I hold up my hand to stop her. “It's okay, Marcia,” I say. “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”
She closes the door behind her quickly, obviously happy to get away from the dangerous looking man standing before me. Hell, given the choice, I'd leave the office too. The last place I want to be is trapped in a room with this guy.
He unbuttons his coat, giving me a flash of the gun neatly tucked away in his shoulder holster. It's probably an intentional move, one designed to intimidate me. And if that's the case, it works wonders. I feel my bladder straining, the need to take a piss worsening by the second. I try to keep my face calm and neutral, however, and not show him that he's rattled me. Instead, I try to look casual by leaning back in my chair, and taking a long sip of my coffee.
“Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “Wasn't expecting you this morning.”
He shrugs and takes a seat in the chair across the desk from me. “I like to pop in sometimes,” he says. “I always find it better, find people more honest and forthcoming, when I don't give them time to prepare and rehearse their answers. Do you know what I mean, Michael?”
“Is there something I should be rehearsing for?”
He looks at me, a wry chuckle passing his lips. He leans back in his seat and opens his coat. A jolt of fear runs through me when I think he's reaching for his gun, but instead he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“There's no smoking in here,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes the cigarette out and pops it into his mouth, flicking his Zippo lighter and firing up anyway. He takes a long drag and exhales a thick plume of smoke directly at me.
He sighs contentedly and looks at the cigarette in his hand. “You know, I used to smoke three packs a day,” he says. “Nasty habit, I know.”
As with everything else he does, I know this is theater. He has a larger point he's going to slowly and laboriously get to, so I sit back and wait for it to come. It's not like I can force him to get there any sooner.
“Never touched 'em in my life,” I say.
“Good for you, Michael,” he says. “Good for you. Bad habit to start.”
“I'm too old to start new habits anyway.”
He smirks at me again and takes another drag. “Nowadays,” he says, “I only smoke when I'm feeling a tremendous amount of stress or pressure.”
“That so?”
He nods and exhales another thick plume of smoke. It's going to take me days to air this place out. I sigh and take another drink of my coffee.
“And lately,” he says. “I've gotten back up to a pack and a half a day. That's not good, right?”
I shake my head. “Clearly.”
“Do you know why I'm smoking so much again, Michael?”
“I couldn't begin to guess.”
“It's because I've been left to wonder if you really are a man of your word.”
“What do you mean?”
He gives me a long, level look as he takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it out.
“What I mean is, you promised your daughter to my son,” he says. “And yet, here we are days later, and I've heard not one word from you. I thought at least, there would be a meeting between the two. A get-to-know-you session?”
“I'm working on that, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “My daughter can be…willful at times.”
“You assured me that you had this under control and it wouldn't be a problem.”
I nod. “I do have it under control,” I say quickly. “And it's not going to be a problem.”
“I don't have to impress upon you, what happens when you don't live up to your word,” he says. “Do I, Michael?”
The image of his nephew’s head being blown off in front of me flashes through my mind and I feel an unpleasant churn of nausea in my gut. I shake my head no.
“No, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “I have the picture in vivid detail in my mind already.”
“Good,” he says. “Because, I like you, Michael. And since we're going to be family, I'd hate to have you disappoint me.”
“I won't.”
“I want to believe you.”
“I won't, Mr. Trujillo,” I stammer, my heart thundering in my chest.
There's a long moment of silence, pregnant with anticipation and fear. Finally, Trujillo nods.
“Okay,” he says. “When are we putting Armando in a room with Holly? He's very anxious to meet her. I've told him nothing but good things about her.”
“Soon, Mr. Trujillo,” is all I can say. “Very soon. I promise you.”
He nods again and gets to his feet. Trujillo stands there for a long moment, staring down at me. I can't bring myself to look up at him in fear that he'll see the outright terror on my face. All I can do is look at him from the corner of my eye and try to look unimpressed and unintimidated. I think I'm failing miserably on both counts.
Trujillo drops his cigarette into my coffee cup and I listen to it go out with a hiss the instant it hits the liquid.
“Good,” he says. “The sooner the better.”
I nod. “I'll make it happen.”
“See that you do,” he says and turns toward the door.
I watch him open the door and then pause. He stands there with his back to me and fear ripples through me.
“Don't disappoint me, Michael,” he says without turning around. “I assure you, that would be very unwise.”
Without another word, he steps through the door, closing it behind him. I let out a long breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. Grabbing the phone, I dial Holly's number one more time.
Chapter Nineteen
Holly
“What the fuck did I do, Gabby?” I ask, covering my face with my hands. “Oh, my God. What did I do? How could I be so stupid?”
My stomach is turning, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. The hangover isn’t causing the sudden wave of nausea rising within me – even though it isn’t helping - at all. It's the fact that I married Brayden last night. In Vegas. I actually married Brayden!
Gabby sits back on her bed, arms crossed in front of her with an amused grin on her face. She's laughing like this is some sort of a joke. She doesn't understand just how serious this is. She doesn't get just how deep the shit I'm in is. Suffice it to say, it's deep. Really deep.
“Gabby! This is serious,” I screech. “I got married to a man I hardly know.”
“So, it's pretty much what your dad wanted to do anyway,” she says, still chuckling. “It just happens to be a different guy than the one he planned to sell you off to.”
I stop in my tracks, the wrenching in my stomach becoming almost overwhelming. Oh God. My father. I've been so caught up in my own idiotic mess that I haven't thought about him or that whole other situation yet.
The idea that I'm one of those stupid women who get drunk and marry a stranger in a Vegas chapel is enough to freak me out and send me barreling over the edge. But now – now, I have to think about what the consequences of my reckless actions will be for my father as well.
“Oh, God,” I moan, burying my face in my hands again. “Oh, goddammit. What in the hell did I do?”
With an incomprehensible feeling of dread, I dig my phone out of my purse and unlock it. The first thing I notice is that there are thirty-two missed calls, twenty-three voicemails, and forty-two unread text messages. I don't have to be a rocket scientist to know who they're from or what they say. I have had my phone on silent for days and was having such a great time, that I completely forgot about it. Pushed it out of my head like it didn't exist.
With a groan, I turn the volume back up and right away, my phone rings. It’s almost like my dad was sitting there waiting and was alerted when I turned the volume on my phone back on.
“Speak of the devil,” I groan.
I deny the call and drop down on the bed, lying flat on my stomach, burying my face in the blankets. I want to shut it all out. Ignore it and run away - somewhere far, far away. My life was a hot fucking mess before I came to Vegas, but now it’s a three-alarm dumpster fire.
“What am I going to do, Gabby?” I wail. “My dad is going to kill me when he finds out.”