Rules Of Attraction (25 page)

“From who?”

“Let’s just say a little Guerrero told me. Enough talk. When you see

one of my guys drive up, get in.”

“How will I know it’s one of your guys?” I ask him.

Devlin laughs. “You’ll know.”

The phone goes dead. A few minutes later a black SUV with tinted

windows stops right in front of me. I take a deep breath when the door

opens. I’m ready to face whatever lies beyond. No matter what

everyone in mi familia thinks, this is my destiny. I slide into the

backseat and recognize Diego Rodriguez sitting next to me, a Guerrero

who was so high up he was always talked about but rarely seen. I nod

and wonder what he’s doing with Wes Devlin. I know some guys consider

themselves hybrids and jump gang affiliations, but I’d never actually

seen anyone so high up in an organization get away with it.

“Long time no see,” Rodriguez says. Up front are two white guys

who look like they’re both bodybuilders or at least trained to kick ass.

They’re definitely here to protect someone, and that someone

definitely isn’t me.

“Where’s Devlin?” I ask.

“You’ll meet him soon enough.”

I look out the window to see if I can tell where we’re headed, but

it’s no use. I’m totally lost and at the mercy of these three guys. I

wonder what Kiara would do if she knew I was in a car with a bunch of

thugs. She’d probably tell me I shouldn’t have gone in the car in the

first place. I’m not letting my guard down for one minute, that’s for

sure. Thinking about letting my guard down makes me think of Kiara.

Last night as I had her in my arms and felt her soft skin beneath my

fingers, I totally lost control. Hell, I was ready to take anything she

had to offer without caring about the consequences.

“We’re here,” Diego says, pullin’ me out of my thoughts of Kiara and

what might have been.

‘Here’ is a big house with a cement wall surrounding the estate.

We’re buzzed through. Diego directs me through the front door and

leads me to an office big enough to intimidate any corporate CEO.

The blond guy sitting behind a dark wooden desk is obviously Devlin.

He’s wearing a dark suit with a light blue tie that matches his eyes. He

motions for me to sit in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk.

When I don’t, the two overgrown guys from the car ride stand on

either side of me.

I’m in dangerous territory, but I stand my ground. “Get your

trained dogs away from me,” I tell him. Devlin waves them away, and

the two guys immediately back off and block the door to the room. I

wonder how much he pays them to be his guard dogs. Diego is still in

the room, a silent second in command.

Devlin leans back in his chair, assessing me. “So you’re Carlos

Fuentes, the one Diego here has been telling me so much about. He says

you skipped out on the Guerreros del barrio. Bold move, Carlos,

although I assume if you step one foot back in Mexico you’re as good as

dead.”

“Is that what this is all about?” I ask. “If you’ve affiliated yourself

with the Guerreros and they told you to get rid of me, why have Nick

set me up?”

“Because we’re not going to get rid of you, Fuentes,” Diego chimes

in. “We’re going to use you.”

Those words make me want to lash out and tell these guys that

nobody is going to control me or use me, but I hold back. The more

these guys talk, the more information I can get.

“Truth is, Fuentes,” Diego says, “we’re doin’ you a favor by not

bringin’ you back to the Guerreros in pieces, and you’re gonna do us a

favor by being our bag boy.”

Bag boy. He means I have to be their newest street dealer, and

willingly take the fall if I get caught. The drugs in my locker were a

test to see if I’d turn Nick in. If I did, I’d be pegged a snitch and

probably be lying in the morgue right now. I proved I’m not a narc, so

now I’m a valuable commodity. It reminds me of Brandon’s video game,

although this game is lethal.

Devlin leans forward. “Let’s just put it this way, Fuentes. You work

with us, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides that, you’ll be a rich

kid.” He pulls out an envelope from the desk drawer and slides it over

to me. “Take a look.”

I pick up the envelope. Inside are a bunch of one hundred–dollar

bills—more than I’ve ever held in my hands before. I set the envelope

back on his desk.

