“What will you be doing?” Garcia asks.
By his grim, unhappy tone, it’s clear he already knows but for the benefit of everyone else in the room, I answer. “I’m going to find out what’s in that bag of hers.”
He follows me out into the hallway. “You like her.”
“She’s beautiful. Who wouldn’t like her?” I walk down the hallway, the dingy wall sconces leaving deep shadows on the purple and green carpet. Garcia follows.
“It is more than that.” His dark gaze is searching. I tug my ball cap lower, unwilling to confirm his suspicions. “You think she’s brave, loyal.”
“And?” My tone is impatient, signaling he should move off this topic.
“Just remember why we are here,” he cautions. We stop at the elevator bank and I press the down button.
“I haven’t forgotten.” Are any of the four elevators going to stop on this floor? I jab the button again. Huffing out a sigh, I respond because Garcia and I go way back and he doesn’t deserve a shitty rebuff. “How many people would put themselves in danger for someone else? Even someone that they love? Not everyone. Most people in Ava’s situation would get the hell out of Dodge and never look back.”
“Most people are smart,” he counters. “Fight or flight, most people are choosing the flight option. Those who run today, live to fight again.”
“But not Ava,” I say quietly. The doors to an elevator slide open. I step in but turn around to face one of my oldest friends. “I know I’m cursed, but shit man, so long as I don’t touch, who the hell is going to blame me for looking?” I give him a crooked smile and as the doors slide shut, I see a reluctant grin break out in return. I don’t have any plans to lay my hands on Ava Samson but damn if I’m not going to try to get close enough to see her smile at me.
CHAPTER TWO
AVA
Lima. The city of contrasts. Golf courses in the middle of the city and businessmen surfing before breakfast.
For me? It’s a crapfest city of jerks that like to hit and threaten women.
I rub my jaw, still feeling the sting of the slap. It’s not the first hit I’ve gotten from one of Duval’s men, and it won’t be the last. I want to fight back. I want to take the small plastic knives in the kitchenette of the hotel room, sharpen one into a shiv, and stab the bastard the next time he touches me.
I won’t, of course. But I entertain the thought all the same.
The Louis Vuitton purse on the bed taunts me. It’s a really nice purse. Leather, with the brown and gold monogrammed LV logo. I’d have loved to own one, once upon a time. This one was gifted to me, and I wish it wasn’t here.
Because what’s inside it is incredibly dangerous. I have to take it everywhere with me. It’s in the bathroom when I shower. It goes with me when I go down the street for snacks. I can’t let it out of my sight, or Rose is dead. That’s been hammered into my head over and over again—I must not let the purse out of my sight, or my friend is dead.
Like I’m not already scared out of my mind.
I clutch the purse against my breast and move to one of the windows of the hotel room. I don’t open the blinds. For all I know, Duval’s got someone watching me out there, and I hate that thought. I do lift one slat with my index finger, just enough to glimpse at the world outside.
People walk the streets, laughing and smiling. I can see their faces even from my vantage point three floors up in the Inka Frog hotel. I see small cars squeezing past the narrow streets, and bicycles weaving between them. I see others shopping down the Calle Enrique Palacios, pausing by the vendor carts that scatter the street. There’s a beat-up taxi pulling up to the curb. It’s all very normal.
So idyllic. So incredibly misleading.
Maybe a month ago I’d have seen people clutching drinks and chatting on street corners. Moms herding children. Harmless people. Now? I see people lingering, watching passersby. I see men with jackets that could conceal guns. I see too many places that could hide someone waiting to kill me.
Sometimes I think my best friend Rose is the lucky one. She’s the reason I’m so mired in this mess.
Rose and I have been friends since childhood. It’s Rose that’s been at my side since I was a young grade-school misfit. It’s Rose that suggested I come to New York with her when I graduated from high school and didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s Rose that got me work when we both arrived in the city, fresh-faced and eager. She’s a regular model; I’m a hand model because my mismatched eyes are pronounced “too weird” and my face isn’t quite pretty enough even with contacts in. Rose is stunning, of course. Tall, thin, willowy, she’s perfect.