Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,43
slightly frightening.
“What’s wrong?” he drawled. “Can’t take the heat?”
Several retorts came to mind. She held them in, turned her back on him, and walked toward the flashing neon lights of the tiny store behind her. Chimes over the door announced her arrival. The shop’s shelves held everything from candy to tires, and a chest-style cooler beckoned from the back. It was rusty and battered, and showed its years of use. She was lifting the lid when a man in his twenties stepped out from a door behind the counter.
He looked at her, then glanced toward the windows that faced the street, a guarded expression coming over his features. Her eyes followed his. Washed in the flickering blue and yellow glow of the shop’s garish sign, Santos stood beside the bike holding his helmet loosely by his side, sweeping the darkened street with his gaze. For a second, she couldn’t help but share the shopkeeper’s concern. Santos didn’t look like anyone she knew, much less a man she’d lived with for several years. He seemed deadly and dangerous, and sexy as hell.
The young man faced her once again. “What can I do for you?” His English was unaccented, his demeanor polite.
“Just some water,” she said, taking two plastic bottles from the cooler. Walking to the counter, she handed over the money, twisting one of bottle tops and taking a deep drink before holding her hand out for the change he’d pulled from the drawer. A textbook sat on the counter beside the register, a series of complicated diagrams and formulas decorating its fluttering pages.
“Are you a student?” she asked.
“I go to the Tecnológico de Monterrey. I’m working on an agro-biotechnology degree.”
“That’s a very good school,” Rose answered. “I’m impressed.”
“Where are you headed?” he asked. “Maybe el pueblo fantasma?”
“The ghost town? Is there one nearby?”
He raised his gaze toward the mountains in the distance and spoke slowly. “They say it’s there, but I don’t know. It’s a ghost town. You don’t see it.” He brought his stare back to hers, and suddenly she understood. He’d assumed they wanted to buy drugs.
She hardened her expression. “What gives you the impression I’m looking for that?”
“Lots of folks passing through here are.” He shrugged and glanced at the motorcycle again. “I just thought you might be one of them.”
She gave him the story she and Santos had agreed upon. “We’re going to visit a relative we haven’t seen in a long time,” she answered. “My man’s prima. Maybe you can tell me where she lives.”
He moved away—but not too far—from the register, suddenly interested in rearranging the gum display on the other side. “I doubt I would know her.”
Rose trailed him. “Well, try real hard. She lives in the next village over. Los Muertos. Her name is Concepción DeLeon. He forgot which street she lives on.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Try a little harder.” Rose and the shopkeeper both turned as Santos spoke from the doorway “It’s a small village.” He continued in a lazy voice with a razor-sharp edge. “Everyone who lives over there probably comes here to buy your crap. She had a brother. His name was Carlos Hernandez.”
The young man avoided Santos’s eyes. “You might try Calle Cinco,” he said without looking up. “I’ve heard there’s some DeLeons on that street.”
“Thank you.” Santos’s sardonic acknowledgement didn’t match the words. He curled two fingers at Rose and jerked his head toward the motorcycle. “Let’s go.”
She started for the door, but the student’s voice stopped her, and she turned. He pointedly ignored Santos and spoke to her instead. “There’s some bad business going on over there. You need to be careful.”
Reaching out, Santos put both his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face the door. “She’s not your concern.” Santos said. “You wanna worry about something, worry about me.”
She held her breath, but the boy was smart enough to keep quiet. Once outside, Santos shook his head then pushed her toward the Harley. “Don’t say a word. Just get on the bike.”
…
The road between the two villages was barely paved, and Rose was grateful. It meant Santos had to drive slower, which was still faster than she would have liked. She definitely didn’t like what he was doing or how he was acting. She’d had to struggle to keep her mouth shut in the tienda, and it’d been even harder not to speak out once they were in the street. He’d been right to warn her before they’d left. They reached Los Muertos a