Desert Angel (Family Justice Book 2) (55 page)

Introductions over, everyone split up for various reasons—it was some time till they’d get their turn in the dressing room and there was schmoozing and drinking to do. So Aldo deftly swept her off to a remote table in the far back of the bar, away from all the action.
Oh great,
she’d grumbled. He was going to start whining. At the table, he dropped like a bratty kid into a chair, leaving her standing, which was not a smart move on his part.

Say whatever you want about Family Justice and all the good ol’ cowboy types driving those expensive trucks lined up out in the parking—they knew their damn manners and treated women like ladies. She’d rarely had to navigate her own chair whenever anyone else was around.

Dropping her bag on the table with a thwack, she thought,
What a dick,
then yanked her chair out only to loudly slam it on the floor for emphasis—not that he noticed.

And then it started.
Wah-wah-wah.
This place is a nightmare. Tacky. Dirty. And the injustice of being sneered at when he ordered a glass of white wine at the bar. The horror! My god. How would he ever get over it?

When they’d gotten their drinks, just to be perverse, she went with a Corona because he deemed the brand piss-water.
Moron.
Corona and lime were practically a requirement growing up. Taking a long draw from the ice-cold beer, she watched Aldo nervously fiddle with a pinky ring as he bitched. Angie listened impassively noticing a hundred different things that had nothing to do with his childish tirade.

Informing him that the evening’s outing would be casual, she figured he’d dress appropriately. Who in their right mind traveled halfway across the globe to the American Southwest and not have a pair of jeans with them? Ronaldo Esperanza, that was who.

The standard dress code for guys at Pete’s was pretty basic. Flannel, leather, t-shirt, denim, boots, cowboy hat. Some half-flaming poser in a pair of shiny looking light gray slacks with a button-down shirt, tie, and vest stood out like an agent in SWAT gear at a kid’s birthday party. Oh, yeah. And he had on yellow socks. Something about a pop of color. And the glass of white wine? Really? Would it have killed him to have a beer? Embrace the culture maybe?

What. A. Douche.
And she’d actually thought marrying this guy was a swell idea? Her parents should have held an intervention.

“Querida,” he drawled unctuously. “This slumming, it’s beneath you. These cowboys,” he spat out derisively, “is this a phase, my dear? Big muscles and tattoos?”

Peeved with his attitude, Angie attacked her beer and sat back staring at him while he went on and on and on and. . . . oh, for fuck’s sake. “When did you become such a pretentious snot?” she finally asked.

“I beg your pardon,” he barked with outrage. “I am not a snot, Angelina, but I do know my place, and until today, I thought you knew yours as well.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Aldo?”

He looked at her like she had two heads. “You ask when I changed and I ask when you became so obtuse. Why must you be so friendly with everyone? The workers at your family home, these . . . people,” he indicated with a wag of his head toward the whole room. “You’re a Marquez, my dear. That may not mean anything more than a clean glass and a cold beer here, but at home, you are the product of an old, proud family with deep roots in Spanish society.”

She wasn’t obtuse, nor was she a product. He was an asshole and she’d had enough. Unfortunately though, he was correct about one thing, although he was expressing himself so clumsily, it was a miracle she hadn’t decked him yet.

He was right. The truth was that the Marquez thing actually did mean something in Spain. But here? No big whup. Being part of Family Justice carried more weight than her birth name. And while she’d like to kick his ass to the curb and forget this unfortunate situation had ever happened, she knew she’d have to tread softly. Her behavior would reflect on the winery and her parents.
Shit.

“Aldo, for the tenth time—why are you here? I spoke to my father and he tells me that he at no time suggested you come after me so please don’t insult me or my family again by pretending this surprise visit was sanctioned or in any way thought of as a good idea.”

He fiddled with that stupid ring some more and adjusted his tie, looking around at the unfolding bar scene with clear distaste. “I want you to come home, Angelina. We were good together and a marriage between our two families is advantageous on both sides. I understand your need to return to the scenes of your childhood, but our life is in Spain, my dear. We have invitations to Cannes and Monte Carlo.”

Again, his disparaging glance around the bar made her furious.

“Why would you want to remain here, dressed like a homesteader when we could be enjoying the life we were creating at home?”

“We weren’t invited to any of those things,” she bit out.
Pretentious fuck!
“You have clients . . . talent, that are booked for those events, so don’t make it seem like we were some Euro power couple. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

She sneered when he jerked in response to her words. He disliked swearing. Thought it was unladylike.
Bah!

The two sides of Angie’s life clashed head-on. Her life in the States versus the things expected of her at her other home in Spain. It saddened her that the two couldn’t play nice with each other but that was the way it was. Until she let one place or the other claim her once and for all, she was stuck in the middle.

“I have to go join the girls.”

He didn’t react. She’d wondered if that was because if he did, then he’d have to admit that all this was real. That she was real and he didn’t belong here.

“Look, Aldo—I don’t want to argue. We are not getting back together. I made my decision months ago and you’ve been silent all this time. But you’re here now, at least for a couple of days, so loosen up and try to have a good time.”

She grabbed her bag and started to leave, then turned back for a last comment, “And try not to overreact when we take the stage. This is a bit of harmless fun and I’d appreciate it . . . actually, fuck that. I demand that you not embarrass me.”

She turned on her heel as he sputtered, outraged, at her language and got the hell out of there fast.

