Sincerely, Ms. McCord she wrote, officially driving the final nail into my coffin. I sat staring at that name written in her pretty, feminine handwriting and got hard.
Whether calculated ploy to fuck with my head or innocent accident, it had the same effect. The small but manageable obsession I’d been nursing exploded with a bang into a giant, rampaging lust monster.
I pictured her lying underneath me in my bed at my house wearing nothing but my ring and a hazy smile of satisfaction.
An impossible fantasy, but the lust monster didn’t care. I sent a short note back to her, then locked myself in the toilet and jerked on my hard dick until I climaxed, groaning her name.
It’s a good thing the executive suites have private bathrooms.
She makes a right turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I follow. She makes another right onto Robertson, then a sharp left into the parking lot of a building with a huge painting of a calavera wearing a sombrero on the side and a sign declaring Margaritas! in red neon lettering.
I cruise slowly past, watch her park and run inside through a side door, then make a quick U-turn and park in the alley behind the restaurant.
Entering through the kitchen, I walk past stainless steel baker’s racks and bus boys up to their elbows in dirty dishes in soapy sinks until I enter the main part of the kitchen where the cooks are. It’s busy, with at least six stoves operating at once and a dozen voices shouting over each other in Spanish.
Bypassing them, I find the manager’s office and walk inside without knocking.
A big Mexican man in his early thirties wearing a sleeveless Dodgers T-shirt sits at a desk too small for him, sweating in front of a computer screen.
His muscular arms are inked shoulder to wrist. His thick neck is tatted with scenes from the Bible. Hidden underneath his shirt are more tattoos of his daughter’s face, quotes from scripture, his former gang affiliation signs.
From the heavy gold chain around his neck dangles a crucifix.
He looks up at me and breaks into a grin.
“Lobo! ?Como estas, cuate?”
“I’m good, Emiliano. It’s good to see you.”
He stands. We embrace, clapping each other on the back. When he releases me, I poke him in the ribs. “I’m gonna have to start calling you flaco if you lose any more weight. What are you down to, two-fifty, two-sixty?”
He snorts in disgust. “Eh, my lady’s got me on this diet, ese. Fuckin’ sucks. She says I’ll live longer. I say I’d rather die than eat the rabbit food she keeps puttin’ in front of me. A man needs a steak!”
I remember Shay lying naked on the hotel bed the night we met saying to get her a steak when I asked her what she wanted for dinner. Then our exchange right after that.
“Anything green? Salad, veggies?”
“Blech. Green things are for rabbits. Do I look like a rabbit to you?”
No, she didn’t look like a rabbit. Not then and not now. She looks like a sexy, smart-mouthed siren with soulful eyes and a body I want to sink my teeth, tongue, and dick into.
The lust monster inside me pounds on his chest and lets loose a primal scream.
Emiliano says, “You here on business or to eat?”
“Business. I need to see your security footage.”
“Sure thing. From when?”
“Right now. The live feed inside the restaurant.”
He doesn’t question it. He simply takes his seat, turns to his computer, clicks around with his mouse for a minute, and pulls up the feed. The screen is divided into six sections, each showing an area of the restaurant inside and out. He clicks around a bit more, then I’m looking at the dining room.
I scan the screen, then tap on it, indicating a table at the front. “There.”
Emiliano zooms in. The screen fills with an image of Shay and her blonde friend who she was with the night we met. They’re leaning toward each other over a basket of tortilla chips, engrossed in conversation.
“Turn the sound up. I can’t hear anything.”
“Psh. Who do you think I am, Jason Bourne? I don’t got sound on this.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to get a better security system?”
“I got four pit bulls. They’re good enough.”
“Your dogs are as mean as hamsters.”
“Yeah, but nobody knows that. They look real tough. So these girls we’re lookin’ at. Which one’s yours?”
“It’s not like that.”
He turns to me with a cocked brow. “You said it was business.”
“It is. But I’m not moving her.”