The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2) (21 page)

It wasn’t this guy’s fault Latin Bloods had killed Chuito’s brother and aunt.

He’d been a kid when it happened.

Chuito stopped fighting and went back to just trying to breathe past the tight hold Wyatt had on him.

“What’d y’all say?” Wyatt asked, obviously knowing he wasn’t holding Chuito back anymore.

“Nothing,” Chuito whispered; then he met the younger fighter’s gaze that was narrowed in defensiveness. Chuito knew he was waiting to be sold out for the criminal he was, when he’d probably come here to escape gang life. “I won’t say anything,” he said in Spanish. “It’s not you. It’s me. I had some issue with Latin Bloods in Miami.” Then he went on in English, “I’m sorry. I’m having a bad day.”

“No shit, you’re having a bad day.” Wyatt still sounded completely incredulous. “I might have to actually arrest you for this, Chuito. You got into this fight in broad daylight, outside the cage with everyone looking.”

Chuito understood.

If Wyatt didn’t arrest him, he was going to get accused of playing favorites, and that shit was probably illegal as hell.

“Arrest me,” Chuito said without hesitation. He did kill two motherfuckers to keep Wyatt out of jail. Getting arrested was small-time after that. “Really, Wyatt. You got to arrest me. I know you do.”

“Jesus.” Wyatt groaned, making it obvious he didn’t want to.

That was something.

“Arrest me too.” Tino wasn’t being choked by Clay anymore. Now he was sprawled out on the cement with a look of intensity on his face. “I’m half-guilty.”

“I hit you first,” Chuito argued, because he certainly didn’t want Tino to get arrested with him.

Tino
was
the best friend Chuito had in this town.

“I shoved you first,” Tino reminded him. “That makes me just as guilty as you.”

“This is all very touching,” Clay said drily. “But there’s one thing y’all are forgetting. Tino’s shoulder’s dislocated.”

“Oh fuck.” Wyatt looked to Tino. “Really?”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Tino pulled himself up to a sitting position. His hand was on his arm, and he looked to be willing himself to do something really painful. “It’s an old injury. I can fix it.” He lifted his head to Chuito. “You just gotta jerk it back into place.”

Well, that sounded like the last fucking thing Chuito wanted to do today.

He’d done it before, because gangsters didn’t like going to the hospitals where questions were inevitable. Like Chuito had observed, cement wasn’t very forgiving. He’d done lots of first aid in his days as crew leader of Los Corredores.

“Tino, I gotta call Tommy and get him to take you up to Mercy,” Wyatt said with a sigh. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Man, you can take me to jail, but don’t take me to the hospital.” Tino was still gripping his arm.

Apparently mafia didn’t like hospitals either.

Chuito crawled over to him before he could change his mind. At the same time, the Mexican, with a show of unity, got down on his knees behind Tino. He draped one arm over Tino’s good shoulder and across his chest, holding him tightly, making it apparent he’d done this before too.

“Uno, dos—” the Mexican started counting, obviously sensing the urgency of getting it done before Clay and Wyatt got the paramedics out there.

“Don’t!” Wyatt shouted.

At the same time the Mexican said, “Tres!”

Chuito jerked Tino’s arm.

“
Caaaazzo
!”

They all winced at the pop Tino’s arm made when it snapped back into place.

“Oh my God.” Wyatt groaned. “I ain’t never dealt with that one before. Tino—”

Tino doubled over, putting his head on his knees as he breathed deep. “It’s okay,” he finally choked out. “Madonn’.”

“Jules will have a fucking fit if you don’t call Tommy and get him to Mercy,” Clay warned.

“Just arrest me.” Tino moaned with his face still pressed against his knees. “Do it, Wyatt. Don’t take me to the hospital.”

“You motherfuckers are hard-core,” the Mexican said in Spanish as he sat behind Tino. “I don’t love the hospital, but it’s better than jail.”

“I got a brother who can get us out on a technicality,” Tino answered him in English. “It’s cool.”

The Mexican looked shocked, and Chuito explained in Spanish, “He understands some Spanish. He doesn’t speak it.”

“That sucks,” the Mexican said in English, looking at Tino suspiciously.

It was obvious he was worried about their gang conversation in Spanish earlier. Tino explained it better than Chuito could. While Wyatt and Clay stood up and had a debate over what to do, Tino turned and lifted his shirt, showing off the
Omertá
tattoo on his stomach. Anyone who had made their living in the underworld knew the word for the Italian mafia code of silence.

