Cryptic Curse, page 16
Another sip. “Sure.”
“Is Eagle using?”
“No.”
Not a lie. Currently, Eagle’s not using.
He scratches the side of his head. “So what’s up then?”
I take a deep breath in. “You remember how we dug that hole as deep as we could?”
He sighs. “Hawk, that night is etched into my mind like a fucking copperplate. I remember everything about it.”
“Then you remember that we threw the body in first, covered it with dirt, and then threw the drugs on top of it.”
He leans in. “Yeah…”
“So we found the drugs first, obviously.”
“Which is good.”
“And then we kept digging.”
“And…?” Falcon’s tone is tight.
I look at my feet. “I think you know where I’m going with this.”
“I think I may, but I’m going to have to hear you say it.”
I draw in a deep breath. “There was no body, Falcon. Someone dug up the fucking body and then reburied the drugs.”
Falcon doesn’t reply at first. His jaw is rigid, and I can see his mind working inside his head.
Falcon’s been through hell. He served eight years for a crime he didn’t commit, and then he nearly got killed by the Bianchis and the McAllisters. He knows danger. He understands danger.
“You going to say anything?” I ask.
“Nobody fucking knew, Hawk. I never said anything, and I know damned well you didn’t.”
“That’s correct.”
He pounds a fist on the outdoor table. “Damned Eagle.”
I shake my head, swishing some bourbon around my mouth to coat it, and then I swallow. “It wasn’t Eagle.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
Falcon scoffs. “And you believe him?”
I nod. “He was scared, Falcon. I haven’t seen him like that since the time he told us about the trouble he was in with Vega before… Before everything happened.”
“Then how…” Falcon rises, paces across his deck. “Who?”
“The dirt was hard. Whoever took that body out got it a while ago. Long before Leif, Vinnie, Raven, anyone else knew.”
“So someone has Diego Vega’s body,” he says.
“If it even was Diego Vega.”
“Eagle says it was Diego Vega. At least…it was the guy he knew as Diego Vega.” Falcon shakes his head. “This is fucked up.”
“You think?” I finish the rest of my bourbon.
“There is one thing that doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Falcon says.
“Yeah, the EPA.”
Falcon nods as he pours himself another drink. “Vinnie’s contact. She already said the razing of the barn had been stopped on environmental grounds.”
“You think Dad may be involved?” I ask.
“Dad?” He stops pacing, stares me down. “Are you kidding? He’s the one who said he wanted to start the excavation.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. Then he tried to fucking off himself. His word may not be as ironclad as we used to think it was.”
“Jesus fuck.” Falcon downs his drink. “As much as I’d like to tie one on, that’s my last sip. We need our heads clear.”
“We sure do.”
“Dad couldn’t be involved,” Falcon says. “I mean seriously. Why would he do that? Why would he plan the excavation on that area of our property… Something is very wrong here.”
“You’re absolutely right. Something is very wrong here. And I have a hunch that we’ve only begun to scratch the surface.”
“Meaning?”
I draw a breath, breathe out slowly. It’s not every day you have to tell your big brother that the father he adores isn’t the man he thinks he is.
“I’m wondering,” I say slowly, “if maybe Diego Vega’s body isn’t the only thing buried in that area.”
Seventeen Years Earlier…
When Ted and I hang out—which has become increasingly frequent—we always play board games. He usually lets me choose, and every time I pick Scrabble.
Until this time.
“How about Monopoly?” he says.
I roll my eyes. “It takes forever.”
He chuckles. “Nah. Not when you use the right strategy. Let me show you.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I want to show you the game. I mean really show you the game.”
“Okay,” I agree.
We begin, and before long, I land on one of the blues.
“I’m buying Boardwalk,” I say, slapping my fake cash on the table like I’m some kind of high roller. “No one can beat me if I’ve got Boardwalk.”
Ted leans back in his chair, raising one eyebrow like he does when he’s about to give me one of his “Ted Talks.”
“Do you ever actually win with Boardwalk?”
I roll my eyes. “I could. If people landed on it.”
“Exactly.” He points at me with the car token he insisted on using. “But they don’t. Not enough. And it costs too much to build on.”
I look down at my tiny empire—Baltic, Mediterranean, and now the crown jewel. Boardwalk. “Yeah, but it’s cool.”
Ted chuckles. “Cool doesn’t win the game. You want to know what does?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I want to hear it. I like going for the big flashy stuff.
“Orange and red,” he says, tapping the board. “St. James Place, Tennessee, New York Avenue, Indiana… People land on them more. Statistically. Plus, houses are cheaper to build. Three houses on each, and boom—you’re bleeding people dry before they ever get to your precious Boardwalk.”
I stare at the board and then back at him. “So you’re saying I’ve been playing it wrong this whole time?”
“Not wrong,” he says. “Just flashy. It’s like going all-in on one big move when you could’ve won with a dozen small ones. Like the meter drop.”
