Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

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I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. I jolt upright, gasping, my eyes darting around. "Elena," comes a voice. I turn to see James in a mock surrender pose.

"What happened?" I ask, though part of me isn't sure I want to know. My mind's a fog, memories trickling back in drips.

"Epifanio sent his goons after you. If it weren't for me, you owe me a thank you." James saunters to the opposite couch, lighting a cigarette. "I've seen trouble in my time," he pauses for dramatic effect, "and you, Elena, are trouble. What did he hit you with?"

Is he serious? "Oh, you know, the usual. A bat, a truck, your ego," I retort, my voice laced with venom.

"Fuck you," I snap, watching his eyes darken. Once, I'd have cowered at his glare, but now, I know we're mutually dependent.

"You were lucky today," he continues, his voice low, menacing. "If not for Camila's payroll and my timely rescue, you'd be Epifanio's guest. Or his late guest."

I roll my eyes, his attempts at intimidation just noise now. James, ever the self-serving climber.

"What's Camila going to do to him?" I ask, more out of morbid curiosity than concern.

"That's her business. But let's just say, my future doesn't involve catching bullets meant for you." He inhales deeply. "Don't count on luck next time."

"Don't worry, James. I won't hold my breath for your heroics. Now, where's the ice?"

"Down the hall."

Ice on my wrists, numbing the cuts, I sit in Camila's lounge. James, ever the brooding figure, watches the party below. Since I woke, he's been nothing but insufferable.

The door swings open, and Camila enters. "You can go," she tells me.

"Thanks. You saved my life. I owe you," I say, standing.

"Get some rest, Elena."

I startle awake at the sound of the gate clanging shut, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I flip over, staring at the cracked ceiling, my body a map of pain. Footsteps approach. I hope it's not James, but it is. He looms over me, his face an emotionless mask.

"Get up," he orders. I don't move, defiant.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 3 p.m. Come with me."

"Why, what are we doing?"

"I'm going to kill someone."

"Cold and heartless." I quip, finally sitting up, meeting his gaze with a smirk.