Heat (The Stark Affair Book 1) (5 page)

Back
at school, I booted up my Dell and laughed the biggest laugh any eighteen-year
old ever laughed. I could control my dad’s money from a dorm room fifteen
hundred miles away in Cambridge.

From
there, it was easy. I wrote an algorithmic program that moved small amounts of
money around. Every time my dad’s IT guys would look into it, I changed the
parameters.

Then
I wrote a program that detected the pattern of my dad’s IT guys. The system
became self-correcting.

Thirteen
years later, the newest version of my
“Steal
Money From Dad”
program is still active. Never shut down.
Millions over the years.

And
nobody noticed because I designed it so well.

That’s
how I fund The Talon Group.

The
sheer beauty of it makes me laugh. Knowing I’m screwing Jasper.
For years.
Silently.

And
yet he and the Board control my life.

I
slam the laptop shut and turn to Veronica.

“Up!”
I say. She doesn’t move. “
Yo
! Up!” I slap her ass.

She
makes a noise like a donkey climbing a hill.

Time
for some tough love.

I
lean over, pull the sheet together into a whip and smack her back with it.

She leaps
up onto one elbow.
“¡Ay! ¡
Dejeme
en
paz
!”

She’s
a mess with hair everywhere.

And
yet oddly still perfect.
Perky breasts.
Shiny caramel
skin.

If
it were two years ago, I’d be hard again and we’d go another round.

But
all I can think of is getting going on my final preparations.

“Come
back to bed,” says Veronica in Spanish with playful eyes.

“No,
I have to go.”

I
take $1,000 and hand it over to her.

“What’s
this?” she says.

“Cab
fare. I’ll call.”

She
sticks a finger in her mouth and twirls it while curling one leg up over the
other. At the same time she takes the money with her other hand.

“Please
come back to bed,” she says as the wad of bills disappears into her fist.

Shit,
I’ve already become a version of the Gold Clubbers, haven’t I?

My
stomach rolls again.

“Just
go,” I say.

Chapter
5

Sofia

“Oh honey, that’s just... no
..
.
just
no,” says Jorge as I pose.

We’re
in one of those trendy South Beach shops with a prissy name that makes me want
to wretch.
LaTashia
said she would reimburse me for
one outfit. She even approved Ocean Drive. Must be nice to have a Lieutenant’s
expense account.

“What’s
wrong with this one?” I say
,
adjusting the black dress
I picked out.

“It
would be perfect if you were going to a briefing at the Pentagon. Not what we’re
going for here.
Off with it.
And for God’s sake, relax
your facial expression. I’m getting flashbacks to you in high school. Scary.”

Jorge
is immaculate in a tight blue shirt with curlicue stitching all around the
buttons. Brown hair with blond highlights slicked back. White pants. Leather
flip-flops.
Ray-Bans dangling from the shirt pocket.

He
sits cross-legged on the leather sofa outside the dressing area, sipping a big,
pink,
sloshy
drink with a big straw that we picked up
at some big, pink,
sloshy
drink place he likes.

“This
is ridiculous!” I say. “I’m no good at this.”

“Relax,
Sofe
. Breathe. You’re in the hands of a fashion god.
I can make anyone look hot. Yes, even you. Now go put on the one I picked out.”

“I’m
not wearing that. I’ll feel naked.”

“That’s
the point,
Sofe
. That’s the point.”

I
sneer at him and return to the dressing room.

The
dress he picked out for me barely exists. I’m not even sure how in the fuck
hell to put it on.

“Everything
okay in there?” Jorge says after a few minutes of my losing battle with the
flimsy piece of shiny turquoise fabric. “You didn’t fall into a sinkhole or anything,
did you?”

“Be right
out,” I say.

I
slam the curtain aside and put my hands on my hips. Jorge’s face lights up.

“Oh
baby, that is
It
with a capital I. Game, set, and if I
dare say so... match.” He takes a big loud sip from his straw.

The
store employee appears at the opening to the dressing area. She looks about
sixteen with long red curly hair and freckles.