“Say what?”
“The meter drop. In a cab.”
I’ve never ridden in a cab in my life. We always have our own driver to take us places. “Meaning…?”
He smiles, shakes his head gently. “Say you drive a cab. Every time you get a new fare, you start the meter. That first minute costs the most. It cost several bucks just to get in the cab, and then less for each minute until you reach your destination.”
“So the first minute costs more. That means you make more with smaller fares.”
“Exactly. Several smaller fares will earn the cabbie more than one huge fare for a ride that takes an hour or more.”
I frown and pick up my dice. “That’s pretty deep for Monopoly. So you’re saying it’s the same concept.”
Ted laughs. “Right. It’s Monopoly. But it’s also life.”
A few rolls later I land on Illinois Avenue—one of Ted’s rents—and groan as I hand over another wad of fake money. “This is rigged.”
Ted grins, all smug like he planned it. “It’s not rigged. It’s math. And strategy. Told you—reds and oranges. They’re the sweet spot.”
I shake my head, staring at my sad little lineup of unimproved properties. “Fine. Next time I’ll try it your way.”
Ted leans forward. “You want to know another trick?”
I nod. Of course I do.
“Never buy hotels.”
I blink at him. “What? But that’s the whole point. You build houses and then hotels. That’s how you win, right?”
He shakes his head. “That’s how they want you to think you win. But here’s the deal—when you build a hotel, all the houses that were there go back into the box.”
I scratch my head. “Okay…?”
“And if you’ve got four houses on a bunch of properties, and so do I, and you upgrade to hotels…guess who gets all those houses you just returned?”
I freeze. “No way.”
He nods, grinning like the devil. “Way. There are a limited number of houses in the game. If I can’t get enough to build, I can’t level up. So if you use up all the houses, you choke out everyone else.”
I glance down at the board and then at his red properties—stacked with houses like little rows of doom. “That’s fascinating.”
He grins. “That’s Monopoly.”
I sit back in my chair, kind of impressed and also kind of horrified. “So…hoard houses, don’t build hotels. Buy red and orange.”
He raises his glass of root beer like a toast. “Now you’re playing to win.”
I clink mine against his. “Next game, you’re going down.”
He smirks. “We’ll see, kid. But hey, at least this time, you’ve got a strategy.”
“Strategy,” I echo.
“It’s kind of like what your dad does,” he says.
I cock my head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Your grandfather, Brick Bellamy, inherited this ranch from his family going back generations. When he died, your father took his money from his trust fund from your grandmother, the Cooper Steel heiress, and bought up tons of land to expand the Bellamy Ranch so he could use it for whatever he wanted.”
I think for moment. “Our ranch is huge. And we have a lot of livestock for sure. Lots of barns and residences for the ranch hands.”
Ted nods. “Yes.”
“But how much property do you really need for cattle and fields?”
Ted fiddles with the dice. “As much as he thinks he needs. But that’s not even the point. The property belongs to your father, and he can use the land for whatever he sees fit.”
“What else would he use it for?”
Ted drops his gaze back to the Monopoly board. “We should get back to the game.” He rolls the dice and lands on Boardwalk.
“Ha! You owe me rent.”
Ted grins. “Here you go.” He gives me a handful of fake cash. “Just goes to show you that sometimes even the sharpest strategy can’t save you from the cruel hand of fate.”
30
DANIELA
I wake up with a jerk when my phone alarm goes off.
I think I slept. Maybe. I woke up a lot, thinking about the orgasm that Hawk gave me.
It was amazing.
I’m still warm all over from it, yet I’m also chilled.
A strange sensation, to be sure.
Because intermingled with thoughts of Hawk are thoughts of the note taped to my door yesterday.
Hawk promised to get security on me.
I thought I was done with all that. Done with having to fear for my life. For my body.
Here in the state of Texas, I thought I could live a normal life.
Apparently not.
Normal life just isn’t in the cards for me.
I get out of bed, shuffle into my bathroom, and turn on the shower.
One look in the mirror tells me the truth. My eyes are bloodshot.
I didn’t sleep.
Except that I did, off and on. But not enough to actually count.
If I hadn’t gotten that wonderful orgasm from Hawk, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all.
I run my brush through my hair, and then I step inside the shower, letting the warm water pelt me.
Hot water.
What a blessing.
I used to look for the blessings in little things back in Colombia to distract me from the horrors I endured nearly every night.
Hot water. How many people in the world don’t have it?
I may have been subject to rape and the occasional beating, but at least I had hot water.
Food.
We had a great chef, and I learned a lot from him. Even though I had to blow his giant smelly cock on occasion. And even though my father kept me on a strict diet during those years—I had to look perfect for his friends, after all—sometimes Chef would sneak me extra. When he was in a good mood, or when I’d given him particularly good head.
And even when he didn’t, I always had enough food to sustain me.
Food.
A blessing.
And now I have more than ever.
