Born Sinner by Cora Kenborn

Chapter Ten

Lola

The line is alreadythree drunks deep by the time I make my way to the bar. Alcohol is the last thing I should have right now, but my liver is the least of my worries. I need something eighty-proof to get me through the night.

After a few unproductive moments of waiting my turn, I take matters into my own hands. I pay little attention to the dirty looks being shot my way as I push through the crowd and squeeze into a small pocket toward the front.

A bartender who looks like he just stepped off the pages of an underwear ad pauses in front of me. “What can I get for you?”

I don’t hesitate. “A shot of Añejo tequila.”

If I’m going to play a king’s game, I might as well drink like one.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You got an ID hidden in the dress somewhere?”

My smile is anything but sweet. Reaching into my bra, I pull out the fake ID Avery and I bought our first week on campus and hand it to him.

I’d like to tell him where he can shove it, but I’ve already landed myself on Santi’s radar enough as it is.

He barely even looks at it before tossing it back and turning to face the wall of liquor bottles behind him. While I wait, I scan the perimeter, looking for Avery and the rest of my friends in the sea of faces shoved in every available corner.

Nothing.

Damn it.

I have no idea why it was so imperative we come here tonight. The Foxhole isn’t anything special. It’s just your typical nightclub—thirty-five hundred square feet of chrome acting as reflectors for the magenta and purple stage lights.

And in case one inch of space missed the cotton candy colored memo, the disco ball hanging in the center of the dance floor is there to drive the point home.

Jesus, where’d that guy go to pour my drink—Mexico? I’m leaning over the bar, trying to see where he could’ve gone, when I feel a hand grab my ass from behind.

“What the hell?” I spin around, nearly tumbling into another pretentious polo shirt stretched across a broad chest. Ay Dios mío… Did Rutgers issue one to every damn idiot with an acceptance letter and a dick? Grabbing hold of the bar, I steady myself while staring into a pair of bloodshot green eyes.

“Sorry, baby,” he slurs. “If you’re gonna flash the goods, don’t be shocked when someone tries a sample.”

I fight to rein in my temper. If he only knew… Instead of smirking, he should be counting his blessings that we’re in New Jersey. Twenty-five hundred miles south and every one of those perfect white teeth would be scattered across the floor.

Along with that hand.

And other favored appendages.

Luckily, both our nights are saved when the bartender clears his throat behind me. “Francesca?”

I twist back around. “Huh?”

He flips my ID between his fingers and holds it up between us. “Francesca Romano…” Glancing down at it, he cocks an eyebrow. “From Louisville, Kentucky?”

I cringe. The guy who sold us the fake IDs promised efficacy, not accuracy.

I keep my mouth shut and pay for my drink, deciding to slip the guy an extra twenty just to be safe. By the time I turn back around, the idiot who grabbed my ass is nowhere to be found. Instinctively, I sling an accusing glare to my right, only to find RJ scrolling through his phone, still sitting at the same high-top table he’s been brooding over since following me through the door.

I let out a relieved breath. Despite my thoughts to the contrary, I have no desire to be the cause of another man’s death.

Glancing up, he catches my eye, his bored expression turning to granite. Although stuffed in a designer suit, his oversized frame looks out of place sitting in the middle of a trendy dance club. He doesn’t look like he’s here to have a good time. He looks like he’s here to shoot up the place.

Which, to be fair, isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

RJ’s last name may be Harcourt, but he’s a Carrera to his core. And just like Santi, he’s deadliest when he’s silent.

Don’t poke the bear, Lola…

But I can’t help myself. I’m hardwired to push boundaries.

Tossing him a salutatory wave, I arch an eyebrow at the phone clutched in his hand and free the snarky smile I’ve held back since leaving my apartment.

He scowls in response, dropping his phone on the table like it burned him. That’s what I thought. Busted, big guy. My smile widens, which causes him to fold his arms tightly across his chest and stare at the shot in my hand like it’s a glass of battery acid.

Sighing, I leave him and his euthanized sense of humor behind and meander my way through the crowded club. I miss my cousin. The one who used to play hide-and-go-seek with me all over the estate. The one who snuck me my first taste of tequila behind the counter of his father’s Houston cantina.

The one who used to laugh.

RJ doesn’t laugh much anymore. Not since he abandoned his Texas roots to follow Santi to New Jersey two years ago in order to become his second-in-command and first shield.

The brother and cousin I once knew are gone. They’ve both molded into replicas of their fathers.

Leaving those thoughts behind, I stop a few feet away from the dance floor, my gaze sliding up a private staircase leading to a roped off area on the second floor VIP area. For the second time tonight the same thought floats through my head.

If they only knew…

If only I didn’t have to hide. If only I could flash my last name like an all-access pass, that’s where I’d be instead of fighting for a drink at a crowded bar.

“María! Over here!”

I glance over my shoulder to find Avery waving frantically from the edge of the dance floor. From the looks of it, she took her own wardrobe advice to heart. That fire-engine red number she’s wearing is almost a dress.

If it covered her ass.

“All right, María Diaz,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s showtime.”

I don’t waste time sipping my shot—I inhale it. Warmth floods my veins, my eyes closing for a beat as thoughts of my stalker invade my head. As the feel of him still sticks to my skin. Not only has he infected my mind, he’s branded me...twice.

Once without my consent.

And once in spite of it.

Opening my eyes again, I stare at the dance floor and at Avery and my friends’ smiling faces. With each passing second, my anger escalates. I envy their blissful ignorance.

They’re not mice.

