Shooting Scars: The Artists Trilogy 2 (29 page)

That was about as much as I could take before it sunk in. Before I realized what I was seeing before my very own fucking eyes. Javier and Ellie. Together.

I hoped vomiting wouldn’t make that much of a sound because that’s the only thing I could think of doing to deal with all of this. I wanted to throw up, the bile filling my mouth, as if emptying my stomach would empty all the hurt and pain and hate that was filling up inside of me. I didn’t know what else to do except wish for death and darkness and anything that would take this torture away. I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my mouth and twisted around my throat, choking me.

I must have fallen to my side, because the next thing I knew my head was resting against damp crab trap netting and Gus was shoving two painkiller tablets into my mouth and moving my jaw up and down, trying to get me to chew them.

That was the last thing I remembered before things got fuzzy and I stopped feeling.

W
ith the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window as it ascended over the sea, it was hard to imagine anything in life being that bad. For a split second, with Javier’s arm wrapped around my waist, his chest rising and falling behind me, I could pretend that this was my life now: this room, him and I, the shimmering waves at our doorstep.

It was tempting, too, to ask for this to be my future. To forget about revenge, loss and lies, and just forge through, making a new path. Why couldn’t life be about us rolling in the sheets, enjoying each other’s bodies, drinking beer and eating fresh fruit, running on the sand, eating at quaint little cafés and buying fish every night from Pedro?

I knew the answer to that – it wouldn’t be enough. Oh, it would be enough for me, to just live and not lie. But Javier would always want more. That was the tragedy of our relationship. That, despite the years that passed, the passion that we shared, I would never be enough for him. He needed his revenge more than I needed mine. Perhaps when this was all over and his sisters were safe and Travis was dead, it could work. Maybe he’d give up all his power and live the simple life. Maybe he’d keep it and convince me to join forces, to embrace the bad side. I didn’t know and it was the kind of thing I could never ask for, because the two of us together were as much about deceit as we were about love. How could you ever have both of those and still call it even?

But, maybe, when you had nothing, you had to take what you could get, even if you knew it would hurt you in the end. A love that starts out under a lie is bound to kill you and sometimes you lived to tell the tale.

A tear rolled down my cheek, cold against my warmed skin. I sniffed and felt Javier’s arm around me, tightening. I wished I could say it made me feel safe. It didn’t. Because I knew what I did last night and what I had to do today. I was going into the lion’s den, under my own power, my own need for vengeance. I was going without protection. Without a safety net. Without a shield.

Alone.

“Are you crying?” I heard a groggy but concerned Javier mumble into my ear.

I swiped away the tear and rolled onto my back, willing the rest of the tears to stay inside, where they belonged. “I’m okay. Just emotional I guess.”

“Angel,” he said, holding me closer to him. “You did so well last night. Travis saw you and you played it just right. You’re going to do fine today.”

“I know,” I lied. I felt like I’d do anything but fine. Today there was a chance that I’d have to do more than see his face in a nightclub. I might have to talk to the monster, the very one I’d wanted to scar and burn all those years ago, the man whose death I used to dream about. How could I be fine?

Javier had his way of quieting my thoughts though. We had just enough time for a quick roll in the hay before we had to get up and get ready for the day. As much as I was sure that fucking him was fucking with my head, it was the only time I’d really get peace from what was going on around me. I liked to pretend that everything was going to be alright.

This was going to be the last time I’d see the fish shop for a while. Before the market, I was going to check into the hotel in Veracruz and spend the next few days alone, with only Enrico the hotel staff to relay messages, though Javier did say he would try and meet up with me at some point if the coast was clear.

I had just finished packing my bag for my role as American tourist when I heard shouting from the kitchen, Javier laying into someone.

Curious I came out and saw him spearing Raul with a most heated gaze – the kind of you never wanted to see Javier give anyone. Raul was leaning on the counter as if he didn’t give a shit, a line of coke on a colorful plate and rolled up pesos beside him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, eyeing the drugs. Raul looked normal but wouldn’t meet my eyes. It was then that I noticed Raul’s “normal” was definitely always high, his beady, red eyes were a dead giveaway. I’m not sure why I never put two and two together – Raul was a coke addict.

