“Fuck no,” Bolt bellows. “It told me you liked sex, but you weren’t getting it right or regular. Believe me, babe, there’s nothing desperate or needy about you.”
“Thank you . . . I think.”
“But even all that and hotter-than-hell sex doesn’t change the facts.”
“And what facts are those?”
“That there’s probably no chance of us being a ‘you and me.’” His gaze trials to the ceiling, and I hold my breath, waiting. “Before we went up to Riviera, I thought maybe, but now . . .” His voice trails off like he doesn’t know how to end the sentence—or end us.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say. We went to take down Clark Williams and the others, and we did. Success.”
“The whole thing.” He spreads his arms wide. “The big country club, the people you know, the way you fit in. Can you honestly tell me you’d give all that up,” he waves his hand around his room, “for this?”
“You’re looking at this all wrong. I’m not giving up anything. I’m gaining a life I can actually live. Staying in Tijuana, helping the people here. I’ve gotten closer to the Harlots in the last two weeks than anyone on my tennis team I’ve known since I was a child.”
“When Manny was digging up all that intel on Williams and the others, he googled your house in Pacific Palisades—more like mansion. I saw the tennis courts, the pool, indoor and outdoor, the cabana that’s the size of most people’s home. All of it overlooking the Pacific.”
“And?”
“And there’s no way you could give all that up to live over a strip club in Tijuana.”
“You are right about that, but who says we have to stay here? Smoke and Blood have their own places.”
“Not with tennis courts and country clubs.”
“Don’t you understand? I never really felt a part of any of it. I just went through the motions because that’s what my parentsexpected. Even getting with Brad was a setup. Now, I find out the man I thought was my father isn’t, Brad was a greedy perv, and everything I believed was a lie—except one thing—I knew deep down I didn’t belong there.”
“I just don’t want you rushing into some shit you’ll regret later.”
“I told you?—”
Bolt’s phone buzzes with a text. He reads it, then reaches for the remote and turns on the TV.
“Smoke said to put on the news.” Bolt clicks to an American news channel just as Clark Williams’ mansion, a place I once called home, flashes up on the screen.
“Multi-billionaire, Clark Williams, has been arrested in conjunction with the murder of Bradley Remington, along with alleged smuggling of underage women over the border from Mexico.”
“These charges were issued after a shootout at the Riviera Country Club on Thursday night. Luckily, there were no fatalities. Others allegedly connected to the human trafficking—Stuart Hinchman, George Davenport and Tom Hansen—were also arrested.”
“Williams and the other men have pleaded not guilty and are being held at the Los Angeles County jail awaiting bail. More on this story tonight at eleven.”
“Wow, and we were there.” I turn to Bolt. “I can’t believe they didn’t try to tie the club into it too.”
“Might have something to do with Smoke’s connections in L.A. Clark might’ve had all those politicians, but Smoke’s got people on the dark side, probably with plenty of dirt on all of them.”
“True.” I slowly shake my head. “I still can’t believe those men I’ve known all my life were so twisted. This scandal will be talked about for years.”
My cell phone buzzes. I read the caller ID, flip the screen to Bolt, then put the phone to my ear. “Mom?”
“Nicoletta?”
“Mom, is everything all right?”
My mother never calls me. Not when I was home sick as a child with the nanny. Not when I went away to college. Not when I was in the hospital with appendicitis. I call her; she never calls me.
“Yes, of course.” A heartbeat. “Are you at The Tropics?”
Now this was getting spooky. I never told my mother I would be here.
