Dirty Money (7 page)

It was inevitable though.

That final blow, dealt with such efficiency from Vito, was going to kill me. I just had to wait for it. Wait as the pain seeped through my veins into every limb, organ, and cell so that breathing hurt, thinking hurt, watching hurt, drinking hurt. She was so ingrained that everything meant Reese. Bars, tequila, dark, light, men, women, all reminded me of her.

I had nothing. Nothing that mattered. I knew I couldn’t trust Ryan anymore, because I couldn’t trust Reese anymore, and who the fuck would pick someone else over his sister? No one. So my best friend was gone, despite my constantly ringing phone. About two hours in, I smashed it with the bottle of tequila. And my, what did I call her, what could I call her? Girlfriend? No, I’d thrown too many of those away. Lover? Sounded like a bad movie. Life? That was it. My life was gone. Over at twenty-one. In a few well played photos. No. Fuck the photos. In a lie that became so big it eventually killed her, killed me.

So all I had was a couple hundred bucks, a shell that somewhat resembled my body, and a bottle of tequila, or was I on to two bottles?

My heart wasn’t just broken. Someone had sat astride my body and carefully sliced into my chest so they could take it, steal it when I wasn’t watching. And then she chipped away at it bit by bit. My heart was scattered, pieces abandoned on the roadside from Sacramento International, to neon alleys in Vegas, to this little slice of land on the Sea of Cortez.

Vito had followed the trail of blood, collecting specimens, so he could deliver that final blow. So he could open up my chest and show me it was vacant. In that space, he tried to shove some cash to stem the flow, but Reese had already tried, and money didn’t beat the same way.

*

I was still alone. I’d spoken to exactly two people after entering the cantina. The bartender and a guy who asked me for a light. I didn’t have a light.

It was late. I knew that much. Without a watch or a cell phone, I wasn’t sure how late, or how early. All I knew was it had been dark outside for a long time. The crowd in the bar had swelled and then started thinning again. The night was waning.

I knew I would need sleep at some point. That point was very far away, though, so I wasn’t worried. Sleeping meant dreaming. Something I refused to do.

“You’ve been sitting here a long time, honey.” A girl, no, a woman sat at my table. “Are you waiting for someone?” She had an accent, but not like everyone else here. It was faint and smooth and cool. Very East Coast.

I tried to respond, opened my mouth, but nothing came out so I just shook my head.

“This isn’t the best cantina in town. You might want to be waiting for someone,” she suggested. Guess she was concerned for my well-being.

“I’m…I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will. I thought you were a boy until I saw those pretty eyes. That’s probably why no one is hassling you.” She extended a manicured hand across the table. “I’m Joan, by the way.” The words rolled off her tongue as if she were tasting them. Each insignificant word suddenly had elevated meaning.

“Cooper.” I shook her hand remembering at the last moment to actually grip, just like my mom taught me.

“Why are you sitting here drinking alone, Cooper?”

I thought about that. “It’s better than not drinking. Alone.” My speech wasn’t even slurred. Now that was something to be proud of.

“Would you mind company?”

Slowly, I shook my head. Moving quickly tended to make things spin. Pointedly, I held up my hand and caught the bartender’s attention. He came around the bar, now almost empty, to my table.

“Something else for you?” His eyes flickered to the half-empty bottle.

“Another glass.” Still not slurring. “For the lady.”

He smiled and returned moments later with a glass.

“
Gracias
.” I poured some tequila into the fresh glass then filled mine again.

“Thank you.” Joan saluted me with her drink and emptied it in two perfect swallows.

“Thirsty?” I refilled her glass.

“Trying to catch up. You’re quite a bit ahead of me.”

Not something I felt like addressing.

“You’re American,” I stated. Speaking was hard, but it was also distracting. Distracting was good. “East Coast.” She had the same infuriating intonation Reese had picked up in the last couple years. By the end of summer, it wore off only to return with a vengeance at Christmas. I wished I didn’t find it so sexy.

Joan smiled and swallowed her second drink. “And so are you, but I’d say California.”

Not according to the license I had. “Sometimes.” I shrugged.

She smiled again. It was a nice sort of smile. I poured her another drink.

