The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(46)

Alaine thought he looked sharp.

Chuito thought he looked pretty f*cking baller if he didn’t say so himself, and it was suddenly worth the several thousand he’d spent on it.

Either way, it covered up his tattoos, and he was glad for it for once, though Chuito knew the reverend was aware he had ink.

“We’ve never been introduced. You’re Mr. Garcia, correct?”

“Sí.” Chuito winced, hating that he was nervous, and said, “I mean, yes. You can call me Chuito.”

“Mr. Garcia is fine,” the reverend said tensely and then asked, “You’re Catholic?”

Chuito frowned, not expecting that to be what the reverend homed in on. “Yeah. I am. I was—”

He arched an eyebrow at Chuito. “Was?”

“There’s no church here.” Chuito winced again. “No Catholic church.”

“So you’re a man without God?”

Chuito considered that, wondering what the correct response was. Fortunately, he didn’t have to answer, because Jules came back holding a box. “Look at this. A whole box of cards. In my car. That was unlocked. With my gun in it.”

“Good thing I was out here watching it for you,” Chuito told her with a smile.

“Mmm-hmm.” Jules pulled the lid off the box and handed it to the reverend as if he were made to stand there and help her. “Let’s see what I have.” She started thumbing through them. “Birthday. Birthday. Baby Shower. Condolences.” She lifted the condolences card. “I may need this one soon.”

“Is a friend in a bad way?” the reverend asked her.

“No, not yet. Soon.” Jules glared at Chuito before she went back to thumbing through the cards. “A graduation card.” She pulled it out and read the front, “To my daughter. That’s very ironic, since I don’t have a daughter.” She opened it. “Oh, look, it’s from a father to a daughter. That’s certainly a card I might need.”

“And you did end up using it,” Chuito pointed out. “You’re always prepared.”

“More prepared than I realized.” She handed it to Reverend Richards. “There you go.”

Reverend Richards read the card and then looked up. “I don’t have a pen.”

“I have a pen.” Chuito reached into his pocket. “There you go, bro.”

“Bro,” he repeated as he took the pen. “Where are you from, Mr. Garcia? You’re Mexican?”

“I’m, no—” Chuito shook his head, trying to keep himself from losing his temper. “No. Not Mexican.”

“You speak Spanish. You said sí.”

Jules rubbed a hand over her forehead, giving Chuito a smile.

“Other people besides Mexicans speak Spanish,” Chuito corrected him. “I’m originally from Puerto Rico.”

“Are you a citizen?”

Chuito gaped, unable to believe this man had just outdone Wyatt in the absolute hostility he put into that one question. “I was born an American citizen.”

“Is your mother white?”

Chuito shook his head. “No. She’s also Puerto Rican.”

“You probably don’t know your father,” the reverend said with a sharp glare.

“Oh my God.” Jules burst out laughing. “Wow.”

Chuito rubbed at the back of his neck, thinking he could physically feel his blood pressure go up as his pulse throbbed in his ears.

“You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Miss Conner.”

“Right.” Jules turned and glared at the reverend. “That is clearly the greatest crime against God that happened just now. Let me tell you something—”

“You should put a check in that card,” Chuito cut her off as he pointed at the card. “So that your daughter knows you support her.”

“I’m going to give her a check,” the reverend countered. “But it’s only because if I don’t, I know she’ll be taking money from this woman.” He pointed at Jules accusingly. “And I don’t want her to have the devil’s money.”

Jules tilted her head, giving the reverend a look that was icy and furious.

“Whatever,” Chuito said before Jules could say something. “As long as you do it. So she knows she matters to you.”

“I don’t like you, Mister Garcia. I know you live next door to my daughter, and I know that like this woman right here”—he gestured to Jules—“the devil has you.”

“True,” Chuito agreed as he gave the reverend a hard look. “Maybe you ought to convince her you give a shit before the devil decides to keep her. You’re running out of time, Reverend Richards. Make this one count.”

“I see you,” the reverend said to him. “I see who you are, Mister Garcia.”

“I hope so, cabrón.” Chuito took another drink of his beer. “I hope you see exactly who I am. Be her father. Save her. Be kind enough that she wants to go back to your church. She misses it. She misses her friends, but she’s not going back until you accept her for being the brilliant, independent, compassionate woman she turned into in spite of you.”

The reverend stood taller, completely immune to the furious violence throbbing off Chuito. “And what if I don’t, Mister Garcia?”