The Mexican stared at it with wide eyes.

“
De veras
,” Chuito agreed with how insane it was. “
¿Que locura, eh?
”

The Mexican stuck out his hand. “I’m Javier.”

Chuito shook it and said in Spanish, “Welcome to the wasteland for washed-up gangsters.”

“There’s no nightlife,” Tino added. “But crazy shit is always happening. You won’t get bored.”

Chapter Twenty

“You wake up in jail next to your best friend. What’s the first three words you say?”

Chuito blinked at the lights through the jail bars, seeing halos around them. “I have a concussion.”

“That’s four words.” Tino bounced a tennis ball against the wall behind Chuito’s shoulder and caught it when it rebounded back to where he sat on the opposite bench. “Try again.”

“Who gave you a ball?”

“Motherfucker, you better go back to school.”

The ball bounced against the wall once more.

“Suck my dick,” Chuito settled on and then stretched out on the bench before Tino hit him with the damn thing, and he’d be forced to dislocate his arm again. “Seriously, who gave you a ball?”

“Stole it from the racquetball court at the Cellar.”

“Wyatt should’ve strip-searched you.”

“Can you imagine?” Tino groaned as the ball bounced. “Thank God we got Garnet law enforcement on the pad.”

“Carajo, don’t say that too loud. He’ll fucking change his mind.”

“You think he’s really gonna book us?”

“I have no idea,” Chuito mused as he looked at his forearm that was torn to shreds and still bleeding despite Wyatt’s version of first aid. Alcohol poured over it and gauze pressed none too gently against the wound. “I feel like hell. I’m never drinking again.”

He dropped his arm and closed his eyes, because the room was spinning. He didn’t know if it was the lingering effects of the hangover or the concussion. Probably a charming combination of both. His left eye was throbbing, and he knew he had to have an epic bruise.

“I wonder if Romeo called Nova.”

“Probably,” Chuito grunted, his eyes still closed against the nausea that was threatening. “You think he can get us off on a technicality if Wyatt does book us?”

“Wyatt won’t book us.” Tino sounded confident. “He
knows
Nova will get us off. Besides, who loses more than Wyatt if your ass ends up on TMZ? As he mentions all the fucking time, he has a vested interest in our success.”

“Yeah, but it’s Wyatt,” Chuito reminded him. “He almost arrested himself when all his shit went down.”

The ball stopped bouncing, and Tino was silent for a long time before he mumbled, “
Merda
, I need my fucking phone call.”

“Use mine too,” Chuito offered. “We’d call the same person.”

“Going down for the first time for fighting with you.” Tino snorted with amusement. “That’d be ironic.”

Chuito laughed. “Wouldn’t it?”

Tino laughed with him and then asked, “What the hell is up with you? You acted like I murdered your mother today.”

“Not funny.” Chuito sobered. “Mafia doesn’t get to make jokes about murdering my mother.”

“Fine, you acted like I
fucked
your mother.”

Chuito lifted his head and glared at Tino. “I’m about to dislocate your other arm, cabrón.”

“Why do you always get tense about that? Is your mother hot?”

“Not answering.”

“Can I see a picture?”

Chuito grabbed his dick through his shorts. “There’s your picture.”

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Tino sighed as if suddenly bored. “Or do we have to play twenty questions?”

“Some shit went down with Alaine last night,” Chuito admitted, because Tino had a ball and was bored and would drive him fucking crazy if he didn’t. “I solved my problems with Patrón.”

The ball stopped bouncing as Tino looked at Chuito seriously. “What kinda shit?”

“Sorta like what happened with you and the receptionist,” Chuito said, even though he knew it was a mistake. “Only she didn’t see my dick.”

“Wow,” Tino mumbled, seeming to consider that. “No wonder you dislocated my arm. You seriously need to fuck that chick, Chu.”

“I can’t.” Chuito moaned, though part of him agreed with Tino. The wound-up, sexually frustrated part. “You know I can’t. Girls like her need marriage and babies. I can’t give her that. Shit’s about to get real in Miami. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Fuck someone else, then,” Tino suggested. “Move on and fuck someone else.
Please
. This is starting to become medically necessary.”

“I live next to her,” Chuito reminded him. “I can’t just ignore her.”

“Move in with me.”