“Take it, it’s yours,” Devlin says. “Consider it a taste of what you

can earn with me in one week.”

“So the Devlin family has aligned with the Guerreros? When did

that happen?”

“I align with whoever and whatever gets me to my ultimate goal.”

“What’s your goal, world domination?” I joke.

Devlin doesn’t laugh. “Right now it’s to bring in shipments I’ve got

coming in from Mexico and make sure they don’t get misplaced, if you

know what I mean. Rodriguez here thinks you’ve got what it takes.

Listen, I’m not the head of a street gang that fights for territory, the

color of your skin, or your damn nationality. I’m a businessman, running

a business. I could give a shit if you’re black, white, Asian, or Mexican.

Hell, I’ve got more Russians working for me than the Kremlin. As long

as you benefit my business, I want you working for me.”

“And if I don’t want in?” I ask.

Devlin looks to Rodriguez.

“Your mamá lives in Atencingo, doesn’t she?” Rodriguez asks

casually as he steps forward.

“And your little brother, too. I think his name is Luis. Cute kid. I’ve

had a guy watching them for weeks now. One word from me and bullets

will fly. They’ll be dead before they even know what hit ’em.”

I lunge toward Rodriguez, not caring that he’s most likely packing.

Nobody gets away with threatening my family. He’s shielding his face

with his hands, but I’m fast and get a piece of him before the two big

guys grab my arms and pull me away. “If you hurt mi familia, I’ll rip your

fuckin’ heart out with my own two hands,” I warn as I struggle to free

myself. Rodriguez cups his cheek where I clocked him. “Don’t let him

go,” he orders, then swears at me in a mixture of English and Spanish.

“You’re loco, you know that?”

“Sí. Muy loco,” I tell him as one of the guys makes the mistake of

loosening his hold to get a better grip on me. I kick him away and send

him crashing into a painting on the wall. When it cracks and smashes to

the ground upon impact, I turn to see what other damage I can do to

show I’m not someone who’ll shrink back in fear if my family is

threatened. Two more guys storm into the room. Shit. I’m tough and

can kick some ass, but five against one is bad odds. Not counting Devlin,

who is sitting in his big leather chair watching the rest of us duke it

out as if we’re doing it solely for his amusement. I manage to break

free, then hold my own for a few minutes before two of the guys rush

me and slam me into the wall. I’m dazed from the impact when another

guy starts pounding on me. It might be Rodriguez, or it might be one of

the four other guys. At this point it’s all a blur.

I struggle against them, but each punch to my stomach is taking its

toll and hurts like hell. When a fist connects with my jaw once, then

twice, then three times, I taste blood. I’ve become their damn

punching bag.

I gather all my energy, ignore the intense pain, and break free.

Lunging forward, I connect hard with one of them. I won’t go down

without a fight, even one I have no chance of winning.

My advantage is short-lived. I’m pulled off the guy and shoved to

the carpeted floor. If I get up maybe I can do more damage, but I’m

being pummeled and kicked from all directions and feel my energy

fading fast. A solid, painful kick to my back tells me one of the guys

wears steel-toed boots. With my last ounce of energy, I grab the leg

of whoever is kicking me. He tumbles forward, but it doesn’t matter.

I’ve got nothing left. No fight, no energy . . . just piercing pain with

every move I make. The only thing I can do is pray to pass out soon . . .

or die. At this point, either one would be welcome.

When I stop fighting, Devlin yells for them to stop. “Get him up,”

he orders. I’m forced into the chair facing Devlin, who’s still looking

like a powerful CEO in his unwrinkled suit. My shirt is ripped in several

places and has blood splattered all over it. Devlin jerks back my head.

“Consider this a jumping out of the Guerreros del barrio and a jumping

in to the Devlin family. You’re a Devlin now. I know you won’t disappoint

me.”

I don’t answer. Hell, I don’t even know if I could respond even if I

wanted to. I do know that I’m not a Devlin and will never be a Devlin.

