My burner’s going nuts in my pocket. There are only five people who have that number, so I know it’s fucking important. But can I answer it? No, I fucking can’t answer it because I’m stuck in a compound filled with angry, suspicious Mexicans who look like they’re really itching to beat the living shit out of me. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m an arrogant son of a bitch, but there’s a reason for my gigantic ego: I’ve fucking earned it. I’m not just a violent person. I am a trained violent person, and when I feel the need I can successfully hurt an awful lot of people in a very short space of time, and in many different ways. But even I know I’m not in a position to do that now. Three reasons: Number one, there are over fifteen guys with guns milling around the compound right now. Number two, those guns aren’t just guns. They’re semi-autos. And number three, I’m fucking wasted.
When Julio said he wanted to have a few beers in the sunshine, he probably should have said he wanted to drink a case of beer in the sunshine, alongside three bottles of Cuban rum, and carry on drinking until the sun went down and neither of us could stand up straight. My only reprieve is the fact that Julio is as shitfaced as I am and the sweating bastard didn’t end up calling the girls out. No way he could get his dick hard with this much Havana running through his veins. I probably could if I tried really hard, but fucked if I want to. All I can think about right now is Sloane. And also how much I want to kill motherfucking Callum for not watching the house like I told him to.
Occasionally Michael’s awkward predicament crops up through the fog of my mind, but I know the guy. He can take a beating when he needs to, sometimes even enjoys one; but that’s a different story. By the time I figure out where they’re keeping him in the morning he may have a few broken ribs and a couple of black eyes, but Julio won’t allow his men to do too much damage. Not right away. They’ll wanna get information out of him first, and it’ll take a while for them to realize the stubborn bastard won’t give it. Suffice it to say I’ll owe him a serious pay raise after this.
“You and me, we—we are fucking dogs, right?” Julio hiccups. It takes a lot of effort to swivel my eyes toward the great lump of a man, half reclined, half slumped on his lounger.
“Speak for yourself, man,” I growl.
This makes him laugh. “You fucking are. And I am, too! There’s…there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you are. You were born as shit, and so was I. But just because…” He pauses, pressing his balled-up fist into his sternum. He waits a minute, eyes watering, and then carries on. “Just because we were born as shit doesn’t mean we still live that way. We’re piranhas swimming amongst the other fish, looking like other fish until we’re provoked. And then we’re the nastiest fucking fish imaginable. We’re the kings of fish! Fucking dog king fish!”
I pull a grimace at that. “I’m not a piranha. I’m a great white.”
“Whatever, man. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You seen those bastards strip—” Another bout of heart burn. “You seen those bastards strip flesh from the bone? They’re fascinating. A nightmare.”
I sling back another shot of Havana, wincing. “Piranhas live in shoals. They’re group…fish. Great whites are the badasses of the sea. Don’t catch them hanging around in groups. They’re like…lone wolves.”
Julio tips his head back and howls, his voice mimicking the call of a wolf. “Well, I don’t know what animals we are anymore, cabrón. All I know is that you and I are one and the same. We clawed our way out of the dirty shit we were born into and carved ourselves out a kingdom. My kingdom’s slightly bigger than yours, though, huh?”
I nod ruefully, tipping my glass to him. “Uh-huh. And you don’t answer to anyone, too, right?”
Julio shakily pours some more alcohol into both our empty shot glasses, grinning at me. He suppresses his smile as he says, “From what I hear, you’re no longer taking orders, either.” He offers me the alcohol, his eyes somehow a little more lucid than they had been a minute ago.
Well fuck me. His comment has an instant sobering effect. He does know about me running out on Charlie? I clear my throat. There’s a lot riding on what comes out of my mouth next. “Charlie’s a major pain in the ass sometimes, Julio. We’re on a break. I’m sure he’ll have forgotten…,”I wave my arm drunkenly in the air in the general direction of Seattle, “…all about it by next week.” Better to make it sound like he’s mad at me than the other way around. Julio might harbor some sympathy for a payroll guy who’s pissed off a boss like Charlie. A payroll guy who’s gone rogue and decided to take certain matters into his own hands will probably just piss him off. All of these thoughts take shape slowly through a thick haze of alcohol.
“I see.” Julio tosses back his drink and reaches across the table between us, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. “I defended you today, Zeth. I chose to give you the benefit of the doubt where my men would have had me kill you instead. I’ve done this because we’re fucking dogs, you and me, and when I look at you I see…me.”
Yeah, you wish, asshole. Through the booze, this strikes me as funny, given that I’m twelve inches taller, ten years younger, and a hundred pounds lighter than the sack of man-jello sprawled in front of me. I suppose it’s time to thank him now? I suck in oxygen, willing the fresh air to help me find the right words to convey some self-effacing gratitude. Sadly all I come up with is, “Thanks.”