“How
is everything going in here?” she says in a sparkly voice.

“Emma,”
says Jorge, “
be
honest. This is the one, isn’t it?”

“Yes,”
says Emma. “
Mmm
-hmm. Very hot.”

“I
don’t even know what’s keeping this up,” I say. “And where am I supposed to put
my gun?”

Emma
turns around quickly and is gone.

“You’re
so mean,” Jorge says. “You frightened the poor girl.”

“I’m
not wearing this!”

“Fine,
then I’m done here. I’m leaving.”

“You
can’t go!”

“
Sofe
, you want to attract his attention. That will attract
his attention. Guaranteed. Heck, that would attract
my
attention if I weren’t so gay and you weren’t the sister who
beat me up continually between the ages of twelve and eighteen.”

“I
never beat you up!”

“I
have scars, honey.”

“Those
were taps. Sisterly love taps.”

“Keep
telling yourself that. Okay, so that’s the dress. You’re buying it. Now it’s
shoe time.”

“They
sell shoes here?”

“Of
course not. God, you really don’t know a thing about shopping, do you?”

I
give Jorge the finger and storm back into the dressing room, whipping the
curtain shut behind me.

* *
*

One
pair of ill-fitting, awkward shoes with some brand name I can’t even pronounce later,
Jorge and I are walking south to 8th where we’ll turn toward Collins and back
to the floral boutique he and Brad run. I’m a little tense because we’re going
to pass by Heat along the way. Not that anybody would be there at two in the
afternoon.

“Couple
more pieces of advice,” says Jorge. “Use a bar name, not your real one. Oh, and
fix your walk. You walk like a man.”

“Shut
the fuck up!”

“Seriously,
sis. Get the James Bond movie with Halle Berry. Watch the part where she walks
out of the ocean. Then practice that. Swing and sway, swing and sway. Like
this.”

He
demonstrates with flourish.

“Fine.
What else?”

“Hmmm,
let’s see... oh, I know! Do this.” Jorge puts an empty goofy smile on his face,
then tilts his head and pretends to twirl his hair.

“I
am
not
doing that!”

“Well,
your usual face isn’t going to get you anywhere. You want a look that says
I’m horny and I’m stupid
. Yours says
Talk to me and I’ll kill you
. Not what
we want. It’s head-tilt, giggle,
twirl
hair. Do it
with me. Ready? Head-tilt, giggle, twirl hair.”

I
head-tilt, giggle, and twirl my hair... but I overdo it on purpose.

“You
know, I don’t even know why I talk to you. You’re mocking me.”

“Shut
the fuck up, you big sissy.”

“I
am a sissy, and a fucking proud one.”

“I’d
like to hear you say that to Dad.”

“Speaking
of Dad, have you been over to see him this week?”

I
roll my eyes. “No. Mom already yelled at me on the phone this morning. I’m
going there right after this.”

“I
was there on Monday.
Oooh
, he’s on the warpath this
week. Is there any way you could shoot that scanner that he’s glued to?”

“Wish
I could. How do you think I felt my last year in the Pit knowing he was
listening in on all my calls?”

“In
the what?”

“Nothing.
Police talk.”

“But
Sofe
, whatever you do, don’t let him get to you.”

“Right.
Like that could ever happen. You know him as well as I
do
.
I mean, I love him because he’s my dad and everything, but sometimes I just
want to get my hands around his neck and–”

“How
do you think
I
felt growing up? All
he ever wanted me to do was play sports. Didn’t even come see my riotously
hilarious homoerotic interpretation of
Hysterium
in
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the
Forum
. Eventually, I just had to tell him ‘I’m not going to do what you
want me to, Dad.’ If I hadn’t, today I’d be married and a cop. And nobody would
be happy. Least of all
Brad
.”

Heat
is at the corner of the street we’re crossing.

“This
is the place,” I say as I slip my ten-dollar sunglasses over my eyes.

“What
place?”

“The
place I have to infiltrate.”

“This
place?”

