The way he said loved creeped me out. It was like watching the devil say it himself. The word didn’t belong on his tongue.
“And while you’ve been Ellie Watt, I’ve been … making adjustments. Making money. Going places. Moving up.”
“If that’s moving up, then I’m moving out,” I muttered under my breath, making sure he could hear me.
“No more Dire Straits?” he asked. “Billy Joel now?”
“Get to the point.”
“The point is, I know about you. I know why you were with me, at least for some of it. I know the truth about your scars. I know the truth about Travis.”
I swallowed hard, the hairs standing up on my arms and prickling along my neck like tiny ants. Of course he knew. I remembered what Jim had told me about Javier already.
Jim.
My uncle Jim. My only real family. The memory of him hit me like a brick. But it wasn’t anything nice. It wasn’t the good times. It wasn’t something fucking normal. It was when he was dead. The bullet in his head, his shocked expression as he hit the floor in that motel room.
And I was staring, just feet away, at the man who killed him.
“Something wrong?” Javier asked.
What would be the point in bringing it up? Jim didn’t deserve to be mentioned in his presence. Another memory to bury deep inside.
“So you know the truth,” I said with a shrug. “Must have been enlightening for you.”
He nodded gravely. “It was. Ellie … if I had known what Travis had done. If I had known then …”
Right. If he had known that I sought him out under false pretences, pretending to be interested in him in order to get closer to Travis, I’m sure things would have been just peachy between us. I could only imagine what Javier would have done if he discovered at the time that our whole relationship was based on a lie.
“I don’t care. What do you want?”
“It’s one and the same, don’t you see? I no longer work for Travis. I went my own way a year ago.”
“A regular Stevie Nicks,” I said, masking the sorrow that picked at me. Uncle Jim. His memory kept floating to the surface.
He went on, “Travis … I grew more powerful than him.”
“You must be very proud.”
He tilted his head in agreement, not receiving my sarcasm. “There were too many traitors in his organization. He’d gone mad with power. Things were unraveling. He began consorting with our rivals, Los Zetas. The very people who killed my parents. If I hadn’t split, I might have died.”
What a shame, I thought.
“I had Raul and Alex. I had a few others. I had the means and the connections. I left here and headed to Florida. I made a good life for myself.” He noticed my expression. “Yes, maybe running drugs isn’t a noble life. But neither is conning.”
“What,” I said through grinding teeth, “Is. The. Task?”
“Travis hurt you, Ellie. He was the reason you found me those years ago. You wanted revenge for your scars, for your life, for what he’d done to you. I’m handing you the gun. Together, we can get your revenge. And I can get mine.”
Despite everything sounding absolutely ridiculous, I had to ask, “What’s your revenge? What did he do to you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his eyes drifting to the LA Times again. Why he was reading the LA paper when we were in Ocean Springs, Mississippi was beyond me. Everything was beyond me. “What matters is that I said I would kill any man that hurt you. Now, you have seen that I keep my word. I keep my promises. Travis hurt you, maybe more than anyone else. I want him dead from the barrel of my gun.”
I swallowed uneasily. “Maybe you oughta turn the gun on yourself then.” Because you hurt me, too, is what I didn’t say.
He blinked warmly. “Maybe I will. But first, this is the task. We kill him. Together. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Promises are promises.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was raining down on me in slick fragments that I just couldn’t grasp. One minute Camden and I were heading for a new life together. In the next I was with Javier, who wanted me to kill the drug lord that ruined my life. As much as I believed in revenge, I couldn’t muster up the rage that blinded me enough to do such a thing. I couldn’t do much of anything except try and get my brain up to speed.
“I’m a con artist,” I stated. “Not a killer for hire.”
“I know,” he said softly. He got up, pushing his chair back and leaning on the table. “Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.”
My breath hitched. I would not let fear set in. Fear made me weak. Fear had drugged me.
“I always have a choice.” I grimaced at my warbling voice.
“Not always,” he said, walking around the table. His wing-tipped shoes echoed in the kitchen. “The choice you did have – to stay with Camden or turn yourself over to me – you took. Now you have to live with the consequences. It’s time for you to own your decision.