Black Collar Beginnings: Cuba (Black Collar Syndicate) (4 page)

“Yet you have proven yourself at every turn.” Havana pushes the mirror in front of Seth, along with a glass straw, and says, “You have shown me the honor of your family, and you have given me your loyalty. You have performed splendidly.”

“Thank you.”

This time Seth's voice is a whisper. He takes the straw as he is used to doing, bends low as he has a thousand times, and takes his line in one swipe. The stuff burns for only a moment before shit starts going numb.  “Wow,” he adds with a sniff, nose crunching as his sinuses drain down the back of his throat. 

Havana releases a mocha laugh, voice husky. When he lets the smile seep into his eyes, Seth notices, it defines the shadows around them, giving away natural lines. Somehow, Seth can not imagine that this man was ever any younger than he is at this moment. He possesses his age, like a very fine wine, and only flaunts his vintage to those who will recognize it appropriately. Chemical fire breaks loose in Seth's veins. He passes the mirror back as his stomach revolts.

Havana says, “Now, I would like very much to know if the Morgan prince can say anything other than 'thank you'.”

Seth's eyes widen involuntarily, and he's grateful that Havana chooses that moment to take his line. The movement is like poetry, like a dancer in this dangerous world. Havana allows a moment for the blow to drain, then stands and collects his rum. Seth is caught like a deer in a spotlight, limbs frozen, body raging. For once, he doesn't know quite what to do with himself. He feels exactly like a child when he says, “Anything you want to know.”

Havana stops mere inches from Seth, the smile on the older man's lips stretching into something altogether more predatory. He is still standing, looking down at the Morgan son. He says, “Then tell me, how do you like Cuban hospitality?”

Seth's chin tilts upward, and he cannot know how young, how innocent he looks with his wide gaze.  His entire body hums, and he's certain he can feel a dark arousal brush against him from the other. This is danger of a variety that he could not have anticipated.  His muscles are so tense.  He can feel the rising need to run through the sand, to shed clothing and let the ocean have his heat, as well. He swallows thickly, and says, “It's all very intense.”

A slow laugh rumbles from Havana, a low sound that could be menacing, or could be seduction. Seth finds that he is leaning the slightest bit toward the hot presence, captivated by the sporadic poetry with which the man speaks. The roots of his teeth and his gums are numb. His face is numb. He feels like he can lift any weight, run any distance, yet still he can't even move an inch.  His face is still inclined the slightest bit, as if waiting for a drop of wisdom to fall to him.

Havana says, “Yes, my nephew has told me much about you. He says you do business like we do business, and that you have an old soul. But there is something that only you can tell me, one thing I must know; do act the way you have learned, or are your actions a reflection of what your gut tells you, Seth Morgan?”

Seth is beginning to think they both like the sound of his name a little too much. The brat prince rears his head and his feathers, and Seth holds the brazen eye contact when he says, “You obviously don't know the Morgans very well.”

Now Havana releases a deep laugh, one that wraps Seth in hot torrents and floods the room with an entirely different kind of heat. Havana says, “No, but I shall like to,” and he invades Seth's buffer of protection with the hard press of his lips against Seth's.

The kiss is quick and vicious, heavy, swollen with drug-induced arousal. They clash against each other, tingling, all numb lips and quiet fire. Havana tastes the boy, ravages his senses, then pulls away with a wide, hellish smile.

Seth sits as still as stone, staring wide-eyed at nothing and holding his breath.  His mind and body rage with emotions and sensations, many of them conflicting.
What. The. Fuck?
Is this a test? How far will Havana push him? Finally, he blinks, and his teeth chatter a little as he tries to keep them from locking together.  Havana makes a quiet 'mmm' as though he has tasted something particularly delicious, then he draws away, turns back to his liquor, and takes a long drink. He smiles when he says, “Welcome to my ranks, Mr. Morgan. This weekend, we celebrate.”

Is it the weekend? Is he still breathing, still on Earth? Is this even Cuba? It could be some other world, one from which he will never return. Seth's brain refuses to fire, and he quietly repeats, “Celebrate?”

“
Si
. We celebrate you, Morgan son.”

Havana's Villa, August 4
^th
, 2012

It's evening, of that Seth is sure, but he has momentarily lost track of everything else. He knows it's evening because the sun has begun its slow dive toward the ocean, and the rampant heat radiates from every surface that has been charged in the midday blaze. He's been here, stretched along a chaise lounge under the shade of a pagoda, since he woke up – some time late in the afternoon. A plate of half-eaten fruit, bread, and cheese sits on a table beside him. He knows he should eat, but the chaos of anxiety in his gut says otherwise. Tonight marks the beginning of a new cycle of his life, a celebration, as Havana put it. He should be ecstatic, should be proud, and yet all of his shortcomings and his responsibilities have become a moldering mass in his chest. And he's high again, thanks to Miguel.
Asshole
.

This, this is why he prefers the speed to the weed. Coke becomes an armor, a shield against feeling too much. Green, well it just opens all the doors that he's worked so hard to lock. Still, the smoke settles his turning stomach, so he wallows in self-pity from behind his darkly shaded sunglasses as he sips on a fruity drink.

Beside him, Miguel is also quiet, with a lazy gaze trained on the guys splashing in the pool with several naked women. He's sipping on a mohito, and doesn't seem concerned that Seth hasn't had much to say. Moments like this are at the heart of why Seth calls Miguel friend, because they are content in the silence of their company. And they are calm in the wake of a cold-blooded execution. There are only two other people in all the world whose silence Seth can comfortably share; his favorite cousin Emma – so shy and innocent and young – and his brother, who is the opposite of shy or innocent.