*

Kissing her was easy. Easier than I’d thought it would be. Easier than it should have been. Just like it had been easy for me to say yes when she wanted me to walk her back to her hotel. Just like it had been easy to go into her room.

I liked the way she talked when she said, “I want you to stay, Cooper.” I liked the way she said my name.

She tasted like tequila. That was my fault I guess. The way she kissed me was the way a hundred other girls, women, had kissed me. Like she was dying and I was salvation. Except I was the one who was dying.

But I wasn’t thinking about that. Promise.

Joan’s fingertips were smooth as she skimmed under my shirt, lifting the cotton from my skin. I wasn’t as kind with hers, tearing it over her head while I kissed her. That’s a difficult trick. Closing my eyes made it harder to keep kissing her. When I closed them, it made all the differences matter more. Her lips weren’t as full. She smelled like Chanel. My mother wore Chanel. Reese didn’t wear perfume. Joan’s skin felt too soft against mine, like she wasn’t real. Parts of her weren’t, actually. Those tits were fake, too perky, not soft enough. Not that it mattered. Except it did.

So I kept my eyes open. Just to remind myself.

My hand was at the zipper on her skirt while I debated if I could do it when she moaned against my mouth, “Make love to me.”

What an absurd thing to say. We’d known each other for an hour. I wasn’t planning on making love to her. I was going to fuck her. Making love required, well, love. I didn’t love her. Just like I never loved the girls, women, I found in bars.

“No,” I found myself saying. Gratefully, I allowed my hands to fall away from her body. I didn’t want to touch her. I didn’t want to touch anyone.

“What?” Joan tossed her hair back and grinned up at me waiting for the punch line.

I had no punch line.

“I…” had never left a woman waiting for me to fuck her. “I gotta go. I’m sorry.” And I meant it. I really was sorry. For everything.

“Are you serious?” She crossed her arms over her chest, unintentionally covering herself.

I didn’t blame her. “Yeah, really. I’m sorry.” For some reason, I just kept repeating that. I grabbed my shirt off the floor, nearly falling over in the process. I realized how very drunk I was. It really hit me once I was in the hallway outside her door. The walls seemed to curve in ways they shouldn’t have and the floor was bumpy. That had to be why I was stumbling. With one hand on the wall, I made it to an elevator. From there I staggered through the hotel lobby and found myself on a beach.

The beach was a good place to sleep. Sand was soft. It wasn’t until I sat on the ground and wrapped my arms around my knees that the tears came.

The new plan was having no plan. No relying on planes to get me somewhere. No selling bright shiny metal to get there faster. No girl to hold my hand. No boy to watch my back.

I’d spent a few hours on the beach waiting for the sun to come up. When it did, my eyes were drier and I was almost sober. That would have to count as sleep.

Next was shower, clothes, food, coffee, find a gun, find a toothbrush. In no particular order. If I stumbled across a nine while I was walking toward food, I could just cross that off the list. Wasn’t counting on that though. I wasn’t counting on anything.

It’s easier to do when you have nothing.

After a lovely meal of coffee and dry toast that I actually managed to swallow, I was left to find a gun and a toothbrush. Scavenger hunts are fun. Of course, I knew where I could get everything on my list. Hell, I knew I could get more, but I was afraid. Afraid to face them. Afraid to look Ryan in the eye and tell him he was right, that I couldn’t respect her. Afraid to avoid her gaze and demand an answer. Afraid of what I’d lost.

So I was surprised when I found myself there. With my back to the perfect blue water, white sand to my ankles, staring at the bungalow. I needed a drink.

I bypassed the bungalow in favor of the hotel. It was empty. Lobby abandoned by the guests already out enjoying what would have been a beautiful day on the Sea of Cortez. The bar was empty too, save the lone bartender stuck with the early shift. Tips had to suck at this hour.

I asked for a scotch with my head already in my hands.

Wordlessly, kindly, he placed my drink on the bar.

“Can you put it on my tab?” I asked after downing the first, and ordering the second. “Bungalow seven.” The least the twins could do was buy me a drink.

With another silent nod, he moved to the computer built discreetly into the bar. He frowned at the glass and typed again.

