Karina Halle - Dirty Angels

“Care to join me?” he asked, holding his arm out, as if he were some gentleman.

I stared at it and then at him. “Where?”

He shrugged. “I told you. A walk. I thought it might be good for you to get some fresh air.”

“Oh, and you’re so concerned about my well-being?”

Another shrug. “I’m not a monster,” he said.

“No. Just a chump.”

He frowned and I knew I was pushing my luck with him. I stifled a wave of apprehension that coursed through me.

“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze intensifying, “I may be the only friend you have here. I might be the difference between life and death for you … or losing your little toe or your whole leg.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed that. Even though Esteban was Javier’s right-hand man and business partner, I don’t think he had the power he thought he did. It seemed that he constantly wanted to call the shots with Javier but wasn’t quite there. If I were Javier, I’d keep a close eye on him.

“Friends don’t threaten each other,” I told him.

The darkness on his brow eased up. “I guess not. Well. Come on then.”

He gestured for me to grab his arm again. I ignored him but slipped on my running shoes just the same. The truth was, I wanted, needed, to get outside and breathe fresh air and feel the world again. I felt like I was losing perspective of the value of life.

We walked out into the hallway, me in front of him, and were just about to head down the stairs when the guard who was stationed at the end of the hall stepped out in front of us. At least, I thought he was a guard, at first. But from the way he blocked the stairs, arms crossed, with a menacing twitch to his face, I could tell he was more than just a guard.

He leered at me in a way that made my skin feel sick.

This was Franco, the man responsible for the bruise on my face. I could just tell.

“Where are you going?” Franco asked Esteban, though he was staring at me.

“None of your business, Franco,” he said. He gestured for him to get out of the way but Franco wouldn’t budge.

“Planning on running away with the hostage?” he asked. He had a stupid look in his eyes, but in this world, it was the stupid people you had to fear. Too much testosterone and too little brains were a dangerous combination. I had no doubt that if Esteban wasn’t there, I would be in big trouble. It didn’t help that Franco was a huge guy with muscles that pulsed grotesquely.

“I just want to feel her hair,” he said, licking his lips as if I was a steak. “The whores have such rough hair.”

He reached out and made a fist in it. I gasped but couldn’t move or else his grip would yank a huge chunk out.

“So you’ve felt it now,” Esteban said, sounding tired. “Kindly move out of the way. We’re just going for a walk.”

Franco gave my hair a small tug, enough to make me gasp again. Then he grinned and let go.

“Sure thing,” he said, chuckling to himself and moved aside to let us pass.

Esteban quickly led me past him. We were halfway down the stairs when I heard Franco whisper after me, “Much better than a whore’s.”

I shivered even as Esteban took me out of the house and into the bright sunshine.

“Don’t pay any attention to Franco,” he said to me. “He’s a bit messed up in the head.”

“I can see that,” I said, my heart rate returning to normal as the fresh air filled my lungs and the heat hit my skin. The house was located at the end of a rocky road. There was a simple dirt driveway leading out and long, overgrown grass that stretched toward a decrepit wooden fence and miles of forest beyond that. No neighbors, no nothing.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of him,” he went on as we walked together. “Or maybe you should.”

I swallowed. “I’m not afraid.”

“You know, I met a girl like you once,” he told me as we walked down the driveway, ochre dirt rising up in the still air. I was barely listening to him. I was taking in every sight, every opportunity. There were no guards out here which I thought was curious. Franco, thank god, had decided not to trail us, and all the rest of the guards seemed to be inside the house, perhaps with Javier.

“You met a girl like me once,” I repeated absently. “How nice.”

“Yes,” he said. “About a year ago. I was in Hawaii. I saved her from drowning. I saved her from a lot of things, including herself.”

“What a hero,” I said dryly. “You must think you’re such a nice guy.”

He nodded. “I do. For the most part. But she was like you because she no longer cared about life. She was more or less suicidal.”

I stopped and glared at him. “I am not suicidal,” I hissed.

He shrugged. “You don’t seem to care much about anything. Javier is right … he thinks you’re unbreakable.”

“Just because he can’t break me doesn’t mean I’m suicidal,” I told him. “What kind of sick man wants to break a woman anyway?”

“I don’t know. You married one of them, didn’t you?”

“I married a demon, not a man.”

“Well, I guess Javier’s not exactly a demon.”

“No such thing as a sentimental demon?” I asked. “Tell me about the clothes. This skirt, this dress … whose is it?”

He gave me an inquisitive look. Our path continued down the rough road, birds calling from the towering lush trees. “Why are you so interested?”

Now it was my turn to shrug. I didn’t know why. I guess I felt that the little bit of information I could get about Javier, the more I’d have to work with, to use against him when needed.

“I’m making conversation,” I said.

“Right. Well, if you care so much, the clothes belong to an ex-girlfriend of his.”

I snorted lightly out my nose. “Girlfriend? I would have thought Javier only used whores. Who else could be interested in him?”

I felt Esteban studying me closely. Of course on the outside I could see why any woman would be interested in Javier Bernal. He was beautiful to look at, and I was sure he could be charming when he wanted to be. He also had money and power. But any woman worth her salt would run once she realized what kind of a depraved psychopath he was. The idea of him having an ex-girlfriend, one to get sentimental over, confused me.

“ She was interested in him,” he said, “a very long time ago. When they were young and stupid, I guess. But she was also a con artist.”

I nodded. “I see.” She was just as bad as he was, then. That explained some. “What was her name?”

He frowned. “Ellie. Why?”

“Just curious. Mexican?”

“American.”

“And she broke his heart? Or did he break hers?”

He pursed his lips. “Both. He broke hers and she broke his. And then she broke his again.”

“So she won.”

“Something like that.”

I smiled to myself. “Good.” I hoped the bastard suffered.

“It was good,” Esteban admitted. “I liked the woman, but she never would have joined his side, never would have had the confidence you need in this business.”

We slowed and he turned me around so we were walking back to the house again.

“You need confidence to be a good torturer, kidnapper, murderer?”

“You need confidence in yourself, to never question who you are.”

I nodded. “Maybe you all need to question yourselves more often.”

He gave me a funny look, as if I were the one who was crazy.

I stopped, noticing my shoe was untied. We were almost back at the yard, and I could see Javier stepping out of the house with Franco milling around in the doorway. Javier was staring in our direction.

Bending down, I tied my shoe and eyed the pile of rocks we were beside, the result of someone clearing this road a very long time ago. Javier and the guards were far off. It was only Esteban and I out here. I made a split-second decision.