“
Shhhhh
. Quiet. Just keep walking. I shouldn’t even be
telling you this.”

“Like
I would even know who to blab to, sweetie. This is Colton Stark’s place. The
hot billionaire.”

I
smile. “Yeah.”

Jorge’s
face goes big and wide.

“
Ohmigod
!
Ohmigod
!
Ohmigod
! It’s
him
,
isn’t it? You have to seduce Colton Stark!”

“Shut
the fuck up or I’ll smack you right here, I swear! And nobody is seducing
anybody.”

We
both resume walking casually. Jorge puts his Ray-Bans on.

“Colton
Stark,” he says in a loud whisper and then looks off quickly. “Oh my God, he’s
gorgeous!”

“Yeah?
Hadn’t noticed,” I say.

“Rumor
is he’s really into anal.”

“You
would
know that.”

“I’m
serious. So make sure you clean out your butt ahead of time. I’ve got an extra
Anal Douche at the boutique if you need one. Still sealed in its package.”

I
smack him in the arm with my left fist.

“
Ow
!” he says. “Police brutality! Police brutality right
here!”

“There
will be none of that,” I say. “This is police work, and that’s it.”

“Don’t
lie to me,
Sofe
. I know you go all ways from Sunday,
but you cannot tell me you haven’t fantasized about his cock in your ass. I
know I have.”

I
smile.

“Never,”
I say.

Chapter
6

Sofia

Even though it’s only 6.6
miles from Ocean Drive to my dad’s house in
Wynwood
,
it may as well be a space flight to Mars. Ocean Drive is the Beverly Hills of
Miami.
Wynwood
, on the other hand, is known as “Little
San Juan.” Although it’s safer than it used to be.

I
pause my hand-restored yellow 1970
Chevelle
with
black hood stripes two houses up from my dad’s house, cursing the load roar of
its engine. Just need to sit here for a minute or two and compose myself, plan
my words.

I
had planned on going to the gym to go a few rounds with the heavy bag. God, do
I need it!
But Jorge’s reminder
guilted
me all up.

So
here I am with a pizza and a six-pack in the back seat, and there’s the house.

Jammed
in tight between the two neighboring houses, my childhood home has a white iron
gate around the tiny square of front lawn. Iron bars over the windows, painted
an ugly red to match the trim on the ugly rose-colored stucco. My dad’s ancient
blue Ford Bronco parked alongside in the narrow driveway.

Why
do I dread going in so much?
Maybe because Mom isn’t here to
act as a buffer.

She’s
in Puerto Rico taking care of my grandmother who has Alzheimer’s. Been there
five months already.

Even
though my Aunt
Yuxaira
lives back on the family
property, my mother felt the need to go down there.

Which
is noble and should be applauded and all that, but a part of me wonders if it
has anything to do with the fact that my dad is home all the time since getting
shot in the leg during an armed robbery.

Metro
gave him a choice.
Early retirement or a desk job.
I
think my dad would shoot himself before taking a desk job, so early retirement
it was.

Poor
Mom. She had to actually live with him. I don’t blame her running back to
Puerto Rico. My dad is... God, this is so hard to explain to somebody who doesn’t
know him...
difficult
. Let’s just
leave it at that for now.

One
thing I inherited from him, though, was his toughness. He was a cop. So was my
late grandfather.
And his father.
Runs in the family,
I guess.

All
my
dad wanted was for his son to become a cop to carry
on the family tradition. Yes, Jorge the floral designer.

Not
a cop.

Funny
thing is I always knew it would be me.

I
wasn’t like other girls. No babies or
Barbies
for me.
I was all Transformers, Avengers, and X-Men.

When
my dad came home telling stories about his day, I hung on every word while
Jorge painted watercolor daisies.

I
just knew someday I’d be putting bad guys away. I could taste it.

He
tried talking me out of it. Don’t blame him. Who wants to see his little girl
get shot at?

But
it’s in my blood. Just like him. Just like my grandfather and
great-grandfather.

My
dad knew. He always knew.

