So many choices from so many people who’d love to kill me. As long of as none of them touch my pretty face.
I want to roll my eyes at myself.
Threats either taunt me about not marking my supposed best feature, or that’s the first thing they promise to shred. I’m more partial to my dick working than worrying about how straight my nose is. But if Cartel life doesn’t work out, there’s alwaysGQ.
“Call me whatever you want. Will it really matter?”
“No, not since the only name that’ll be screamed is mine.”
She looks at me now. “You think we’re going to fuck?”
“Such a dirty mind,chica. Though you’ll be begging for mercy.”
“You going to tie me up?”
My lips twitch as I fight not to laugh. “Tsk, tsk. Still thinking about sex at a time like this. Do you have a gun fetish?”
“You’re the one talking about sex, not me, Alejandro.”
“Mmm. Say it again.”
“Se—”
“My name.” I lean over and whisper it in her ear like a puff of air.
“Fuck off.”
“There you go again. Sex, sex, sex. Is that all I’m good for? Uh-uh. My eyes are up here,chiquita.”
I flexed my pecks, and I knew she’d naturally look down at the distraction.
“Arrogant ass.”
“So, you’ve noticed that part of me too.”
“Shoot me already.”
“No. Drive.”
When she does nothing, I move the gun to press against her carotid artery. A shot to the ribs wouldn’t automatically kill her, but a shot to this part of her neck… That would definitely be messy. Her foot moves to the brake before she turns on the car, then her hands reach for the wheel, as she looks at me from the corner of her eye. Her pupils dilate as her fight or flight instinct kicks in for real.
“I’m going to reach back for my belt.”
She eases her left hand off the wheel and reaches back. When she pulls the belt across her chest, I cover her hand and guide it to the buckle. Her hand’s warm but not clammy. It’s neither moist nor freezing from fear. She still thinks she has control. When her left hand returns to the wheel, her right reaches for the shifter, putting the vehicle in drive.
I allow her to concentrate as she pulls out of the parking lot and merges onto the street. My gaze sweeps over her, the windshield, and the side view mirrors over and over. My arm still isn’t tired from holding up the gun, but it’s an awkward angle for someone whose shoulders are as broad and arms are as long as mine.
Woe is me.
I suppose it could be worse.
After all, I could be the one with the gun pointed at me.
Dios mío.
She would be staying in Bay Ridge, about as far from Jackson Heights—in Queens—as you can get in Brooklyn. At best, this is a forty-five-minute drive. Today, it’s close to an hour of silence. Neither of us makes small talk, and discussing anything more important isn’t wise in a moving vehicle. Hitting a nerve might mean hitting the median if I piss her off too much. She seems a bit temperamental today.
My guys follow us in cars and motorcycles, so they surround us when she pulls into a spot. I’m not worried about her taking off while I get out of the car. I don’t have “go, go Gadget” arms, and I’m not Gumbi, so I can’t keep the gun on her as we move in opposite directions. Ah, the classic cartoons my parents let me watch. No Pokémon for me. I was such an underprivileged child.
