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“Quit playing hard to get.” “I’ll quit playing hard to get, when you quit pretending that mediocre bulge between your legs is anything special.”
“Laissez les bons temps rouler.” Let the good fucking times roll.
“I have a job that I trust only to the elusive Black Wolf.” The nickname has me inwardly groaning. It isn’t enough that the locals refer to me as a fucking werewolf, of all things, but the cartel has adopted this showy supervillain reputation, thanks to Julio, who made it a point early on in my criminal career to use a childhood scar as a means of branding me a dangerous sicario.
“Do not incline my heart to any evil thing. To practice deeds of wickedness with men who do iniquity; and do not let me eat of their delicacies.”
Angeltude. ‘Face of an angel with a fuckton of attitude,’
Because it’s finally sank in. I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone.
These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.
And life is too short to get hung up on the past. Live. Fall in love. But don’t ever let some ungrateful prick put out your fire. You find someone that burns with you. For you. You’re aces, kid. Always remember that.
Unrequited love tends to be a wound that festers into a raging sepsis, if not treated right away.
First thing Julio taught me: Sever all ties. Because in this world, what you love most is the first thing they’ll strip away before the bullet even hits your skull.
“If you must know, I happen to appreciate ugly things. Take your attitude, for example. I could easily tell you to piss off, but I can appreciate that being a jerk is as much a part of your genetics as that pretty face.”
“Because I may not look like much, but I am one crazy bitch, and believe me when I say, you don’t want anything to do with that.”
The fact is, I don’t know what I want. Like I’m rummaging through life’s big pantry, trying to decide what tastes good. My heart is starving for something I’ve never had before, but the ache in my chest feels masochistically good. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive. That I still crave something from this world. And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry vein with no fear of bleeding out.
“Tell me, what do you suppose you’ll buy with the extra hundred bucks I negotiated for you this afternoon?” “I was thinking a pair of pretty lace panties to wear when I have you kiss my ass.
You’re giving me back my knife, by the way. Just so we’re clear. We have a meeting tomorrow, remember? Eight sharp.” “Eight sharp.” “And I have every intention of being there. With bells on.” “And lace panties, I presume” “Black to match your soul.”
course his breath smells like cinnamon, and I loathe myself for wanting to eat the air between us.
“Je veux te baiser.” “I don’t know what that means.” The moment his lips brush my ear, my knees turn weak, and the air I suck in ignites with tension, burning inside my chest. “It means, I want to fuck you.”
What girl. As if he’s ever seen a firecracker like that on this island. She’s a walking disaster, with a side of daddy issues, and Mister Magnet for the heavy baggage variety of females doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
I don’t know what it is about her that has me so intrigued. She’s a hot mess with a side of crazy. Everything that would fuck up my world, where order and predictability are paramount.
Whoever this girl is, I want one night with her. One night of fucking, and nothing more. One taste of chaos.
“He carries on his crooked back A ragged burlap gunnysack And in his hand he wields a blade Of children’s’ bones, from which it’s made He hunts the night for those who’ve lied There’s nowhere you can run, or hide He’ll swipe you up right out of bed And by first light, you will be dead.”
I shove open it entirely and reveal a small red door on the other side.
Finally, the red door
“He was the drunk who murdered Brie’s mother.”
Damn Russ
“He once told me you saved his life.” “I gave him another means of escape. A reason.” “What reason?” “You.”
“My mother … she was murdered.” “Yes.” “By whom?” “That’s what you need to find out. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” “But you know.” “Of course I know. But you don’t. And I’m a figment of your mind. Therefore, I can’t tell you. Everything you’ve learned up to this point, you already knew. You just refused to see it.”
Blowing out an exasperated sigh, he tucks his gloves into his pocket. “I’m not going to lie. It’s your attitude that I find most irresistible about you. But in this case, you won’t win. You’ll leave, as I told you.”
“You’re seriously so bitter that you’d reject me now?” “You confuse bitterness with disinterest. It’s no fun when you’re desperate.”
Ouch
“You know, it’s not like I’d know where you’re taking me, anyway. The swamp is a foreign, creepy place where strange creatures dwell.” “Then, I suspect you’ll feel at home.”
It happened about the same time my old man skipped town, and for the longest time, I wondered if he’d played a role in the murder, seeing as he spent some time in prison when I was a kid.
Holy shit! Is russ his dad?!
“I have one picked out for you, as well, and funny, it’s what a thorn does when you touch it.” “I have to admit, I find you mildly entertaining. For a pain in the ass.” “And I find you mildly charming, for the hole of said ass.”
“Because it’s like any destructive force of nature. Too much creates imbalance. And a love that strong would consume a person. Put everyone around them at risk. Love kills.”
I unzip the front pocket and pull out a folded picture from inside, of a young blond kid sitting beside his mother. Familiar faces. This punch hits a little harder.
It’s him!
“Because the boy in the picture is me.”
“My name is Thierry James. Bergeron is my mother’s name. My father is Russ James.”
“Listen to me, chaton. If life wasn’t so hell bent on fucking me over, I wouldn’t let you go, if you begged me. Unfortunately, in my world, you’re nothing but a pawn. A weakness. You’re a walking bullseye.”
Trying to resist this girl is like convincing myself I don’t need to breathe.
Like shooting up a warm hit of obsession, she’s a drug I can’t kick. A bad habit I want to binge until the two of us are drenched in sweat and weak with exhaustion.
she’s my undoing.
When she does, something stirs inside of me. Everything that she is, every lie, every truth—it’s laid bare and naked. I see her as much as she sees me. No pills. No barriers. No boundaries. In this space, there is only Céleste. The real Céleste.
“You look at me like I’m some stupid little girl, but I’m not. I know men like you, Thierry. I know you don’t change for a woman. This is where I’m smarter than you, though. Where I win, in spite of you. Because even if you turn me over to those bad men? I still don’t regret this.”
The ravenous craving to know what an angel looks like when she touches heaven.
There isn’t enough sobriety and order in the world that can tamp this woman’s effect on me. “You’re right. You can’t change who I am. But you’ve already changed what I want.”
The girl is mine.
This unbearable ache inside of me has a name: Thierry Bergeron. He’s what I desire more than anything.
“You’re free to wear whatever you like, catin. Just as I’m free to kill anyone who looks at you in it.”
“So, what’s beautiful, then?” Some of the humor in his eyes fades, and he leans forward to kiss me. “You,” he says, forehead pressed to mine. “Je suis fou de toi.” “What does that mean?” “I’m crazy about you.”
It’s her. So fucking beautiful, it hurts. La lune. Les étoiles. Ma Céleste. The moon. The stars. My Céleste. It’s here, in this moment, that a ludicrous thought enters my mind, and I realize what lengths I would go to, to keep her. I would take on the most dangerous cartel in Mexico for this woman.
“To be jealous, one would have to assume that you might eventually stray. You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.”
“I personally want absolutely nothing with her, so you can relax. It so happens her grandparents do.” “What are you talking about?” “Interesting story. Twenty years ago, their young daughter, Vivienne, was impregnated by a very wealthy and powerful man. Unfortunately, the unborn child’s fate was … undecided. You see, according to their beliefs, children are either born as breeders, sacrificial lambs, or sold on the black market to fund the sect’s interests.”
“What is their family name?” “Boudreaux. Joelle and Hal Boudreaux.”
His neighbors !
