Fracture (Blood & Roses #3-4) - Callie Hart Page 0,31
it to her to shake. Lacey looks at it like the gesture is some kind of trick. The handshake was designed all those hundreds of years ago to demonstrate that a person wasn’t carrying any weapons; the same trick works here between Lacey and Pippa—I mean you no harm. The timid blonde reaches out to accept the patiently waiting hand. A dam seems to break in Lacey, and tears spring to her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, just gets up, tidily folds the blanket away and exits the apartment, standing on the other side of the open door, presumably waiting for me.
“She’s got a long road ahead of her,” Pippa murmurs to me. “She has a lot to work through. I get the impression that she’s blocking most of it out.”
“What? So the rape isn’t the worst of it?”
A sad, pained look develops on Pip’s face. “Probably not. Make sure you keep an eye on her, okay? Ideally she’d be institutionalized and placed on suicide watch at least for a little while.”
I’m already shaking my head, no. “He won’t—”
“I know he won’t,” she interrupts. “But this isn’t about him. It’s about her and what she needs. Right now she’s somehow managed to bond herself to this guy, which is probably the most unhealthy thing she could have done. This time with him away is a good opportunity to try and break that connection.” She gives me a hesitant look. “And also a good opportunity for you to do the same.”
I gape at her. “I’m not bonded to him.”
Her lips pull into a tight line: worry. “Not right now, maybe, but I think it could happen, babe. Way easier than you think it could. Don’t forget,” she says, pausing, “I have met this man.”
I arrive at Julio’s compound at nightfall. Somewhere in the city, Rick’s waiting impatiently for direction from me. Michael, my most trusted guy, is already here too, having been watching the compound for me since he learned of Alexis’s presence. The place is way out in the boonies, skirted with a ten-foot-high concrete wall that encircles the whole place apart from the front entrance, which bears a fierce-looking wrought-iron gate with formidable spikes on the top. No fucker gets in or out of here, if not without Julio’s direct say-so, then at least without him knowing about it. Two beefy guards smoke joints by the gateway, scowling at me with dark eyes as I pull the Camaro up out front. Their hands move to the blatant weapons they carry in their waistbands as I step out of the car.
“Turn around, hombre. This ain’t the ’burbs. You ain’t got no business here,” the short, fat one tells me. I arch an eyebrow.
“Sure I do. I got an open ticket with Julio.” The other man spits on the floor, and then draws deeply on his joint. The smell of pot blossoms in the night air. “We ain’t got no white boys on the guest list tonight, brother. You need to go on home.”
I walk straight up to the railings of the gate and press my face close to the bars. “Better check your list again, brother.”
The two of them look at each other. I’m not driving a Benz, so I’m obviously not their regular clientele. The size of me doesn’t seem to be doing me any favors, either. A tense minute follows—them staring at me and me staring right back at them—before the tall one tuts disapprovingly and turns his back, mumbling in Spanish into a small walkie-talkie. He quickly turns back around and gestures upward with his chin. “Smile for the camera, pendejo.”
I see a camera mounted onto the wall to my right swivel to an angle, which encompasses me fully; I plaster a fake grin on my face, broad and arrogant, and then proceed to flip it off.
Rushed Spanish bursts out of the walkie-talkie in the taller guy’s hand; the voice sounds angry. Both guards’ faces solidify into aggravated steel—sorry motherfuckers!—as they open the gate for me. I get back into the Camaro and make sure to spin the dusty desert sand up into their faces as I burn past them. Outside the huge, single-story building that lies within the walls, a dark, lithe shape paces down the steps to meet me. The figure of a woman. I park up and take a moment to get my story straight in my head: I’m just passing through, looking for a place to crash. Charlie knows all about this.
In reality