The Vargas Cartel Trilogy (Vargas Cartel #1-3)(104)

“I’m still working on it.”

“I read that he was released from jail.”

“He was, but there have been a few complications.”

She snorted. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

“Mom,” I cautioned.

“I know. I know,” she said wearily. “But you have to realize how this is going to end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignacio wants you under his thumb. He’ll have you waist deep in cartel business before you know it, and then you’ll be stuck.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

She sighed. “Then you don’t know Ignacio very well. He thinks the Vargas Cartel is his legacy, his crowning achievement, and now he knows Rever is incapable of leading the cartel into the next generation. That leaves you.”

“No. I’ve already told him I can’t help him.”

She exhaled loudly. “If you don’t sever all contact with him, he will find a way to rope you into his depraved way of life.”

“Mom,” I said, dragging out the word. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“And this won’t be the last time. I’ll keep saying it until it’s too late, or you’ve kicked your father out of your life for good.” She cleared her throat. “Why are you calling?”

“To talk.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

I slid my hands up and down my legs. “I’ve met someone. A woman.”

“Do you love her?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “I do.” It felt strange confessing this to my mom before telling Hattie. My mom and I were never close. I loved her. She loved me. She’d been a good mom, but an invisible wall existed between us. For as long as I could remember, my mom and dad communicated through intermediaries. The deep fracture between my mom and dad made me feel constantly divided. Divided between two parents, two lives, two countries, and two cultures. Any love I showed my dad felt like a betrayal of my mom and vice versa, so I existed in limbo, never fully pledging myself to anyone or anything.

“You haven’t told her anything about your family or your job.” It was a statement, not a question.

“She knows everything.”

“Really?” she said, sounding surprised. “How’d she take it?”

I paused, not sure how to answer her question. There wasn’t a simple answer, and I refused to reveal the details of how we met. My mom would never forgive me. She’d lose all faith in me. “She doesn’t like it.”

“Does she still want to be with you?”

Pain knifed through my gut. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, and I couldn’t catch my breath. “I hope so.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s complicated,” I countered, reciting the same words Hattie said to me earlier. The irony of my declaration didn’t go unnoticed by me.

“Love always is,” she whispered, sounding tired.

“I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“Okay, but don’t wait another two months to call me.”

I laughed. “You can call me too, Mom.”

“I know. Goodnight, Ryker.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

***

Two hours later, my hand rested on the door handle to my bedroom. A cold feeling prickled through my body, and my heart plummeted to my stomach. I didn’t know what I’d do if Hattie had left me. After four glasses of bourbon, I had promised I’d let her go if that was what she wanted. I didn’t want her to be mine by default, or because she felt some perverse attachment to me.

Now, with the moment of truth staring right back at me, my chest burned with the thought of never seeing her, touching her, or kissing her again. Somehow over the last few months, she had become more important to me than anything or anyone else in the world. I ached to pull her into my arms and lose myself in the taste of her lips.

Closing my eyes, I pushed my bedroom door open and sucked in a deep breath before I faced reality. Relief flooded through my veins when I saw her curled in a ball on my bed. She wore my gray collared shirt. Her long, toned legs were twisted in the sheets like she had a hard time falling asleep. She looked like a fallen angel with hair framing her face and the fringe of her dark lashes shadowing her cheeks.

Not wanting to wake her, I moved through the room as silently as possible. I placed a small plastic bag on the nightstand and trailed my fingers down the side of her face. She didn’t move. With my eyes locked on her face, I pulled my shirt over my head, kicked off my shoes, and shoved my pants down my legs.

Sitting down next to her, I traced the curve of her face and the arch of her long neck, committing it to memory for the thousandth time. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Ryker?” she whispered, her voice raspy from sleep. “What time is it?”

“After midnight.”

“I tried to wait up for you. Do you want me to leave? Is that why you didn’t come back for dinner?”

Her words tore at my heart, slashing invisible ribbons across the planes of my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, remorse suffocating me. My hands skated up and down her arms. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to go.”