“Did you say seven?”

“Yes.” Something in his tone caught my attention. “Bungalow seven.”

“It is not occupied,
señorita
.”

“What?” I stared at him dumbly.

“It is not occupied?” He tried again, asking me as if I could provide the answer.

For a full minute, I just stared at him, mouth open, eyes bugging out, breathing by default not choice. Then, very deliberately, I dug some cash from my pocket, handed it to him, and walked to the front desk.

“
Hola, señorita.
How may I help you?” the fresh-faced kid behind the counter asked. Definitely the slow part of the day.

“Yes.” Damn, my lips were dry. Where the fuck was my drink? “Bungalow seven.” To stop the trembling, I shoved my hands into my pockets. “The bartender said it was unoccupied.”

“Allow me to check on that.” Junior typed on his own discreet little machine. “Yes, the young lady checked out about an hour ago.”

“It…I…That can’t be right.” Seriously, how hard was it to keep track of a drink? “Check again. Can you check again?” Desperate? No, not me.

“I am sorry,
señorita
. The computer does not lie.” He shrugged apologetically. Why wasn’t he scowling at me? I was being rude. In the US, he would at least return the favor. I wanted him to react, wanted him to tell me to behave. No such luck. “There is a note here though. Are you Ms. Cooper?”

“Yes.” I nearly jumped over the counter. “I’m Cooper.”

“Could I see some identification?”

Fuck no. “Sure.” I thumbed through my wallet below his eye level until I found the real one. The other listed my first name as Cooper. That wouldn’t do. “Here.” I thrust the card across the counter, my hands shaking even worse now.

“Thank you.” The kid nodded and stepped into a back room. He returned moments later with my smaller duffle bag and a tiny envelope. “Here you are, Ms. Cooper.”

“Did they…” I started to ask then lost my nerve. Fuck it. What did I have to lose? “Were you here when they checked out?”

Junior looked surprised for a moment then composed himself. “Yes. I remember checking them out now.”

“Did they say anything? Why they were leaving?” There was that desperation again.

“No. Only that they had a plane to catch.”

I almost started crying. Or throwing up. I really needed that drink. “How did they look?”

He hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was lower than before. “The young woman was…” He searched for a word. “Strange, quiet. Like she was sleepwalking. Detached. The man, he looked as if he had been crying.”

The bile started to rise in my throat.

“
Gracias
,” I managed to spit out before turning back to the bar with my things in tow. I demanded another scotch of the boy behind the counter. We were still alone.

He put another in front of me, bottle still in hand so he could refill it the moment I set the empty glass back on the bar.

Then, emboldened with more alcohol than is acceptable before ten, I opened the envelope.
You’ve broken our heart.
It was Ryan’s handwriting with a small, dried, poetic teardrop after the word heart. It was interesting that he didn’t make it plural.
If you see me, shoot first because I won’t hesitate.
Followed by a few more artful teardrops.

That was when I realized why the bag was so heavy. I unzipped it enough to look inside. Underneath some of my clothes, close to the bottom, was my shoulder holster and H&K. What was under the gun made me gasp, stare, dry heave, and run to the bathroom.

“
Señorita
, are you all right?” the bartender called out.

And then I was on the hard floor losing my guts into the cold porcelain. Tears and sweat mingled on my face, dripping into the bowl. It just kept coming. Toast, coffee, scotch, all in reverse until there was nothing left and I was just dry heaving and fighting to breathe. Sitting was torture, standing was harder, but then I was finally at the sink dousing my head in frigid water, rinsing that vile taste from my mouth. The taste of scotch and vomit. The taste of DiGiovanni.

It took me a very long time to finally stagger out of the bathroom. To my complete disgust, the bartender was waiting outside the door looking afraid and horrified.

“
Señorita
, you forgot your things.” Awkwardly, he held out the note and duffle bag. Damn, he must have really been bored. “Are you all right?” he asked kindly.

“Fine, thank you.” I relived him of my things and stumbled in the general direction of my barstool. “Tequila,” I coughed out. “And some water.”

He hurried around the counter and poured in the order I’d told him. “Tequila.” He set the shot in front of me. “And water.”