Surrender (17 page)

Macey returns wearing jeans and a belly-shirt. Considering her taste for finer clothing, her current outfit seems an expression of how she feels right now. My heart bleeds for her already. We climb in the truck and take off.

After further consideration, I agree with Robyn’s reservations about forcing Macey to meet Charles. When I pull into the La Palmera parking lot, Robyn gives me a quizzical look. “I’m dropping you two off for a couple hours. I have a business meeting.” I reach in my back pocket and pull out my wallet. “Here.” I hand Robyn a credit card. “Buy new outfits and have lunch.”

A slow smile creeps across her face. She kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks.”

Macey opens the door and hops down, and Robyn follows. I wave and drive off.

Charles and I hook up at the C & C. He’s dressed in a cheap brown suit. I shake his hand before I sit down. “Good to see you, brother.”

The stress of his job shows on his prematurely wrinkled face. His hairline has receded another inch or two since the last time we met. “Big news?” Charles smiles.

“Not the kind you’re expecting,” I say. I get right to it. “A friend of mine knows Pepper Winters. She’s afraid to come forward.”

Charles scratches his head. “Yeah, we asked the damn media to kill the story for twenty-four hours. Ms. Winters wasn’t a victim of foul play. She OD’d. Initial lab results show she had enough heroine in her system to kill a horse.”

“Tragic news.”

“Off the record.” Charles leans forward. “Pepper has a long history—drugs and prostitution. Stats like a pro athlete.”

I grimace.

“How else does a twenty-five-year-old afford the lavish lifestyle she’s reputed to have?”

I agree with his assessment. That’s why I don’t want Robyn anywhere near that house. “Any family?”

“In San Antonio,” he says.

“I’ll make sure to let her friend know she’s in the clear.”

“I wouldn’t say she’s safe,” he continues. “We suspect she was selling drugs, too.”

“Thanks, Charles.” It’s enough information to put me on high alert. I’ll cling to my suspicions regardless of what anyone tells me. I know Carlos’s type, and I’m sure he had a hand in Pepper’s death—that he supplied bad product, the catalyst to her overdose. It doesn’t matter; I’ll get him.

We finish a quick lunch and part on the promise of having a couple of beers together next week.

Time to deal with another major problem hanging over my head. I pull into Winston and Wesley’s driveway. They own a condo on Ocean Drive. I park and head to the elevator in the lush lobby. I get off on the fourth floor. I knock.

“What’s up?” Wesley answers the door in the buff, Slayer booming in the background.

I shield my face. “Put some clothes on, asshole.” I step inside.

He disappears down the hallway and returns five minutes later wearing shorts and flip-flops.

“I can’t believe you.” I shake my head and sit down on a recliner in the living room.

“I’m working out.”

“Naked?”

“Wall-to-wall mirrors.”

The imagery is disturbing. I change the subject. “I have a favor to ask . . .”

“Name it.”

“Robyn and her girlfriend want to go to a concert on Sunday.”

Wesley scratches his head.

“Girls’ night. Will you keep an eye out?” I ask.

“Can’t think of anything I’d like better. Is her friend single?”

“And wild,” I add.

“Where am I going?”

“Rosario’s on Ayers—La Mafia is playing.”

He gives me a pained expression. “This country boy doesn’t do Tejano.”

“You do now.”

“You owe me, brother, big-time. I’ll get Winston and a couple friends to go.”

I rise and give him a fist bump. “If there’s any trouble, call me.” I hand him a couple hundred dollars. “Gym tomorrow. Clothes aren’t optional.”

He gives me a shit-eating grin. “In the morning, bro. What about meeting up at Doc Rockit’s on Sunday before the show? Six sound good?”

I nod. I’m glad he’s going to the concert—and I’m still not convinced I shouldn’t join him.

Chapter Sixteen

Macey spent the night at my apartment with me. It took half an hour to convince Garrick we’d be okay. It’s mid-morning on Sunday, and my best friend is acting like we’re attending a gala. Our clothes are strewn across my bed. Skirts, dresses, hot pants . . . It’s a mess. “Jeans.” I pick up one of the pairs Garrick bought me.

“Those are hot, girl, but you need to let me dress you.”

She’s done that one time before and we were promptly escorted out of the mall for causing a disturbance. “I think I can . . .”

She picks up a black lace, long-sleeved backless dress I bought last year and never wore because it’s too revealing for my taste. “This is the one.” She bends down and snatches a pair of wraparound metal stilettos. “I’m feeling it—look at this combination.”

