Page 82 of The Killer Card

We haven’t spoken all summer.

She’s avoided El Rincón.

I’ve avoided Sunday dinners.

On the rare occasion we did end up in the same room- her friends dragged her out or Elias threatened to bring all of them to my shitty apartment- we didn’t speak. It’s been awkward as fuck, but what else could I do? She doesn’t want my help. I tried, several times after she kicked me out that night. I tried being soft. I tried being calm. I tried pleading to her sense of guilt.

What would your friends say if they knew? How do you think they’d feel if something happened to you? How would you feel if you caused something to happen to one of them? Don’t you want to be better for them?

All the kinds of questions Elias had once posed to me. I should have known it wouldn’t work on her. It didn’t work on me either, but I had to try. I kept telling myself that so long as she remained close, I could monitor her. If things got too bad, at least I was right here to catch her when she hit rock bottom whether she wanted me to or not.

Except now she’s leaving. For D.C. and then Boston. I am very obviously not in Boston. No one is in Boston. Her dad is sometimes in D.C., but he’s married to his work. If he hasn’t noticed his daughter has a problem by now I doubt he ever will. It took me longer than I want to admit, and I can’t be the asshole who outs her to her friends. Can I? Should I?

“Coño,” I groan miserably into my hands. This shouldn’t be this hard? I’m almost forty fucking years old and I’m falling to shit over whether a twenty-two-year-old woman is mad at me?!

A twenty-two-year-old you are stupidly in love with, my brain chooses that moment to supply. Thanks, brain. Go back to sleep, please?

Something heavier than rain taps against my car window and I jump so hard I ram my elbow into the center console. “Mierda!”

An attractive Korean man with slicked back black hair in a button-down navy shirt is standing outside with an umbrella. He points to the window and then down much too calmly. I comply, recognizing exactly who this is from all the times I’ve seen him across the room at The Cellar.

“My dad wants to know if you plan to sit out here all day or if your waiting to rob us or…?”

“Who robs people when they’re home?”

He smirks. “Really shitty thieves? Or murderers.” I pale slightly but he looks me over, slowly. Appreciatively. “You must be the guy my sister’s been fucking.”

I raise a brow. “You make it a habit of knowing who your sister fucks?”

“Almost exclusively,” Nathan Mychal confirms. “She’s far less bitchy when she’s getting laid.” He glances at the house. “I’m guessing you’re here to see her?”

I suck at my teeth. “Yeah…”

“Look.” Nathan sighs heavily. “I don’t want to ruin whatever grand proposal of love you plan on making, and you seem like a nice guy but my sister… She’s going to break your heart. If you come in now and you tell her you love her and beg her to stay, beg her to choose you,” can this guy read my fucking mind. “She’s going to say no.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “I love my sister to death. But Naomi will never choose anyone before she chooses herself. That includes Nelly and Clara. Naomi is her own number one. No matter how many flowers you give her, or money you spend, or how fantastic your dick may be- She will never choose you.”

For several long seconds I just watch him, then I glance at the house. I can see her dad standing in the window to their front room, watching us with his arms crossed in his perfectly tailored shirt and tie, still dressed from work. Somewhere upstairs I can feel Naomi watching too, even if she makes it far less obvious. I’m trained now to recognize the feel of her gaze, the way it heats my skin familiar and heady. Her brother could tell me she’ll spit in my face, slap me, scream me out of the house and none of it would change the need I have to at least try.

“Fuck…” Nathan mutters.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really bad at pep talks?” I ask him with a smirk.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Yes they have. Come inside then, before my dad calls the cops.”

I kill the engine and climb out of the cab, graciously walking beneath the protection of Nathan’s umbrella up to her front door. I stomp my sneakers clean of the rain just as Senator Mychal comes into the hall. Tall, fit for a man his age- which is admittedly only about ten years older than myself- and not very happy to see me darkening his doorway in a fútbol jersey and ripped jeans.

“Nathan?” He asks his son. “Who is this?”

Nathan opens his mouth as he sets the umbrella aside and then closes it, looking my way. “I actually didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m sorry, sir, about just sitting out there. I’m—”

“Graham.”

My spine snaps straight at her tone, eyes finding her standing at the top of the stairs. She’s dressed in expensive leggings and a sports bra, showing off more skin than I should reasonably be allowed to look at with her father watching.

“What are you doing here?”