Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [53]
Right. I’d chase away my own damn nightmares, in the form of tequila chasers.
An hour later, I’d curled up on the couch, fuzzy pajamas on, a tumbler of Mexico’s finest in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Things improved slightly at the twilight of the day from hell.
Four solid raps sounded on my door. At 9:00 at night? I flipped on the outside light and checked the peephole.
One of Martinez’s backup bodyguards, a former Cornhuskers linebacker named—no kidding— Korny, stood on my porch. I undid the locks and opened the door. “What’s going on, Korny?”
“Just a routine check Mr. Martinez asked me to do tonight.”
“Why?”
Korny appeared confused. “Because he told me to.”
Talk about a canned response. “Is there something going on that requires me to have drive-by 182
protection?”
“No idea.” He stared at me steadily. “Is everything all right? Anything you need?”
Yeah, to kick a certain man’s proprietary ass. Outwardly, I smiled with false sweetness; inwardly, hello uber-bitch. “Actually . . . I have been craving ice cream. Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey would be perfect. And I’m pretty sure the C-store up the road carries it. You don’t mind picking me up a pint, do you? Oh, and a pack of Marlboro reds.”
Korny’s blocky face made a frowny-caveman-eyebrow squint. I tried like hell not to smirk.
Finally he said, “Sure, Ms. Collins.”
He headed down the steps to a Blazer with—
surprise!—another Hombres spy huddled inside. I yelled out, “Korny. I was kidding. I’m not sending you out for ice cream; I’m sending you back to the clubhouse.”
His mouth twitched.
“But if I see another one of El Presidente’s goons here checking up on me? You tell him I’m gonna use that Blazer or his Cadillac or any other car he sends for target practice.”
Korny hesitated, assuming I’d repeat just kidding. This time I wasn’t.
“Understood. I’ll pass along the message. Good night.”
I slammed the door. So much for a relaxing night 183
at home.
No big shocker when my cell phone rang within five minutes. He said, “You hate Chunky Monkey. And threatening to shoot up one of my cars? Not nice, blondie.”
“Not a bluff. Remember what I did to Little Joe Carlucci’s Corvette?”
“Vividly.”
“That one will look like a door nick compared to what I’ll do to the next spy car I see parked within twenty feet of my house. I am not a fucking pet poodle, and I won’t be treated like I’m under house arrest in my own goddamn house when you’re the one who’s gone.”
Silence.
“You don’t get to check up on me, or dictate to me, or decide who I can or can’t spend time with. No one needs your permission to be my friend, Martinez. Not Kevin. Not Jimmer. Not Kim. So take your bodyguards and shove them up your ass.”
A beat passed. “You done?”
“I don’t know.” I lit a cigarette and swigged tequila straight from the bottle.
“Can I say something?”
“This oughta be stunning.”
“I miss you, too.”
I choked on the booze, the smoke, and the immediate warm feeling in my chest. “That’s so not fair.”
“Life rarely is.”
No kidding. Vernon Sloane’s frozen face slid front 184
and center, followed by the board-stiff and heavily gouged body of my dad’s hired hand. I squeezed my eyes shut to erase the images. No such luck.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” That I miss you like a limb?
“About all the nasty shit that happened to you today.”
My stomach clenched. “You know?”
“Some of it, not all. I figured I’d hear the rest from you tonight, and I haven’t.” He sighed. “Aren’t we beyond this?”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“I didn’t tell you because you have enough shit of your own to deal with. I don’t want to be the girlfriend who calls you up and unloads depressing stuff. Besides, you don’t tell me anything about what’s going on with the Hombres, so it’s not like you’re the only one who’s suffering from nondisclosure.”
“Fine. Now that you’ve gnawed my ass, start talking.”
I didn’t want to. I drank and remained quiet.
“Julie? Come on. I won’t let it go.”
I sighed. “Today turned into the never-endingwhat-else-can-happen