Javier reached over and violently tipped up Raul’s chin. “This motherfucker is doing shit right in the open now, where anyone can see it. No respect.”

Raul ripped his face away from him and crossed his arms. “It’s just us here, Javi. You never used to care.”

“I always cared!” Javier roared. “You don’t do this anymore, you got it?”

“Oh, not around her, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying you’re done.”

I frowned, wondering if there was some drug lord mantra like you could never get high on your own supply. I was pretty sure there wasn’t considering cartels didn’t exactly have a code of ethics. Then again, Javier wasn’t like everyone else. He had his own moral code, as warped and twisted as it was.

Raul bent over and quickly snorted up the rest of the cocaine. Then he threw the pesos in Javier’s face and walked down the hall, bumping me out of the way with his shoulder. He disappeared down the stairs and I looked back to Javier, certain he was about to lose it.

He was close. Temples red, fists opening and closing, head back and staring at the ceiling. These moments with Javier were dangerous – you never knew which way he was going to go and I couldn’t blame him at all if he went apeshit on Raul.

I stood there watching him for a few moments then thought better of it, thinking he needed privacy, and turned to head back to the room.

“Ellie,” Javier called out, his voice hoarse. “Come here, please.”

I’d be lying if I said that a few panicky butterflies didn’t start fluttering in my stomach at that moment. I did as he asked, approaching him as you would a stray dog, unsure whether it would bite or lick you.

“Come closer,” he said softly, eyes still on the ceiling.

I did, taking a very cautious step.

He raised his arms out to the side, pulling me into a hard embrace.

“We’re going to have to get rid of him,” Javier mumbled into the top of my head.

“Raul?”

“Yes. He’s breaking the rules. He’s disobeying orders. I know the signs when I see them. He’s going to switch.”

“Because of the coke? You run drugs into America, Javier.”

“I don’t use them, you know this. Drugs clutter the mind and the soul.”

I bit my lip from pointing out his hypocrisy. Now wasn’t the time. The truth was, I wanted Raul gone, too. The drug use was just his way of sticking to Javier. At least he was giving us a warning.

He kissed the top of my head. “Come on, let’s get you checked in.”

The butterflies reappeared. I was going to have to get used to them from here on in.

The hotel room was very nice, a bit overly “fiesta” for tourists really looking for that true Mexican feeling. The closets were shuttered teak, colorful striped rugs lined the terracotta tile floors and the back patio was lined with glazed blue pots overflowing with bougainvillea and hibiscus. It was private and peaceful and, as Enrico closed the door behind him, leaving me sitting on the white-lace bedspread, very lonely. I wouldn’t say I missed Javier, but it was the first time I’d been without him in a long time.

The upside of that was that I was finally free. I could walk out the back door and disappear and maybe no one would find me again. I’d drift out there in the world, perhaps finding myself in the process.

Yet, I didn’t do any of that. Because of the very reason I turned myself over to Javier in the first place. Yes, I did it to save Camden. But it was my fate, my punishment for my past sins. And I had a feeling if I ran again, they’d continue to catch up to me until I put a stop to them, once and for all.

I had to get to Travis.

Then the real freedom would come.

I sighed and looked over myself in the antique mirror. My hair was done up in ringlets again, my makeup still heavy handed but appropriate for daytime. My razor blade necklace hung around my neck, a reminder of who I was and why I was doing this. My outfit wasn’t risqué like last night’s but still pretty. Floor-length black peasant skirt, black and hot pink Mexican print off-the-shoulder top. I’d cut a flower from the patio and pinned it in my hair.

Before Javier dropped me off, we went over the plan one last time. I was to take a taxi to the market and spend a few hours acting like a tourist, stopping at every booth, smelling fruits, tasting samples and haggling with vendors over leather belts. Travis would be making his rounds. Somehow I’d have to get myself noticed in the crowd. Now was the time to make the move, to flirt, or “whatever it was that you did to me” as Javier put it.