“I appreciate your spirit, but don’t mess up my house or fight with

my guys again or you’re a dead man.” He walks out of the room, but not

before ordering his guys to clean up his office before he gets back.

I’m hauled out of the chair. The next thing I know, I’m being

shoved into the backseat of the SUV.

“Don’t fight me or Devlin,” Rodriguez says as we drive back. “We’ve

got big plans, and I need you. Devlin’s guys don’t have the Mexican

connections we have. That makes us valuable.”

I’m not feeling too valuable right now. My head feels like it’s about

to explode. “Stop the car,” Rodriguez orders when we’re a few houses

away from the Westfords’. He opens the door and drags me out. “Make

sure you take care of that girl who you’re livin’ with. I wouldn’t want

anythin’ to happen to her.” He gets back in the car and tosses the

envelope of money at my feet. “You should be as good as new in a week.

I’ll contact you then,” he says, and drives off.

I can hardly stand, but I force myself to the front door of the

Westfords’ house. I bet I look the same as I feel: like complete shit.

Once inside, I try to sneak upstairs so nobody sees what a bloody mess

I am, careful to keep my shirt against my mouth so I don’t drip blood

on the carpet.

I head straight for the bathroom. Problem is, Kiara is walking out

of it just as I try to enter it. She takes one look at me, gasps, and

covers her mouth with her hand. “Carlos! Oh my God, what happened?”

“You still recognize me with a busted-up face. That’s a good sign,

right?”

FORTY-TWO :
Kiara

My heart pounds wildly in fear and shock as Carlos moves past me

and leans over the sink.

“Close the door,” he says, moaning in pain as he spits blood into the

sink. “I don’t want your parents to see me.”

I lock the door and rush to him. “What happened?”

“I got my ass kicked.”

“That’s obvious.” I grab a navy towel off the rack and wet it in the

sink. “By who?”

“You don’t want to know.” He rinses out his mouth, then looks at

himself in the mirror. His lip is cut and still bleeding, and his left eye is

swollen. By the way he’s leaning on the sink I can just imagine how the

rest of him feels.

“I think you need to go to the hospital,” I tell him. “And call the

police.”

He turns to me and winces, the movement obviously painful. “No

hospital. No police,” he says, moaning each word. “I’ll be better in the

mornin’.”

“You don’t believe that.” When he winces again, I feel his pain as if

it’s my own. “Sit,” I say, pointing to the edge of the tub. “I’ll help you.”

Carlos must really be drained emotionally as well as physically,

because he sits on the edge of the tub and stays still while I wet the

towel again and gently wipe the blood off the lips that only last night

were smiling when I kissed him. They’re not smiling now. I carefully dab

at his open cuts, painfully aware of how close we are. He stills my hand

as I move the towel across his swollen face.

“Thanks,” he says as I look into his sad eyes.

I need to break the intensity of his gaze, so I wet the towel in the

sink, and wring it out. “I just hope the other guy looks worse.”

He lets out a small laugh. “There were five other guys. They all look

better than me, although I held my own for a while. You would’ve been

proud.”

“I doubt that. Did you start it?”

“I don’t remember.”

Five guys? I’m afraid to ask more details, because just looking at

his injuries is making my stomach queasy. But I want to know what

happened to him. An envelope is resting on the sink. I pick it up and

notice money peeking out of the top. Hundred-dollar bills. A bunch of

them. I hold out the envelope to Carlos. “Is this yours?” I ask

tentatively.

“Sort of.”

A million different scenarios about how Carlos got the money start

swimming around in my head. None of them are good, but now isn’t the

time to drill him about how or why he’s carrying a load of cash. He’s

hurt, and I might have to insist on bringing him to the hospital. I hold

up a finger in front of me. “Follow my finger with your eyes. I want to

make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

I pay close attention to his pupils as he tracks my moving finger. He

seems fine, but he’s following my orders without any argument, and

that scares me. I’d feel much better if he’d get checked by a