6. Southern Hospitality
southern hospitality
César
“ W ho do you work for?” she asks in a stern tone, her pistol aimed at my chest as she nervously chews her bottom lip.
Good evening to you, too, Ms. Klarke.
A weighted silence surrounds us after the gunfire that greeted me moments ago. I gotta say, she’s an entertaining hostess. Never seen a party trick like that one. Must be a New York thing.
She toes down the stairs hesitantly, closing the distance between us while maintaining eye contact, and stops a few feet in front of me.
This is the closest we’ve ever physically been, and she holds the power to end it all at point-blank.
She’s rattled, and the trembling hands on the trigger have my heart pounding in my ears.
I’ve been in life-threatening situations before, but none like this.
She parts her full lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Still, I anticipate her next words. The deadly weapon creates a barrier between us as I take her in. She lives up to her nickname, her body quaking as she zeroes in with a gaze full of ire.
I wonder if she knows that her eyes can ruin a man’s resolve.
If death looks this fucking beautiful, I may reconsider.
Usually, I wouldn’t mind saying that out loud, but this barrel I’m currently staring down is an incentive to bite my tongue for once.
There’s no excuse that would suffice for why I’m standing in her home in the middle of the night or why I’ve been following her.
Anything I say that’s truthful will get me killed.
I understand that now, shaking my head in disappointment because I cannot say I don’t know better.
Protocol is once I am seen, I must remove myself from the case and pass it over, but I don’t like the thought of anyone else watching her but me.
Six weeks I’ve gathered intel and surveilled her, only for someone else to come in take my fucking payday? Fuck that. What my clients don’t know won’t hurt them.
Why am I even doing this shit? My life is currently in the hands of an unpredictable woman who has every right to drop me where I stand.
Guns aren’t something I fear, though having one pointed directly at me is an unfamiliar experience. Haven’t been one to plead for mercy and won’t start now. I’m man enough to accept whatever consequences I’m entitled to, but my heart hurts for my family, should I not make it out of here alive.
“Do you plan to kill me?” She squeaks her question like she’s trying to gauge whether she has to kill me or not.
This is not how I expected our first conversation to go, and I’ve blown it if that’s what she thinks of me. A murderer? Absolutely not. Now, her on the other hand? The jury is still out on that one. My head tilts as I eye her from head to toe.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You have a weapon pointed at me , but have the audacity to ask if I’m going to hurt you .”
She stammers, “I—I’m defending my home from a threat .”
Me? A threat?
My eyebrows lift in shock, and before I know it I’m speaking. Biting my tongue wasn’t going to last very long. It’s impulsive around her, and she always has a comeback.
“Lions love the chase, isn’t that what you said?
” I ask, and she backs up, careful not to trip.
“Look, I’m an intentional man. If I wanted to harm you, I would have.
” My feet drag me closer, entering her orbit, and she surprisingly lowers the weapon to her side, a silent invitation that my foolish ass accepts.
Her tart cherry scent fills my nose, and I crave more of it.
“And if you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it.
Instead, you destroyed your couch over there,” I tease, pointing my thumb toward the wreckage in her living room.
She grimaces, and it’s kinda cute.
“You think you know me?” she huffs.
Duh.
“I know plenty, but you still manage to keep me on my toes,” I tell her, wagging my index finger in her direction.
“I know about your upbringing, passcodes, how you like your eggs, and that you have a tattoo inside your lip, Doe,” I taunt, reaching to touch her chin.
She understandably swats my hand away. Though I don’t miss how her breath hitches at my proximity.
Too soon for niceties. Understood.
Backing away to resume my spot, I place enough distance between us and continue. “Now, it’s my turn to ask questions. First, can we have a civilized conversation without weapons?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who broke into my fucking house.”
“I did not break in. I have a key . If anything, I’m a guest here. Is this how you treat houseguests, Deirdre?” I stupidly add, lifting the balaclava up to rest on my nose.
It’s fucking hot in this thing, but I can’t let her see my whole face.
“The hell you are,” she barks, her free hand balling into a fist.
