Page 82 of Thin Lives

Ignoring his taunting inner voice, Calisto pushed open the driver’s door, and stumbled out into what looked like a back alleyway. It took him a few minutes, and couple of times looking around at his surroundings, but he realized quickly enough that he was outside of his club.

Calisto wet his lips and smacked his mouth again.

Jesus.

He really wanted some water.

Just a couple more stumbled, swaying steps, and Calisto neared the back of his SUV. His hand found the black painted metal of the back, and he leaned against the passenger door to help keep him upright as he breathed through his nose to quell the nausea.

Shit, he must have smacked his head awfully hard against the steering wheel.

Or something …

Once he felt good enough to move again, he rounded the back of the SUV, and stopped up short. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but that seemed to be a running theme since he opened his eyes. Tilting his head to the side, Calisto stared at the back end of his SUV, trying to make sense of the littered, circular holes that had busted out taillights and ruined the nice paint job.

Suddenly, and without warning, the knowledge of what those holes were came to Calisto with a sharp, painful clarity.

Bullet holes.

When he squeezed his eyes shut, he remembered the dark form, and the gun drawn. He could hear the breaking glass again, and the sensation of his body being propelled forward into his dashboard and steering wheel when he hit the brick wall at a speed that could have killed him.

He was trying to get away.

Calisto touched his cheek again, and sucked in more air at the pain. He stumbled his way back to the front of the SUV, looking over the glass from the broken windshield and the brick wall.

His blood had spattered the brick wall—he’d seen the blood. There was no blood on the glittering pieces of glass that had scattered over the hood, which meant his injury came after the windshield had been broken.

Calisto found what he was looking for all too soon.

A bullet embedded in the brick wall just below his blood splatters.

The cut on his face wasn’t from hitting the dashboard, or the broken windshield.

It was a bullet graze.

That’s why they left, he thought, because they thought their job was done when they saw the blood and you not moving.

Calisto thanked God for his shitty luck and someone else’s stupidity. A man should never leave a scene until he was sure his target had stopped breathing. That was one of the first rules he’d learned growing up under Affonso’s direction.

At the thought of his uncle, Calisto’s stomach turned again, and he just had time to move away from the vehicle before vomit spilled from his throat. It burned on the way out, strong and acidic.

Hunched over with a hand to the wall, Calisto breathed through his rage and dizziness.

All those months …

All the lies …

Calisto blinked.

Emma.

Vegas.

Skin. Auction. Fear. Sex.

Calisto’s tongue peeked out to sweep his bottom lip as he breathed as rhythmically as he could. Another blink, and he was seeing new things.

White dress. Lace. Father Day, Affonso, and the altar. His own fist clenched against his knee. Red, frowning lips behind a veil. He was sorry for delivering her for that day—that awful day.