I’m
not
a big fan of dressing overly sexy. But Macey needs a distraction; she’s struggling with Pepper’s death. “What about my hair?”

“Off the shoulders. Show off that sexy back of yours.”

“Can’t Garrick go?” I know it’s a girls’ night out. But if he showed up later, I’d feel better.

She gapes at me. “I get dick whipped. You’ve been with this guy a couple weeks—is it that serious?”

I sit on the edge of the bed, then sigh. Being with Garrick has changed me. Every minute I hunger for his touch. I close my eyes and hear his voice. “Yeah,” I confess. “I’m falling, hard.”

“Crap.” She bounces on the bed next to me.

I lay my head on her shoulder. “What am I going to do?”

“Run like hell.”

I laugh. “A little late for that. Knowing him, he’d come after me.”

“He would,” she agrees. “I’m not sure, mama. He’s something—easy on the eyes, disgustingly monogamous, and protective. We already know he’s in love with you. The poor bastard just won’t admit it yet. Guys think the L-word is hazardous to their dicks.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

She taps her temple. “In here.”

“You should write an advice column.”

Macey laughs, then looks at her watch. “If we’re going to have drinks at Doc Rockit’s before the show, we’d better get ready now.”

“We’re going to Doc Rockit’s before we go to another bar?” I’m confused.

“Pre-party party.”

Four hours later, I admire myself in the full-length mirror. Macey is my fairy godmother. She’s so talented at doing hair and makeup. I look like Cinderella with the elegant ballerina bun and random, shoulder-length tendrils framing my face. As for my makeup: dramatic in black, top-lid cat eyes and copious amounts of mascara. I dab on extra pink lip gloss.

“My turn,” Macey says.

A few minutes later, when I twirl around, Macey looks amazing. She’s wearing a V-neck, knee-length red lace cocktail dress with matching heels. She’s radiant; red compliments her tan. “I’m speechless, Macey.” Our fingers thread together.

“No beauty and the beast tonight,” she teases. “Don’t you feel like a princess?”

I smile. “Without a prince.” She whacks my ass. It stings. “Ouch!”

By six, we head downtown.

We have to park three blocks away from the club. That’s a long walk in stilettos. We merge with groups of rowdy patrons on their way inside, too. The Green Party, a great reggae band, is playing tonight. When we get to the front door, the place is packed. The interior of Doc Rockit’s is typical. Sports memorabilia, framed photos of superstars, neon beer signs . . . The doorman lets us cut in line. Doc’s is an under-twenty-one club, but minors have to wear tacky plastic bracelets so the bartenders know not to serve them alcohol. The doorman doesn’t even check our IDs. We stand in the doorway, looking for a place to sit down. All the bar stools are taken. The dance floor is jammed with couples.

I cup my hand over Macey’s ear, then whisper. “I don’t think we’ll fit.”

She bobs her head sassily. “Watch.”

Trying to hold a conversation with the twins when drunk women are floating around is impossible. For ten minutes I’ve been talking to myself. I call Wesley on it. “What are you staring at?”

He points over my shoulder. I turn. I don’t see anything. “What?”

“On the dance floor.”

I scan the crowd. There are too many bodies. Suddenly, my eyes stop on a perfectly shaped wiggling backside.
Holy shit.
I shouldn’t look. I face Wesley. “Black lace?”

He nods. “Nice?”

“Perfect,” I say.
Too
perfect. That dress . . .
crap.

Wesley gestures again. “Really?” He won’t stop. I swing around. The woman turns—it’s Robyn.
That’s
mine. My eyes narrow. She’s a vision—her skin as luminescent as pearls under the dance-floor lighting. I’ve never seen her dressed so exquisitely. Pride and possession swirl inside me. I’m breathless. Some hard dick frames Robyn’s hips with both hands. I stand.

“Don’t do it,” Wesley warns. He gestures toward our booth. “Slide in.”

With her back to our table, Robyn doesn’t see me approach. Everyone’s mindlessly grinding, drunk or lost in the moment, hands raised above their heads, moving in unison with the beat of the music. Reggae is popular in Corpus. I ease my way behind her, then wrap my arm around her tiny waist. She freezes—I feel her whole body go stiff. I quickly whisper in her ear. “I can’t get enough of you, baby.” I gyrate against her ass, nibbling the back of her neck at the same time.

A wave of pleasure ripples up her spine. “Garrick . . .” I barely hear her.

