“Let’s go,” Smoke says. “It’s been a long-ass night, and now I want my woman’s fish tacos.”
“Yeah,” Blood agrees. “They are fuckin’ good.”
Bolt’s face relaxes for a split second. “Best tacos south of the border.”
"Then let's go," I say. "I'm starving."
Bolt’s hand finds the small of my back — careful, deliberate, just above the wound. The crashing tide in the distance. The boardwalk empty and washed in that particular blue-gray that belongs only to the coast before dawn.
I have a bullet wound, a paper bag of antibiotics and the growing, irreversible sense that there is nothing else that exists beyond right now.
I’m almost at peace with that.Almost—the most honest word available.
CHAPTER 21
NICOLETTA
The rest of the ride back to Tijuana, I doze off and on against Bolt’s shoulder, thankful for the continued numbness in my side. It would eventually wear off, but for now, it’s letting me relax for the first time in over twelve hours.
When I do look up at Bolt, his eyes search mine with a mix of guilt and relief. His eyes translate everything he wouldn’t or couldn’t say aloud. Like he also sees a different side of me now, a tougher, resilient side that trusted in him to find me help, even if it was in the back of a rundown bar. I somehow trusted him, and I’d been right in doing so. Meeting Dr. Ezra Callahan just became one of the privileges of my life.
My mind wanders. comforted in the knowledge that somewhere in L.A.. Clark Williams and his band of degenerates are getting exactly what they deserve.
When we finally pull into the lot behind The Tropics, it’s almost four a.m., but when we trudge into the bar, all the lights are on. Maxie and Martina are behind the bar, and Marisol is laying out enough food for an army of people. The minute they see us, they hug and kiss their men, then cluster around me.
“Oh my God, are you all right?” Martina asks.
“How did this happen?” Maxie angles me toward a chair.
“I’m fine, really,” I assure them.
“Geez, give her some fuckin’ room,” Bolt says. “Let her breathe.”
Of course, they ignore him, ease me into a chair, then Marisol places her amazing fish tacos in front of me. The smell alone has my mouth watering, and I can’t wait to take a bite.
Smoke comes up alongside Marisol. “Where’s mine?”
She points to the center of the bar. “Over there on the main table.”
“How come you’re not gonna serve me?” he asks. “I just got back too.”
“Did you get shot?” Marisol levels him with her onyx eyes.
“Woman, that’s cold.” He stomps off, and we all laugh.
Bolt leaves my side for the first time all night and heads for the bar. He downs two shots, then nabs a beer and comes back to the table.
He nods at my food as he sits down. “I guess you really were hungry.”
I’ve already devoured one taco and am working on the next one.
The prospects bring out more food from the kitchen. Martina mans the bar, and you would’ve thought it was early evening instead of early morning.
The men push two tables together, and we feast on Marisol’s delicious food. Not only tacos, but just about every other combination of the best Mexican food has to offer.
We relay the whole story to the Harlots, who are stunned and intrigued.
“That’s an amazing story.” Marisol shakes her head. “Hard to believe they got away with it for as long as they did.”
