some espresso the next morning, and I was so hungover that I accidentally paid him with a hundred dollar bill.” I grinned and shrugged. “He stared at it for a second then burst out in tears of joy. I didn’t have the heart to take it back from him.”

“That poor kid.”

“Nah. He had it okay. At least he was involved with the cartels.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“Yes and no. The cartels may do some fucked up shit, but they also help people. Mexico is like anywhere else, with all different kinds of people, but it’s especially hard for the poor. They turn to the cartels to provide services the government can’t or won’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many people do. Because for the most part the cartels are all fucked-up evil pieces of shit.”

“And yet you worked for them.”

I frowned and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yes, I did. But like that kid, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Camden,” she practically whispered. “What happened down there?”

And I wanted to tell her. Looking into her big eyes, practically pleading with me to give her some proof that I was not just a total dirt bag, that I was not the scum she thought I was, I wanted to spill everything.

I wanted to tell her about getting caught stealing cars by the Mexican police and how I spent two months in jail. Until one day, this American guy shows up and offers me a deal. He said I could work with them to try to infiltrate a notorious and dangerous cartel, or I could rot in jail for another few years.

He said he worked for the government, but he never said exactly how. I assumed he was CIA, but he never admitted to anything. He and a few others gave me money and tips and supplies, and I slowly infiltrated El Tiburon’s cartel, all because the American government needed someone on the inside.

That was how I met Trip. We were both working undercover, and our handlers eventually decided we should work together. And so for nearly four years we worked our way through the ranks, feeding information back to the Americans, and all the while they kept telling us we were almost done, just a few more months.

Until finally, one day I woke up and the old man was knocking on my door. He told me that I needed to leave town right away, that the cartels knew who I was. And then he was gone and wouldn’t speak to me again.

I wanted to tell her all of that. Everything I did in Mexico, every fucked up thing that ate at me from the inside, I did because the Americans wanted me to, said it was for the greater good. Once I was involved, there was no escaping, not from the cartel and not from the Americans. They owned me, bit by bit.

But they said that if I ever told anyone about their involvement that I’d be prosecuted for all of my crimes. They seemed to be everywhere and know everything. I couldn’t fuck with them, not yet, even though it seemed like they had turned their backs on me.

I never raped or murdered that girl. I killed for the cartel, but never an innocent person. Still, I could have saved her, could have saved so many girls, but I didn’t. I didn’t blow my cover, like a good operative.

They had me. Until one day, they didn’t anymore, and I was on the run.

“People get lost,” I said finally, unable to tell her any of that. “Let’s get out of here.”

She blinked and looked away as I flagged down the waitress and asked for the check. I paid in cash and we left. Lacey was back to being moody and silent, but I didn’t care. My brain was swirling with my past, with the things that had happened and the things that were happening.

I was a different person than I was when I last saw her. So much had happened, and I knew so much more about the world. Still, whenever I got around her, those old feelings came bubbling back into me.

I was going to have to let her think that I was still a liar. There was no other way.