Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
There was something about her. Like a shyness beneath the tattoos. Uncertainty behind the gun. He’d detected sweet, straight-laced schoolteacher vibes long before she told them her career.
Turning on his side, he strained to see Martin in the blackness. “What will you be doing while I’m with her?”
Matias Restrepo had been adamant about them never being alone in Jaulaso. As long as they stuck together, they had twice the eyes and double the strength.
“I’ll try to help,” Martin muttered.
“What?” A shocked laugh erupted from his chest, and he sat up, reeling in the dark. “You’re going to help me have sex? How would that work?”
“Fuck off, asshole. I’m not fucking impotent.”
“Are you sure? You haven’t used your dick in seven years.”
“My dick works fine. It’s my goddamn head that—” Martin grunted. “Doesn’t matter. Let me worry about it.”
The thought of Martin watching him having sex was a glorious turn on. But if Martin participated? Holy fuck.
“I can hear the direction of your thoughts.” Martin whacked him across the head. “Shut that shit down and get some sleep.”
Swallowing a groan, Ricky stretched out on his back and closed his eyes.
He should’ve gotten laid before the arrest. Between the daily training for this mission, the horrifying disappearance of his roommate, Kate, his move to Colombia to work with Camila, and Kate’s rescue two weeks ago, his downtime had been nonexistent.
How long had it been since he’d had sex? Six months? Longer?
On that thought, he slipped in and out of restless sleep, his senses piqued for sounds in the hall.
The second floor seemed to be the quietest section of Area Three. Whoever resided in this cellblock didn’t spend a lot of time in their rooms. Most inmates kept to the yard and common area, where drugs, whores, and parties coalesced every night.
After an endless hour, maybe two, he lay wide awake, listening to someone’s footsteps pause just outside the door.
“Martin,” he whispered.
“I hear it.”
They stood at the same time as a fist rapped on their door.
Martin rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, silently telling him to go ahead.
He shook out his arms and loosened his muscles for whatever waited in the hall. Then he opened the door.
Stark light poured in, and he shielded his eyes.
Tula stared up at him, holding a large box in her arms.
“No light bulb?” She squinted into their dark cell.
“No.” He glanced back at Martin and winged up an eyebrow.
Martin slid his hands in his pockets, his face expressionless.
She set the box on the floor and dug through the contents.
“Hopefully, this works.” She removed an old dusty bulb and held it out.
Martin took it from her and screwed it into the socket. Rusty metal squeaked with each turn until light flooded the room.
As Martin returned, Ricky leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and gave her a questioning look.
“So…” She pulled in a breath and released it with a rush. “You’re from the States, and I miss my life there. You speak English, and I miss that, too. You don’t have track marks from drug use or tattoos that celebrate the kills you’ve made. You don’t have any visible tattoos. Not that I have anything against ink.” She held out her tattooed arms. “Obviously.”
He exchanged a look with Martin.
“From what I can tell, you guys don’t belong in a place like this. Neither do I.” She bent down and lifted the box, hugging it to her chest. “You seem like… I don’t know. Maybe if I’d run into you in a park or at a bar, we would’ve been friends. Maybe not. But I could really use a friend here.”
He stared at this inviting woman, with her black hair twisting around her slender arms, and her makeup-free face angled upward, unguarded and staggeringly beautiful. Eyes of molten brown were steeped with susceptibility—an attribute he and Martin would either learn to trust or use against her.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” Her gaze drank him in and slid to Martin. “I’m lonely.” She lifted a stiff shoulder. “That’s why I’m helping you.”
Tula bit down on the inside of her cheek.
She did it. Against Hector’s advice, she’d spoken the truth and put herself at the mercy of two intimidating, potentially dangerous men.
After Ricky Martin—yeah, she referred to them as one entity—left her cell, she went straight to Hector and gave him an update.
He wanted her to move forward under the ruse of turning against the cartel. He believed if she pretended to be a traitor, they would be more inclined to confide in her.
But since he left the plan up to her, she decided to do it her way. She was already uneasy about the job. Putting on an act would’ve turned her into a blubbering nervous wreck.
Coming here alone was the scariest thing she’d ever done. If they worked for another cartel, they would likely kill her before she figured out who they were.