My jaw drops, and I rub my chest as if she wounded me. This is the first time her mask has slipped, revealing the anger that boils beneath the surface.
“What happened to southern hospitality?”
“I ain’t fucking southern,” she quips, adjusting her grip on her gun.
“Fair enough. Maybe I’ll leave if you ask nicely,” I challenge, stifling a laugh as I await her response.
She tucks the semi-automatic pistol into her waistband with a devious grin. “I’ll show you fucking nice. Get the fuck out of my house, Scar,” she spits, emphasizing her nickname for me and pointing at the deep scar on my top lip. “I bet you earned that from running your fucking mouth.”
Well damn.
The guffaw that escapes me startles her. I throw my head back as my body shakes with laughter.
“I did, actually. That wasn’t a question, but I figured I should tell you something about me since I know so much about you. I came prepared and brought an overnight bag, in case you’d like to get to know me some more,” I say, tilting my head toward the backpack resting by the front door.
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, pressing those full breasts together. I lick my lips and drag my eyes up quickly, hoping she didn’t notice.
“That’s cute and all, but you ain’t fucking staying here,” she states.
“The hell I’m not,” I argue, amusement in my tone, mocking her voice as she glares at me. I’m not staying here, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She’s cute when she’s angry.
“Alright, alright. You were supposed to find it tomorrow, but since I ruined the surprise, I’ll give it to you now,” I tell her, backing up carefully to retrieve the backpack.
My moves are timed and deliberate as I make a show of unzipping the bag slowly, and when I catch her hands rushing toward her waistband, I tut. “Hey, trigger fingers, I came bearing gifts. Keep it up and I’ll take this thing back.”
Her brows furrow as I hold out a gift box, her hands wrapping around it reluctantly as her focus remains on me. With a nod, I urge her to open it and see for herself.
Eventually, she removes the lid, sifting through the tissue wrap, revealing a wooden mortar and pestle. Her mouth parts, and I observe as her fingers trace along the engraving. Rivera, my mother’s maiden name. I clear my throat to push down the emotion, and her eyes meet mine, kinder than before.
An explanation is needed, so I muster one up quickly.
“We call it a pilón . I know you love to cook with fresh ingredients and noticed you didn’t have one…” I trail off, glancing at my feet. “It’s already seasoned and everything.”
A twinge in my right arm grabs my attention, and I instinctively graze the area. My fingers dampen at the contact. My body stills at the realization, and she stares at me expectantly.
She fucking shot me.
I’ll deal with that once I get out of here. In an attempt to savor the moment, words tumble out of my mouth, and I hope they make sense.
“It belonged to my abuelita . She won’t be needing it anymore,” I say softly.
“Thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll be using this next time I barbecue.”
My lips shift into a relieved smile, knowing I couldn’t bear to hold on to it. Too many memories to hold on to, mingled with the notion that she’ll soon be making her own with it.
“I knew you’d use it. It’s in good hands now,” I say, slipping my backpack over my shoulders, careful to avoid my wounded arm as I turn to exit. A sigh escapes me, and I drag my balaclava over my mouth, shifting back into the invisible man I’m supposed to be.
“I’ll save you a plate next time,” she says softly, stopping me in my tracks.
“Looks like you’ve got southern charm after all,” I joke, and for the first time tonight, she fights a smile, and it’s a sight to see. “I overstayed my welcome, and I apologize.”
With an incredulous stare, she assesses me. “You realize you helped yourself, right?” she asks with a chuckle.
My hand cradles my wounded arm, and her eyes travel me, landing on my bicep.
“Right. Sorry about that,” is all I manage.
“You’re bleeding,” she says in a hushed tone.
“You clipped me, but no need to worry. Like you said, I earned it,” I admit, and her eyes widen in response.
She looks concerned. She better watch it, or I’ll think she likes me.
“I should get checked out. I’ll say I came home late, scared mi beba , and you greeted me with a gun like a good girl,” I add with a wink, but she isn’t amused. “It’s Texas. This shit happens all the time. Buenas noches, Deirdre Klarke,” I bid her adieu, tugging the front door shut behind me.
Not the meeting I imagined, but I survived.