He bites back a curse. This endless cycle of thoughts will be the death of him; Cuba, loneliness, home, the people he loves who probably still harbor bitterness for him, back to Cuba . . . and how maybe this graduation from grunt to family might mean he gets to soon go home. His New York has been all he's wanted, and yet in the darkest part of his mind, he knows the world to which he returns will not be the one from which he left. A soft groan leaks from the back of his throat despite his best efforts to stop it. Fleetingly, he hopes the raucous laughter from the pool and the distant crash of waves is enough to cover the sound.

“For a guest of honor, you sure look like someone kicked your puppy,” Miguel says without looking away from the women.

Tonight, more people will begin to show up, division heads, men of rank, according to Miguel. Seth has learned that they are not actually in Cuba, but on an island owned by their boss. That's all the information Miguel would give, and Seth is content not to pursue it.  Long sun threatens the tips of his toes, creeps so close to the end of the chaise lounge. If only it were as simple as it sounds dressed in Miguel's casual tone. Seth's gaze narrows at his daiquiri, as if it is the too-sweet drink causing him ire. It was his own choice to order it, his own method of keeping a slow and steady alcohol intake, rather than his usual 'go hard or go home' mentality. He says, “I've never had a puppy,” and his tone is much more sullen than he means it to be.

Miguel just laughs, a gentle sound that mingles with the breeze. Somehow, Seth is expecting it when Miguel retrieves a cigarette. The habit is a familiarity and constant reminder of Caleb. Miguel is completely relaxed now, at ease in a way that tells of the trust between them more than words ever could. If it weren't for his smoking hand, he looks like he would melt into the wood. He hits the cigarette, says, “Holy Mother, you must have been a deprived child.”

Seth tries his damnedest to hold a sour expression when he turns it on Miguel, but the other's soft laughter is like a drug, or a contagious disease, and half a grin wins its place on Seth's lips. He sniffs a soundless laugh, and says, “Yeah, you don't have a front yard when you grow up in a thirty-story high rise.”

The statement finally sets Miguel's gaze adrift from the pool to the Morgan. Seth can see it coming in his peripheral, but decides to stare off into the tropical greenery rather than meet it. The sage amusement has faded from Miguel's regard, perhaps in reverence of the scrap of history that Seth has revealed. Miguel takes a slow drag of nicotine and smoke, then asks, “What's it like to grow up in a land of cement and car exhaust, with no trees and no ocean?”

Fuck
. It's not often that Miguel gets chatty about Seth's life back home, be they friends or no. This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours. And yet Seth can't quite find the steel in himself to deny this direction a second time. He also can't hide the furrow in his brow. For once, he doesn't care. He says, “It's a lot colder than living on an island.”

Miguel scoffs out a plume of smoke and shakes his head, the amusement nowhere to be found. “No fucking shit,” he says.

Seth can hear the tinge of aggravation, a very strange occasion for Miguel indeed on a topic that isn't work related, which translates to Seth that Miguel thinks he's being a prick by being sarcastic. The sound is like a punch to Seth's already finicky stomach. Of all the people in his immediate world, Miguel is second only to Havana as someone Seth doesn't want to be upset with him. In that moment, he feels guilt, regret that he's always so guarded. He feels heat on his toes. The sun is angling for an onslaught, a final blaze of glory before it gives way to the moon. If he owes anything to this compadre who has mentored him, it's something real. He pushes his sunglasses back into his disheveled hair and squares to meet his friend's eyes. “I'm serious,” he says. “Down here, man you can't help but feel everything. The horizons stretch forever. The sky turns a thousand different colors before the sun sets. And the people – god. The people are so real.”

By now, Miguel's eyes have dropped wide, and his lips are poised slightly apart. His cigarette idly waits, but Seth has baited his full attention. As punctuation, a playful breeze frisks them, and ashes scatter. Still, they go unheeded. Seth smiles, but it's sad, and he looks back across the patio, to a break in the vegetation and out to the beach.

He says, “New York isn't like that. Nobody wants to feel anything, so they just push you out of the way, or ignore you completely. It's the whole world in one city, and everyone is angry, but no one knows why.” He pauses for a sugar and strawberry pull on his drink. A little paper umbrella hits him in the nose.
Is there even rum in this shit?
God knows he doesn't do virgin.

“Everything there is so big that it's easy to move through it without giving a good goddamn about the next guy's problems. When you grow up at the top of that high rise, you're untouchable. There's no problem you can't throw a pile of money on, and the whole fucking run of enterprise and crime becomes your playground. I was fifteen the first time I made the cover of a gossip magazine. My brother managed to avoid the heat by getting laid in the bathroom.”

He shakes his head again, laughs at the memories. He slings his free hand over his head, and bends his knees to rescue his feet from the hungry sunlight. The pot has lulled him into a drowsy contentment, and the honesty feels good as it pours from the wounds in his spirit. Miguel, not surprisingly, is an excellent listener. He lends his attention, makes no indication of interrupting, and now he's wearing an earnest smile. Seth isn't looking at Miguel, but he can feel the smile.

Seth says, “We did whatever the fuck we wanted, and the only person we answered to was our father.  We grew up with a firm understanding of the syndicate rules, and that was our law. School, the cops, the mayor – none of that shit mattered to us. It's hard to feel the soul of a place with so many bright lights and pretty girls in your face. You said I'm more like your people than mine. If that's true, then my brother is New York. It's a good thing he wasn't the one to come to Cuba. He would hate it here, too slow paced and down to earth for him.”

Miguel drops his cigarette in the ash tray, leaving it to smolder, so that the smoke wafts up between them. The movement catches Seth's eye, and he realizes he's rambling. Miguel must see the hesitation that sets in, because he says, “And you have fallen in love with this place.”