I had no idea what that was. I was taken with Javier the moment I first laid eyes on him. It was hard not to be, his magnetism came shining through. But Travis … I couldn’t imagine flirting with him. I knew once I saw him, it would take all I had again to keep myself from hurting him. But I had to be strong. I had to be the con artist that I was meant to be: cool, collected and in control. Or, in other words, I had to become like Javier.

I gave myself one last look in the mirror and swiped on bright pink blush to liven up my face before I headed out to the lobby. The day was sweltering and vacationers were already lying by the azure pool, getting the sun’s rays before it became too unbearable. Half of them looked like tomatoes already.

Enrico called for my cab at the front desk and wished me good luck, adding that he’d check on my room later tonight to see if I needed anything. I knew what that meant – he’d relay my messages back to Javier. I didn’t see why I couldn’t just call him, why this had to be such a secretive operation. Perhaps the cartel had control over the phone lines too.

They certainly had control over the market. I had wondered what the point in all of this was, why did I have to set everything up so delicately and convoluted when someone could just bring a sniper rifle to the market and blow Travis’s head off. Once I got out of the cab, I understood how powerful the man was. He practically owned Veracruz, or at least its army and police force.

Everywhere you looked there were armed guards and army-fatigued police officers, automatic rifles at their sides. They were stationed at all corners of the market, as well as inside the market, patrolling the aisles, hands behind their backs. I did a quick sweep of the surrounding buildings as the cab driver counted the pesos I’d handed him. When you looked for it, you could find them everywhere – a face at a broken window, a couple of guards on the roofs. The entire market was being watched and patrolled from every single angle. Whoever was stupid enough to try and kill Travis here would probably not only fail but certainly die in the process.

All of this protection for one horrible man. A horrible man with far too much power and money.

A man that I was supposed to stop.

It seemed laughable now.

The cabbie gave me back a few pesos – he’d short changed me but I didn’t care. I shoved it in my macramé purse, threw my shoulders back and prepared to enter the chaos of Veracruz’s Saturday open-air market.

Vibrant was definitely one way to describe it. I bet there was nothing you couldn’t buy here. From hanging chickens and chilies to hand-tooled leather bags and expertly woven shawls, it had everything you could want. There was a tiny part of me who thrilled in this, pretending, just for a second, that I was a tourist looking for souvenirs from her trip to Mexico. I smiled politely at merchants, waved my hands dismissively at those who were shoving pig’s ears in my face. I fumbled through my first lines of Spanish, drawing confused looks from a guy I was trying to buy silver earrings from, until I finally hit my stride and was able to communicate the basics. I walked away with the earrings, a white silk shawl, bags of miniature limes (they were cute and I figured in another life I could make margaritas out of them) and brightly-colored chili peppers, a leather belt with a silver buckle that had “bad girl” engraved on it and a greasy paper bag full of churros.

I’d munched through one of the churros and made my way around the market for the second time, the sun beating down mercilessly. I stepped into the shade of an awning, part of a butcher shop where cow hocks were being hung on hooks and flies buzzed around greedily and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I didn’t want to look like I was searching for anything in particular, but I hadn’t seen Travis yet. I figured that was strange considering he’d be easy to spot, no doubt flanked by a whole phalanx of bodyguards, as if all the stationary guards weren’t enough. He really would want to be seen as the city’s Don Vito Corleone.

I stayed in the shade until the sweat cooled and I set off again, this time walking down the middle aisles where the crowd was the thickest. A tiny little shopkeeper in a ruffled dress jumped out from behind her stall and started waving around sarongs, pointing to my skirt and yammering on about how I must buy them.

I did my shake of the head, hands waving no, combined with the polite and sympathetic smile but the woman wasn’t having any of it.

“You American, you buy,” she said in broken English. She was pushy but her gap-toothed smile was so genuine that I felt bad for refusing her. She placed the sarong in my hands, getting me to pet the fabric, as if it were made out of precious gold instead of scratchy cotton.