When
I was fifteen,
an eight-year old boy was hit by a car up the
street from our house
. He had been racing his bike and tried leaping in
front of a minivan, but the woman driving it didn’t see him in time and ran
over his leg. My first instinct was to rush to help him.

The
other neighborhood kids all just stood around wide-eyed watching the poor kid
bleed.

I
took charge, yelling for someone to dial 9-1-1. I checked the boy’s neck for a
pulse. Faint but there.

The
bottom half of the kid’s leg was almost completely off, hanging on by only a
thread of tendon. Blood spurted out everywhere. I quickly tore my shirt off,
ripped it, and tied it around his thigh as a tourniquet to stem the flow.

The
woman who hit him was having a panic attack, screaming and crying. I calmed her
down, assuring her we were going to save him.

When
I heard the sirens, I yelled at everybody to get off the street so the
ambulance had a clear path.

When
the
EMTs
arrived, I advised them of his pulse and
what I did. As the big woman slammed the back door of the ambulance shut after
loading the boy inside, she turned to me and said, “Good job.”

After
the ambulance left, I sauntered back to our house, half-naked and bloody. My
dad stood on the front stoop. Unbeknownst to me, he had seen the whole thing.
He just looked at with me with cold eyes, nodded, and walked back into the
house.

Like
I said, we both knew.

The
doctors were able to reattach the boy’s leg, thanks to my quick action. His mother
was so grateful she wanted to adopt me.

A
few months later, while out with some girlfriends, I prevented a convenience
store holdup with my fists.
Robber had a sawed-off and
told everyone to get to the ground. All my friends obeyed, but I saw in his eyes
that he didn’t have the balls to shoot anyone. With no hesitation, I walked
right up to him and landed a right cross to his face that sent him down. I
grabbed the gun as I kneed him in the groin. As he bent over, I smashed him in
the head with the barrel. When the cops arrived, the last thing they expected
to see was a sixteen-year old girl standing on the
perp’s
back pointing a gun at his head.

Watching
the surveillance video later with a female cop at the station, she asked me
where I learned how to fight like that.

“Don’t
know,” I said. “Just came to me.”

“Have
you considered going to Police Academy after high school?”

“Hadn’t
thought about it. Can I go home now?”

“Yes
you have thought about it. You must have. Your father is Sergeant Martinez.”

“He
says girls can’t be cops.”

She
just smiled at me.

“When
you’re ready to talk more, call me,” she said.

She
handed me her card.
Det. Sgt.
LaTashia
Washington.

Yeah,
my path was pretty much carved out for me in the destiny book.

Against
the wishes of my father, I signed up for the Police Academy the day after
graduating high school.

That
was seven years ago. I’m twenty-five now and afraid to go inside my dad’s
house.

Pathetic,
isn’t it?

Oh God, I have to do this, don’t I?

I
put my car in gear and pull up out front. I grab the pizza and the beer, walk
up to the door, and open it with my key.

“Dad!”
I shout. “Just me. Sofia. Don’t shoot.”

Nothing.

That’s
strange.

I
put the pizza and beer down on the dining room table.

“Dad!”

I go
into the kitchen. Nothing.

I go
to the back of the house and find him in the bathroom, on the floor, trying to
stand up using the sink for leverage.

“Dad!
What happened?”

“I’m
fine.”

I
reach behind him and pull him up. It’s obvious he’s been on the floor for a
while, struggling to get up. I get his cane and hand it to him.

“Goddamned
knee,” he says. “I never know when it’s going to give out.”

I
try moving some of his weight onto me, but he brushes me aside.

“I’m
fucking fine,” he says as he hobbles through the hallway into the kitchen.

Now
you know where I get my profanity issues.

“Dad,
you need to seriously think about getting a knee replacement. They can do
amazing things nowadays. It’s like getting a whole new knee.”

I
follow him into the kitchen. He’s way unsteady on that cane.

“I’m
not having a goddamned piece of metal for a leg. I’ve had enough metal removed
from me.”

