Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)

By the time I was ready, I had to admit that even I thought I’d get a few looks at the club. The dress was floor-length, bright tomato red, slit to my navel. It showed off the tan I’d gotten while on the boat.

“You look amazing,” he said as I stood in front of the mirror, hugging me from behind. Our reflection together startled me. I didn’t recognize myself staring back. I looked sleek and powerful, like I should have maybe had that crown on my head. Javier’s eyes in the mirror were bright like laser beams and he was staring at himself, not me.

It was a bit unnerving.

“I do?” I asked him.

He broke his stare with his reflection and smiled at me, kissing my neck.

“Yes. I want nothing more than to come on every single inch of that dress. Let you wear it out to the club like that, so everyone will know you’re mine.”

“I think that would scare Travis away.”

“No. He’d want the challenge.” Suddenly he gripped my hand and spun me around to face him. “Angel, please don’t sleep with him tonight. I’d like to keep you as my possession for just a bit longer. I want to be the only one inside you.”

I was taken aback. “Believe me, if I can get the job done without doing that, I will. I don’t even think I’ll survive looking at him.” My lungs were caving in at the thought. “Javier, I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.”

He studied my face for a moment, a sort of amused glint in his eyes. “I know you are. But take your fear and own it. This is your choice. Make your fear work for you. Make it, how you would say, your bitch.”

He kissed me, soft and sweet, then smacked my ass hard enough to sting.

“Come on, you’re distracting me. I have to get ready.”

He grabbed his clothes from the closet and started stripping. His erection was pretty obvious. I raised my brow at it.

“I told you that you looked amazing,” he explained with a shrug. He put on his pale jeans and dark, wrinkled t-shirt with a nondescript logo. On his head was another baseball cap, this one blue and white, the Toronto Blue Jays. We couldn’t have looked more different but it’s what he had to wear while driving me. He wasn’t going to come out of the car since we couldn’t take any chances, especially around Travis’s club. He had a full on purple and yellow eye now and his lip was still swollen. But it seemed that no one batted an eye at that anyway, not in this town.

“Are you ready?” he asked me. I shook my head vehemently. No, I was not.

He dipped his chin and then took my hand, leading me out of the bedroom to the living area where Raul and Peter were.

“Very nice,” Peter said through his thick accent.

I gave him an appreciative smile, ignoring Raul entirely. I knew he was looking though, because of the way Javier’s hand tightened at my waist.

“Let’s get you a stiff drink before we go, okay.” He led me to the kitchen and poured a very large amount of tequila in a glass.

“Where’s my lime and salt?” I asked, eyeing it down.

“Lime and salt are for children and women.”

I raised the glass. “I’m a woman.”

“You’re Ellie Watt,” he said. “Drink up.”

I shot it back in several attempts, coughing between each one. I felt a lot better, really fast.

“Normally, I’d suggest you drink the whole bottle,” Javier said once we were in the car, pulling his cap further down on his head, the wisps of his shaggy hair sticking out the sides. “But you’re going to need your wits about you tonight.”

Yet, I was already scared witless.

It was around ten PM when we pulled into Veracruz, and despite the daily bloodshed, the city seemed vibrant with lots of young people milling about. Maybe living in such a dangerous city made the citizens party harder, enjoy the best of life, while they could.

Javier took the Range Rover down the busy streets while I stared at couples in white dancing gracefully across tiled plazas and brightly-colored restaurants with tables and music spilling out onto the sidewalks. The port and marina shimmered, flanked by tall hotels. The air was heavy with heat but the occasional breeze from the gulf came in and lightened the atmosphere while the thick smell of flowers would come in through the window. It was all very romantic, except that I was afraid to lower the window more than in inch, feeling protected by the bulletproof glass.

By the time Javier found parking on one of the side streets near the Zocalo, a popular square where the nightclub was supposed to be located, my hands were sweating and I was buzzing with nerves again. The tequila had worn off and left me nauseous instead.

“Here you go, darling,” he said, slipping a tiny adhesive chip to the fabric that covered my nipple ring.

“What is that?”

“I can listen to you on my iPhone,” he said waving his phone at me. “It acts as a little wireless microphone. There’s a chance that the metal could set off the metal detectors they have in the club, so I figured your nipple ring was a good place to put it. It’s going to set them off anyway and I’m sure they’ll have a few good laughs when you explain what it is.”

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