Page 14 of Bastard

“Sweet Jesus, you’re persistent,” he grinds out.

I blink. His accent is American ... I think. “Excuse me?”

His lips tighten.

“I’m curious, is all. You’re a bit antisocial and I was wondering why.”

No answer.

I roll my eyes. “How about we make a deal? You win, I do your laundry. All of it, hand washed using homemade detergent.”

His eyes lift.

“I win,” I murmur, leaning forward in my seat. “And you tell me if you’re working for my brother.”

Something crosses his expression. Dismay? Fear? Diego does have that effect on people.

“Fuck, I knew tonight was a bad idea. Let’s get this over with.” He pushes all his pebbles into the center of the table.

Definitely American. I frown, now more curious than ever as I push my pebbles forward.

He folds his cards onto the table. Three tens. Impressive. He leans back in his seat and nods at me, in a slightly bossy, highly overconfident way.

“What are you doing in Nmimpi?”

“Show your hand.”

“Were you hired to watch over me?” He watched over everyone during my presentation. He protected Donovan and me from those men.

“Luciana,” he hisses.

My eyes go wide at the sound of my name. He’s never said it before.

Slowly, I lay my three queens on the table.

He glares down at my hand and is then on his feet. “Goddamn it. I should have known you’d be clever.”

I stare up at him. “What do you mean you should haveknown?”

Spinning on his heels, he turns to leave without answering my question.

“We had a deal. Do you or don’t you work for—”

He cuts me off. “Sure as fuck hope not.”

I fall back in my seat as I watch him stalk off.

Someone clears their throat. I turn to find Mustafa exiting the community center. “Muli bwanji, girl. That fierce man up and ran off.”

“Where did you come from?” I ask, suspiciously.

“Never mind that. Do you like him, girl? Because Mustafa can help make a match.”

“A match? Please ... no. I want answers from him, that’s all.”

“Answers?” She nods her head like she knows something I don’t. “Come have that drink with me. I made it myself.”

Wary, I follow her inside the community hut, to a small kitchen table centered in the room. The walls are lined with shelves, where we store most of our food, pots, pans, and other necessities. Counter space runs below them, and there is even a sink, one without running water. Mustafa places a rich, earth-red pitcher on the table before me along with a paper cup.