Page 46 of Faded Gray Lines

“So, do you have any pillow talk for me?” he asked, flicking the cigarette through the crack in his window.

I swear to fuck, when this is all over, I’m going to have his badge.

“First of all, you’re out of line,” I hissed. “Someone ran me off the road. I stayed with Mateo because it wasn’t safe at my brother’s place. Don’t read anything into it. Secondly, no, all I found out was that Valentin Carrera sent him to look out for me.”

He tapped his index finger against the dimple in his chin, his eyes glittering with curiosity. “Why do you think he’s looking out for you? You’re a threat to them. After all, you killed one of their men.”

Panicked, I said the first thing that came to mind. “You’re the DEA. Why are you asking me?”

He seemed strangely amused. “Fine, but next time, I want something on Cortes. Also, get back in Reyes’s office. You said there’s a safe? I want in it. Blow the motherfucker up if you have to.”

He glanced at his watch, and I knew my eviction wasn’t far behind. Jumping across the seat, I grabbed ahold of his jacket with both hands. “I did what you wanted. Alex, you can’t keep hanging this over my head. It’s cruel. I haven’t even talked to them, and it’s killing me.”

“They’re safe.”

“Let me talk to them. Just once.”

Glancing down, he pried my grip off his lapels, refusing to speak until I’d slumped back into my own seat. “And then what? Allow Carrera’s men to trace the call and find them? Do you want that on your conscience?”

My heart lodged in my throat. I knew Mateo would never do that. Whether he gave a shit about them or not, he wouldn’t hurt them. Emilio was another story.

“But how are they supposed to understand this?” Hot tears blurred my eyes.

The corners of his mouth turned down in a pensive frown, and hope sprung in my chest. However, he just shook his head and sighed.

I screamed silently, the crushing blow of reality hitting hard. “You won’t stop until another Harcourt is in the ground.”

I wasn’t looking for a response. It didn’t matter because I was getting one regardless.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that point. By the way, Cortes dismantled the bug you planted in your brother’s apartment,” he said, smirking. “We’re not stupid, Miss Harcourt.” Nodding toward the bright green clock on the dash, he pointed his finger across the street. “You’d better get back to work. Break’s over.”

Seventeen

Leighton

I balancedmy elbows on the edge of the bar, digging my fingers in my hair and pulling hard on the strands. I waited all day, but Emilio never left his office. I even hung around after my shift ended, hoping he’d get called away, but it never happened.

Finally, at seven-thirty in the evening, he walked out without a word. Of course, it did me no good now. The place was getting too crowded. The risk outweighed the reward.

So why was I still here?

Good question. Hanging around Caliente didn’t seem like the most logical solution, but then again, neither did going home and facing Brody. I’d managed to avoid his inquisition about Mateo, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually, I’d have to come clean about our tangled past.

Shifting on the hard barstool, I pulled the crinkled picture from my back pocket. The edges had frayed, but the familiar grin still shone through the creases. As hopeless as I felt, just looking at it tugged the corner of my mouth into a half smile. Everything that was anything stared back at me in that picture.

Time was ticking.

“What’ll it be?” Glancing up, I noticed Sarah holding a shot glass high in the air like it was Simba fromTheLion King.

“Huh?”

“That look on your face, sweets. You look like you lost your best friend,” she said, adjusting her newly-dyed ponytail.

I focused on the glass, trying not to stare at the fucktastrophe on her head. Sarah’s formerly blonde hair was now a garish bright red, an unfortunate side effect from playing bathroom beautician with a box of Clairol. I suspected Emilio had something to do with the drastic change, considering his obvious obsession with all things Eden Lachey.

“I only know one cure for a mood like yours and it goes in here,” she continued, pointing to the small glass in her hand. “Luckily for you, shots don’t require a recipe—just pour and slam. That’s my kind of mixology.”

Because you suck at your job.