Parker’s eyes narrowed and the dark, dangerous thoughts he was nursing along with his beer got even uglier when he saw that slimy shit put his perfectly manicured fingers on his Angel and lead her into a back corner of the bar.

Fucker.
You could slink away into the shadows, you spineless prick, but you can’t hide. I’m watching. And joke’s on you, shiny pants, ‘cause I know her ass and the language it speaks better than anyone alive and that tight hipped, boxed in stomp she was doing? Yeah—that didn’t bode well for Ronnie-boy.

Parker did his own sliding into the shadows, making his way around the dark perimeter of the room until he was almost close enough to hear their conversation without being seen.

Minutes ticked by. His beer emptied. They kept talking and he kept studying her body language. Lawyer habit. Besides the fact that she looked as relaxed as a rattler about to strike, Parker was intrigued by her choice of clothes. All the ladies were in jeans to start because they would be changing into stage clothes, but it was her outfit at a
closer look
that tantalized him.

She was wearing a pair of jeans that surely had to be illegal in some countries. Old, well-worn, and dangerously tight, they gave her ass a moment in the spotlight. But it was the t-shirt that stopped him short. Was she sending him a message? Had to be. No other reason for her to wear that shirt or even have it in the first damn place. The minute he saw it, he knew he’d been right to absolutely refuse to head home earlier and meet up with everyone later.

No fucking way was he leaving her side. Not while she sported a faded Blakely & Hughes V-neck that had seen better days. Blakeley & Hughes was the law firm he played baseball with during the D.C. years. Angie had spent many a Saturday afternoon cheering him on from the stands.

“Yo, Parker,” a deep voice boomed, startling him from his reverie. “What up, bro?”

“Hey, Barry. How’s it going?” He responded with a friendly handshake. “I didn’t see you behind the bar. You working or here to see the show?”

The tattooed guy chuckled. “Slamming drinks tonight and happy to do it, too! Make a crapload of dollars when your girls hit the stage. Look at this crowd, man.” He laughed. “I swear this is all for them,” he snickered. “Oh yeah and for Desert Thunder. You’re doing the close out, huh?”

Parker grunted. “That’s what they tell me.” He held up his empty, “We’ll see how that goes after a fuckton more of these.”

Barry frowned and shook his head. “It’s your gal, huh? She still running?”

Oh, jeez. Running he could deal with. This other? He wasn’t sure.

“Nah. Pinned her down . . . well, got her to slow her fucking roll and we were making progress and then . . .”

“The little prick in the sweater vest?”

Sneering, he nodded. “Ah, I see you’ve noticed.”

The burly bartender studied the object of their derision. “Bet he shaves his balls,” he murmured.

“Yeah, and gets his ass bleached,” Parker added.

Cue the guy laughter.

“Dude,” he growled. “Any way to put that asshole on the floor? What’s he drinking?”

“Ah, fuck. Wine.” And then Barry laughed like hell. “Jesus. I wonder if he realizes he’s drinking grape from a box? Don’t worry, man,” he assured him. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

After Barry had walked away, Parker did a double take when he heard Angie’s voice start to rise. He wasn’t actively trying to eavesdrop, but she was making it hard not to.
Ooooh.
He knew that tone. Snarky Angel was spreading her wings tonight.
Ah hahahahaaa!

He clearly heard her say, “We are not getting back together.” Would anyone notice if he broke out some Michael Jackson moves in celebration? He looked around. All he saw were people on their way to being shitfaced. Even a bit of comic moonwalking would end up getting his ass kicked.

And then she let loose with a pithy, “Fuck that! I demand you not embarrass me.”

Laughing quietly, he rose from his chair and eyeballed her tight-assed retreat. Judging the performance, he’d say she was hovering somewhere between
What a dick
and
Imma’ kick his ass.
Shiny pants might not realize it yet, but he was toast.

A
S THE YOUNG KID WHO
took care of the equipment ran around setting things up for them to take the stage, the ladies gathered in the wings waiting to go on. Angie was a bundle of nerves. Meghan, Lacey, and Victoria? Cool as could be.

“Relax!” Meghan chuckled, giving Angie a hearty side hug. You look ah-mazing,” she drawled. “Prepare for the house to go wild when they get a look at you, sister!”

“My god, ladies, if y’all weren’t spoken for by that troop of Justice ghouls, I’d be refereeing a bar wide fist fight tonight. Your men know you leave the house looking like this?”

“Pete!” Tori squealed. Leaping into his arms for a quick hug, he dropped her down and shook his head looking at them.

So this was the legendary Whiskey Pete. Lacey warned Angie to expect him to show up tonight. Apparently, it was quite the honor to have the venerable old man walk you out to center stage. According to legend, he was a battle-scarred Vietnam Vet with nothing more than a bad ass chopper and a backpack to his name when he opened the ramshackle honky-tonk.

He had an enormous soft spot for the Justice crew, occasionally working with the agency on veterans’ issues. Carmen told her that before Justice was even Justice, Alex had been involved in investigating a charge of drug running that was hanging over the bar’s head and ruining Pete’s spotless reputation. Lots of folks attributed that one event and the guys saving Pete’s ass with giving eventual birth to the current day Justice Agency.

And the man himself? He had a case of the grins where Victoria St. John was concerned. It was Pete who declared the little spitfire to be ‘sassy’ and the moniker just stuck after that.

“And who do we have here?” the old man asked as he zeroed in on Angie. She liked him on sight. He reminded her of her dad; they were probably close in age with the sort of deep, expressive eyes that had stories to tell.