Oooh
...
sometimes I just want to...

Breathe, Sofia! Breathe!

“I
brought us a pizza,” I say.

“Not
that fancy
kind with chicken and no tomato sauce?”

“No,
Dad.
Your favorite.
New York-style from
Lucali
.
And, a six-pack of Bud.”

“Sixteen-ounce
cans?”

“Of
course.”

He
shoots me a little smile. As he sits down at the kitchen table, he grimaces in
pain. I give him an angry stare.

“You’re
so fucking stubborn,” I say. “You’d rather go through that every time you sit
down than have a knee replacement? What if I hadn’t come by?”

“Shut
up and hand me a beer.”

I
walk back into the dining room and grab the pizza and beer. I put it on the
kitchen table, looking around.

The
kitchen looks like an earthquake recently hit. Dirty dishes everywhere.
Newspapers piled in a heap. Woodworking tools where there used to be a fruit
bowl. I wonder what happened to the fruit bowl.

This
is unlike my dad. He used to polish his belt buckle and shine his shoes every
day. Getting a little nervous now.

I
remove the six-pack from the bag, tear off a can, open it, and put it in front
of him. He grabs it and takes a sip.

I
search for two clean plates but come up empty-handed. Instead, I tear off two
squares of paper towel and put one in front of each of us. I open the pizza
box, take a slice,
put
one on his square, then one on
mine.

We
eat like that for a while, the silence broken occasionally by slurps of beer.

“Good
pizza,” he says.

“You’re
welcome.”

“
Lucali
, huh? That’s over near the Publix on Alton. What
were you doing over there?”

I
knew he’d ask. I’m prepared to give only the barest of details. Dressing
up
as a nightclub party girl is nothing I want my dad to
know.

“Staking
out a rich guy, possible trafficker.”

“Long
or short?”

“Long.
Three weeks probably.”

“You
should be staking out a rich guy to marry out there. Rich guy would take care
of you.”

Breathe, Sofia. 500... 499... 498...

“Dad,
I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“All
women need a good man.”

497... 496... 495...

“So
what did you do today?” I say.

“Some
woodworking.”

“What
are you making?”

“New
coffee table.”

There’s
a perfectly nice coffee table in the living room, but whatever. Staying busy is
good.

“So
this rich guy you’re staking out. He
hang
around in
all the usual rich guy places?”

“Pretty
much.”

“Then
while you’re there, put on a nice dress. Act ladylike. Once you find the right
guy, you can quit the force.”

494... 493... 492...

“Why
quit the force?” I say. “Why not marry a man and stay a police officer?”

“How
can you have kids if you’re a cop?”

“Dad,
we’ve had this conversation a million times. I don’t want kids.”

“Not
yet. You will. It’s born into you. Hasn’t hit you yet. Besides, what man wants
to be married to a girl cop?”

491... 490... 489...

I
put my pizza slice down. I feel myself losing it. I had planned to stay and
wash the dishes, but there’s the tremble in my hand. I need to punch a heavy
bag... soon.

“Kind
of like The Cleaver,” he says. “Nobody married
her
. Looks like a goddamned truck driver in a skirt with makeup.
You want to end up like that?”

I
pick around the edges of my pizza slice.

“She’s
incredibly good at what she does, Dad. Even your old buddy, Frank, likes her.”

“Frank
is just playing along until retirement like I’d be doing if I hadn’t been shot.
How’s Frank doing?”

“He’s
a lot quieter than he used to be. Stays at his desk a lot. No clue what he works
on.
”

“See?
Playing it smart, like I said. He knows. Women are good for stings,
intel
, and secretarial stuff, but
shouldn’t be in charge.”

Why?
Why does he always do this? What’s the point? Why pick and prod at me? Why can’t
he just accept that I’m a cop after all these years?

Eat your pizza, Sofia. Eat your pizza.

I
take a bite and chew.

“Women
are too emotional,” he says. “Can’t always handle the job. Plus, they got a
thing for criminals. They like bad boys. All of them.”