She leans back, resting her head against my chest. We sway, mimicking sex. Macey spies me and grins. The song ends and the crowd cheers. Robyn faces me, face radiant. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t.”

I can’t hide my lust. My gaze drifts slowly up her body. Her hard nipples remind me of tiny gemstones. That slim neck—her delicate hands. She’s wearing my favorite perfume: Black Orchid. It’s enough to make me want to sweep her off her feet and take her home.
Screw La Mafia.
I grab her hand and lead her to my table. Winston and Wesley stand.

She gives them a crippling smile. “Howdy, cowboys.”

The band announces a ten-minute break and Macey half dances her way over. She bumps my leg with her hip. “Garrick . . .”

She’s buzzed. “Looking pretty hot,” I say.

Wesley doesn’t waste any time. He saunters around the table. Macey takes a hard look at him, then Winston. She gazes at Robyn and cups her hands around her mouth. “The twins.” She pretends no one can hear her. Robyn nods. “Which are you?” Macey pokes Wesley in the chest. “Good or evil?”

“Whichever you prefer,” Wesley says playfully.

I smile, shaking my head. “Want me to fill her in?” I ask Wesley. The scene from his condo haunts me.

Macey arches a brow. “Secrets?”

Wesley is void of social graces. “I work out naked.”

Macey snorts. “Boyfriend . . . there’s a lot
we
could do naked.” She hooks his arm, then drags him toward the bar.

“Match made in heaven?” Robyn asks.

“Apparently.” I shake my head.

My mind is sharply focused on Robyn. Guys are drooling over her—I’m salivating. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her go to La Mafia alone. The band plays a Bob Marley tune and Robyn drags me to the dance floor.

Our party of ten arrives at Rosario’s by nine. Five guys Garrick went to high school with joined us at Doc Rockit’s. Macey has miraculously forgotten her aversion to my boyfriend since she’s so wrapped up in the twin thing. The club is packed. We’re fortunate to grab the last table. It turns out the rumors were false. La Mafia isn’t playing tonight. It’s a former band member. We don’t care. All of us are pretty buzzed. I’ve been sneaking shots of peppermint schnapps and stealing sips of beer from Garrick’s bottle.

He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Playful. Incredibly sexy. Maybe I should dress up more often. After three shots I need to go to the restroom. I tap Macey on the shoulder. She ignores me—Wesley is telling her a football story. I roll my eyes. “Macey.” She turns. “Let’s go to the bathroom.” Garrick stands, always the gentleman.

“I’ll escort you.” He scans the room. The bathrooms are on the far side of the club.

“We’ll be all right,” I convince him. He sits back down.

Macey finally hops off her bar stool, grabs her purse, then follows me. We maneuver around tables and drunks. The music is loud. A couple of guys in leather vests catcall as we walk by. We’re used to it and never react. There’s a line just inside the restroom door. Three stalls can’t accommodate a hundred women comfortably. After doing the pee dance for twenty minutes, we finally do our thing, and then leave. The bathroom doors are located in an alcove a few feet away from the main bar. We can’t see our table from where we’re standing. Men and women are in line for drinks and restroom privileges. Kind of a cluster. We try to force our way through the growing wall of bodies. Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn, expecting to see Garrick. Instead, it’s one of the guys wearing a vest. His breath reeks of liquor. “
Mamasita . . .
”
he slurs in my face. “Let’s dance.”

“No thanks.”

Expecting him to let go, I turn. His grip tightens—it hurts. I jerk around and stare in his black eyes. “I said
no
.”

Macey is well ahead of me; she won’t hear me yell over the music. The asshole yanks me deeper into the alcove and I scream. No one pays attention. He slams me against the wall. My head hits, hard. I’m momentarily stunned. I feel his hands on my hips, sliding upward. I kick him in the shin, but he’s too drunk to feel it. He places his hands on the wall on either side of my face, barring my escape. My heartbeat races. I scream again. It turns him on. He leans in to kiss me, his mouth half-open. I see a flash of gold caps on his front teeth. I’m disgusted, and overwhelmingly pissed off. I spit in his face. One of his hands leaves the wall and he wipes the spittle off his cheek.

“Bitch—you’ll regret that.”

I push against him with all my strength, hoping he’ll stumble. It’s like hitting a brick wall. He’s short and muscular. He grabs a fistful of my dress, and I feel it tear. I knee his groin and he yelps, holding on to his crotch. Angry eyes meet mine. He shoves me again, and I fall. I feel my wrist snap. I’m on my side, looking up. I’m afraid.