Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
And I realize I haven’t called Ben.
I decide to text him instead.
Tessa: Hey. I hope your work is going well. I’m making enchiladas if you’d like to come over for dinner. I’m making flan, too.
I set my phone down and wait for the ding of his return text.
And I wait.
And wait some more.
He’s probably in a meeting. But on a Sunday afternoon?
Of course he could be. This is Black Inc. You don’t get to be a billionaire without working all hours of the day, all days of the week. They do business all over the world. It’s already Monday morning in China and Australia.
That’s okay. If he can’t make it for dinner, I will eat enchiladas to my heart’s content.
Because I have an appetite now.
Just like I had an appetite this afternoon for lunch.
So odd, given that my father is gone.
But that was a week ago, and yesterday’s funeral helped me say goodbye to him.
It also helped me realize that life is fragile and short.
And I don’t want to spend one more second of it feeling sorry for myself or giving Garrett Ramirez any kind of control over it.
The robust aroma of the melted cheese starts to fill my small kitchen. I find my mom’s recipe for flan, and I begin to assemble the ingredients.
Flan is a custard dish, which means eggs and milk. I’m beginning to mix it together when my phone finally beeps.
I grab for it so quickly that I actually drop it onto my tile floor.
I pick it up and sigh in relief. The screen is intact.
Ben: Sure, I’d love to. How about around six?
Tessa: Perfect.
I pull the enchiladas out of the oven, cover them in foil, and put them in the fridge. I’ll resume baking them later.
But I can still make the flan.
I find myself smiling and humming Mommy’s old Mexican folk tunes as I pad about my kitchen, cooking for Ben Black.
Cooking for a man.
A man who…
A man who I think I might be able to love.
Chapter Forty
Ben
I stare at the warehouse for a timeless moment, at the shadows cast over it by the afternoon sun. I draw in a breath.
I have to deal with this and put it behind me once and for all.
Especially if I want to make something work with Tessa.
I walk in, shoulders back, head held high. I’m not nervous so much as uneasy. He’s got nothing except a tooth, which could belong to anyone.
“Right on time.” Dirk gives me a snakelike smile.
I look around. “We secure here?”
“Sure.”
Which means we’re not. He doesn’t have the resources to make sure we’re secure. Good thing I don’t have any tech on me. I case the small warehouse—and it is small, reminiscent of the warehouse where this shit took place fifteen years ago. Is this another black market warehouse?
“Where’d you find this place?” I ask.
“Does that matter?”
“Sure as hell matters to me. I don’t like being forced into a corner.”
“So you admit I’ve got you?”
“I admit nothing.” I look him up and down, from the Yankees hat to the scuffed-up work boots on his feet. “You’re probably wired. Or you’re trying to record me on your phone. None of it will work, because none of it is admissible in court.”
“Maybe I’m working for the cops.”
“You think I didn’t already check that out?” I scoff. “What I don’t understand, Dirk, is why you’re pushing this. You stand to lose a lot more than I do.”
“There are worse things than spending the rest of your life behind bars. Free food, shelter, clothing for life.”
I regard his gold bracelet. “You don’t look like you’re doing so poorly.”
“Only because I’m good at stealing.” He smirks. “Also, if I’m in prison, I don’t have to support those bitches who had my kids.”
“Nice. You screw them and then don’t want to deal with the consequences. You ever hear of a condom, dumbass?”
“Fuck off.”
“I’d be happy to.” I turn to leave.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Is he armed? Probably. He told me to come unarmed. Which I didn’t, of course.
I look him straight in the eye. “Did you ever think of putting all that pent-up energy to use doing something good instead of something criminal?”
“That ship sailed a long time ago, Black. For both of us.”
I shake my head, stepping toward him. “That’s where you’re wrong. That ship didn’t sail. You fucking killed a man, Dirk. You. Not me. Not Carlos. Not Jerry. Maybe we’re accessories, but the actual murder? That’s on you.”
“Don’t forget whose idea the whole thing was in the first place,” he reminds me.
As if I could. But I don’t say this. Instead—
“I haven’t forgotten. It was your idea.”
“The fuck are you talking about, Black? I didn’t even know about that warehouse.”
“And I did?”
I’m playing a dangerous game, and I know it. Indeed, it was my idea to rob the warehouse, only because I knew there was a stash of cash there. Someone else apparently knew as well and got there first.