Clothing.
A blessing.
I didn’t always like the clothes my father picked out for me, but I had plenty of them, and when I wasn’t doing his bidding, I could dress how I liked. Comfortable sweats and sweatshirts.
Clothing.
A blessing.
And shelter.
Colombia had its share of homeless people, beggars on the streets.
But no matter what else happened in my life, I always had a roof over my head. When the weather was cold, I had heat. When the weather was warm, I had air-conditioning.
I had a built-in swimming pool for my use, as well.
Shelter.
A blessing.
And now I have this perfect little apartment in Vinnie’s house that he lets me use.
With plenty of food, plenty of hot water, plenty of clothing.
Such blessings.
So even if I need security twenty-four-seven, and a vaguely threatening note shows up on my door every now and then, I won’t let it break me.
Not this time.
I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around me, and squeeze the water out of my hair.
I dress more casually today.
Yesterday I wore a silk button-down blouse and dress pants.
But most of the others showed up in jeans and more comfortable clothing.
Not a bad idea. We were on our feet all day, and my heels—even though they weren’t that high—were uncomfortable.
Today?
Walking shoes.
A pair of loose-fitting boyfriend jeans, and a soft cotton T-shirt.
Today, I will be comfortable.
I fix myself a quick breakfast, pack another basic lunch of a sandwich and fresh fruit, and then I go into the main house to see Belinda before I leave.
She’s in the kitchen, eating a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and cinnamon.
“Hey, Bee,” I say.
“Dani, hi,” she says. “School again today?”
“Yeah.”
She beams. “I had so much fun last night with you and Hawk. Playing Texas Hold’em for cheese balls.”
I smile. “I did too, sweetie.” I kiss the top of her head. “I have to go, but I’ll see you tonight at dinner, okay?”
She nods. “Have fun.”
The drive to the school isn’t long, about twenty minutes. Traffic isn’t bad because I’m going against it. The culinary school is located on the edge of our suburb.
I park my car, grab my purse, and head inside.
Jordan is already there at our station.
“Hey, chopper queen,” he says.
I give him a friendly wave. “Hi, Jordan.”
“Guess what we’re doing today?”
“I couldn’t possibly,” I say.
“We’re learning to chop vegetables.”
Seriously?
A whole lesson on vegetable chopping? Something I could do in my sleep?
“Okay,” I say.
He pats me on the back. “Yeah, you and I will be bored stiff, but that’s all right. We’ll show these others how it’s done.”
I sigh. “I wish there were some option to skip these beginner courses.”
“You mean like proficiency exams?”
“What are proficiency exams?”
“Like when you go to college, and you want to test out of certain requirements like a foreign language, for example. You take a test showing you already have competency in it, and then you get out of taking those required courses.”
I blink. “Oh. Right.”
How could I know that? I didn’t go to college. I never went to school once I hit puberty. I had private tutors. And before that, I went to private school.
Jordan looks at me sideways. “How old are you, Daniela?”
“Eighteen.”
“Right out of high school,” he says. “I guess that explains why you don’t know about proficiency exams.”
I fake a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I thought you were older,” he says.
“Nope. Barely eighteen.”
He grins. “Barely legal.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t reply.
“Don’t you want to know how old I am?”
“Okay, how old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
Twenty-nine. That’s the same age as Hawk.
Again, I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing.
“So when should we hit that water park?” he asks. “This weekend?”
“I’m busy this weekend,” I say.
His face falls. “Oh.”
“I’m… I’m watching my little sister,” I say. “Except she’s not really my little sister. She’s eleven, and she lives at my house.”
“An eleven-year-old needs a babysitter?”
“Yeah.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “She’s been through…some stuff.”
“Oh, I see. Well maybe you could bring her along. Eleven-year-olds love water parks.”
“I’d love to go, but not this weekend, Jordan. But Gina and Lavender might want to go.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in Gina and Lavender.”
“Why not? Gina’s absolutely beautiful, and Lavender… Well, she’s cute if you can get past the purple hair.”
He sighs lightly. “Maybe I’ll ask Gina.”
“I think she’d like that.”
Thank God, Chef Charleston enters then, clad of course in his chef coat and hat.
He stands at the front of the room like he owns it—which, to be fair, he kind of does. His apron is spotless, his knife gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and when he speaks, the entire kitchen falls silent.
“Today,” he says, holding up a fat yellow onion like it’s the crown jewel of the produce world, “we’re going to talk about respect.”
Respect?
“For your vegetables,” he clarifies. “For your mise en place. For your knife. And most importantly, for your fingers.”
A couple people chuckle. I don’t. I nearly cut my finger off a few years ago with one of the knives in our kitchen in Colombia.
Chef steps behind the stainless-steel table and sets the onion down in front of him. “First rule—your knife is an extension of your hand. You treat it like one. You don’t wave it around. You don’t leave it in the sink. You don’t cut angry.”