They’re not trapped by a sadistic Santiago just waiting to strike.

That’s it.

I slam my empty glass onto the crowded table beside me, ignoring a wave of irritated protests as I stalk toward the dance floor.

How dare Sam violate my apartment and then dismiss me. I’m the daughter of a drug lord. I don’t get caught in someone else’s head-on collision.

I cause my own.

The base is heavy, and the beat is loud—perfect for drowning out the thoughts poisoning my head. There’s no talking. No bullshitting. It’s too fucking loud to do anything but let the tequila take over.

Before long, everything fades into the background. I just dance, pretending to be normal for a few unguarded moments, until I feel a hard chest press up against me from behind. I stiffen as two rough hands anchor onto my hips, pulling me against something even harder.

Shit. If RJ sees this, we’re both screwed.

I scan the club, frantically searching for a pair of murderous eyes. Thankfully, the crowd is too thick, allowing me to wiggle out of the guy’s hold before the Mexican sicario in him erupts, inciting a riot.

Twisting around, I extend my arm to put a safe amount of space between us. “No thanks,” I yell over the music.

“Why?” he shouts back, those damn hands making a grab for my hips again. “You got a guy or something?”

It doesn’t matter if I’ve “got” a guy, a girl, or a gorilla. If he touches me again, he’ll be pulling back a bloody stump.

“No, I—” The minute I look up, the words die on my tongue. Standing on the second level—right in the heart of the VIP area I was just pining over—is the man I've been waiting for.

He’s draped over the railing, wearing that irritatingly familiar blasé expression, as if daring it to fall.

A blurry memory breaks through the haze. I remember thinking the same thing last night as I watched him leaning against the wall. How even his stance seemed like a challenge.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

A pair of dry lips dust my ear. “Who?”

I don’t bother answering. Who isn’t the right question. It’s why.

The longer I stare, the more Sam stares. Pinche cabrón. Has he been here the whole time? Just watching me like the stalker he is?

He wants a show?

For the first time, I offer him a loaded smile.

I’ll give him one.

“Nobody,” I shout back. “Let’s dance.” Before he can grab me again, I shuffle around behind him, causing him to do a one-eighty.

However, my attention isn’t on him. It’s one floor up.

I want a front row seat too, you son of a bitch.

Oblivious, the guy follows my lead and turns to face the VIP area, once again hooking an arm around my waist and pressing his chest so tightly against my back his shirt sticks to my bare skin. I play the game with cat-like finesse, purring up against him while holding Sam’s volatile glare.

The blank expression is gone. His arms are no longer leisurely draped over the railing. Now, he’s choking the life out of it.

Instead of deterring me, it spurs me on.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m taunting him or because he’s jealous—but screw it. I’m turning up the heat and pushing the needle to find out once and for all.

Lifting one arm, I coil it around the guy’s neck and drop down low, my shiny silver dress riding up my thighs. Slowly and methodically, I rise to the sound of a strained groan behind me.

I’m playing another dangerous game, but I’ve already poured gasoline on a lit flame. All that’s left is to watch it burn.

Unfortunately, I’m forced to drag my gaze away from my fiery creation when a wandering hand slides up the inside of my thigh.

“Hey!” I shout, turning around and shoving my fist into his chest. “If you value your testicles, you won’t do that again.”

The asshole has the nerve to look shocked, muttering, “Tease…” before stalking off the dance floor toward the bar.

“Well, that backfired.” I palm the back of my neck just as Avery gives me two thumbs up from a few feet away—like she did with Troy last night.

I’m seriously starting to question the people I’ve chosen to surround myself with. Their judge of character leaves a lot to be desired.

I grind my teeth together. I’m not exactly a shining beacon of sensibility, myself. I have no idea what this thing is between Sam and me. And that savage look in his eyes? I don’t know if it’s because he wants to hate me or hates that he wants me.

I tell myself not to—but it’s useless. My gaze draws back up to the VIP area, only to find the railing empty. He’s nowhere to be found.

My heart sinks.

It’s neither. He just hates me.

I wave my hand to get RJ’s attention. Other than pointing toward the ladies’ room, then motioning for him to stay put, I don’t bother to tell anyone where I’m going as I walk toward the back of the club.

Maybe a few moments of solitude behind a bathroom stall will unfuck my head.

Just as I take my place at the end of a long line, the back door opens, and two girls reenter the club clutching packs of cigarettes and lighters in their hands.

Outside.

That’s where I need to go.

Hurrying, I abandon my spot and chase them down a few steps away from the door. “Hi,” I say, toning down my accent while pointing at their hands. “Can I bum one of those?”

I have no intention of smoking it. I just need an excuse to be on the other side of that door.

The taller one shrugs and flips the cardboard top open. “Knock yourself out.”

I smile in gratitude as I slide one cigarette from the pack. Before I can even take a step, the same girl lays a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“You plan to light that on someone’s tailpipe, honey?” Chuckling, she flicks her thumb on her lighter, presenting me with a dancing flame.

Guess, I’m smoking it now…

I force another smile. “Oh, right…thank you.” Tucking it between my lips, I lean down and suck on the filter, inhaling the disgusting thing until the end burns a bright orange.

Dios mío, I need air.

Throwing all my weight against the door, I tumble out into a dark alleyway and nearly gag. Air yes—fresh air, not so much. All I can smell is rancid garbage and this stupid cigarette.

But at least I can finally breathe.

Mostly.

Leaning against the bricks, I take a long drag and sigh. “What the hell is happening to me?”