“So the Mexican can get my apartment. I don’t think so.” Chuito might have started a grudging friendship with him, but he didn’t trust this new guy with Alaine. He didn’t trust
anyone
with Alaine. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You ever think this shit is mean to her?” Tino mused. “Like, if you love her and you can’t be with her…you should probably let her go.”

Chuito turned his head and glared at him. “You’re just saying that ’cause you want to fuck her.”

“I do want to fuck her. She is
very
hot. I like redheads, and she’s so tiny. Bendable.”

“Motherfucker—” Chuito started. “You better not be thinking about
bending
Alaine.”

“I think about bending her all time, preferably over the edge of my bed, but seriously, this isn’t about that. I had a girl like her once when I was younger. A good girl. A Catholic. The kinda girl my ma would’ve loved, but I let her go. She didn’t need my kinda trouble. I miss her. I probably still love her, but I don’t regret it.”

“I’m thinking of moving back to Miami,” Chuito admitted. “I was supposed to go back a long time ago. I just stayed here ’cause of Alaine. Probably a mistake. My contract’s up with the UFC. I haven’t renewed it. Ever since I signed on with Nova, I’ve been putting it off. Everyone’s so pissed about it. I need to make a decision.”

“You know what’s gonna happen if you move back.”

Chuito pushed his shorts down on one side, showing Tino the Omertá tattoo running over the curve of his hip. “I’m not getting out now. Might as well ride it to the ground. I think it’s time to bust out of the wastelands.”

“Man, you know there are video cameras facing these cells. Wyatt has the feed in his office.”

Coño.

Chuito forgot, but then, just because his head was hurting and his stomach was churning, he got this crazy idea. He turned and spied the security camera facing the jail cell.

Tino must have had the same thought, because he bounced up from the bench. Chuito followed his lead and got to his feet, even if it made him want to puke on Tino’s shoes.

Then the two of them stood there side by side and jerked their pants down, showing the security camera their bare asses. They burst out laughing when they heard Wyatt shout, “Goddamn it!” from his office in the front of the building.

Life in Garnet for washed-up gangsters was filled with such simple pleasures. Antagonizing the sheriff was one of the highlights.

“I can’t unsee that shit!” Wyatt shouted as he walked down the hall to the holding cells.

Chuito pulled up his pants, but Tino kept his down and moved his hips like a man who spent a lot of time in the clubs when he was younger. He was really getting into it too. With his ass hanging out, he started dancing like Wyatt cared about what he was seeing.

“I think you missed your calling in life,” Wyatt mused sarcastically as he leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

“Right?” Tino was still dancing, ass bare as ever. “If there was a ladies’ club here, I’d supplement my income.”

“This is an improvement.” Chuito turned to Wyatt in annoyance. “You locked me up with him when he had
a ball
.”

“I know.” Wyatt laughed. “I saw.”

“Isn’t there anything better for you to do?” Tino snapped as he pulled up his pants and glared at Wyatt. “Instead of spying on us?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Not currently.”

Chuito was feeling dizzy again, so he went back to the bench and sat. Tino started bouncing his ball, and Chuito couldn’t help but groan and bury his face in his hands. “Come on, man. I’m gonna puke. The constant bouncing is making my head worse.”

“Are you all right, Chuito?” Wyatt asked. “You got a pretty bad bruise. Think it’s a concussion?”

“I’m hungover.”

It wasn’t a total lie.

“Hey, can I have my phone call?” Tino huffed, as if sensing Chuito needed intervention. “I need my lawyer.”

“I’m not booking you,” Wyatt admitted, but he still sounded like a chiding parent. “Seeing how you two have a clean record—”

Tino laughed.

Dumbass.

“And you’re fine, upstanding members of the community—”

Now Chuito laughed.

“You teach the free classes at the Cellar to help the at-risk teenagers and did donate considerable time and money making up the school-supplies backpacks for the low-income kids last week.”

“Wow, we actually did that shit.” Tino sounded as surprised as Chuito felt. “We
are
upstanding members of the community. What the fuck are we doing in jail, Wyatt?”

“Never,
ever
do this again,” Wyatt finished with his parental dressing-down as he unlocked the jail cell. “Unless it’s in the cage. Then I don’t give a shit. Beat the hell out of each other.”

Tino did a very good job of imitating what he probably thought an upstanding member of a community was supposed to walk like and sound like as he swung his arms while stepping out of the jail cell and said, “Yes, sir, mister sheriff, sir.”