Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

| 27 |

The ear-piercing scream of the man who got shot reverberates through the warehouse. James and I rush in, my eyes scanning frantically until they land on the grim tableau. Two men flank the victim, whose head lolls back in agony, his cries escalating as they try to staunch the flow of blood.

"How's he doing?" James bellows as we round a corner into the chaos.

"Not great," one of the men responds, stepping away to meet us.

"Where's the doctor?" James demands.

"Not here yet," the man replies, earning a sarcastic sneer from James.

"I can see that, genius." James moves to the wounded man, and I hang back, my body rigid with fear. I've never witnessed anything like this. It's the stuff of nightmares.

James, usually the epitome of control, is a mess. He sweeps everything off a nearby table with a frantic arm, startling me. "Help me with him!" he shouts, pulling the injured man towards the cleared space.

I snap out of my stupor, grabbing the man's feet. "No, James, elevating his feet is wrong for a chest wound," I correct, my voice sharp with urgency.

James blinks, surprised, but nods for me to lower the feet.

I retreat, the chaos too much. In the bathroom, I confront my reflection, a stranger with wild hair, swollen lips, and blood-spattered cheeks. I splash water on my face, trying to wash away more than just the blood.

Sliding down the wall, I focus on breathing, trying to steady my fraying nerves.

In. Out. In. Out.

Camila's heels click against the concrete, pulling me from my trance. "It's okay," she says softly, her usual icy demeanor thawed. She brushes hair from my face, her touch unexpectedly gentle. "You did what you had to, Elena. That man in the hotel room would've killed you without a second thought. Life's for the living. Pull yourself together; we're not done yet."

Her words sting, but she's right. I rejoin them in what passes for a main office, where James and Camila are glued to a news report.

"Give me the info on the maid," James demands as soon as he sees me.

She's my lifeline to Mexico, "She was terrified. I doubt she'll talk."

James's face darkens as he advances, his voice low and threatening. "This isn't just a robbery now, it's murder. We can't afford loose ends."

"I didn't get her name," I lie, my voice steady despite the fear.

"You didn't—"

"She was scared, James. I threatened her. She won't say anything."

Our voices rise, clashing in the small room.

"I explicitly told you to get her ID!"

"She was scared. I threatened her, she won't talk."

The air is thick with tension, our yells echoing.

"I needed that name—"

"I did what I had to!" My voice matches his in volume, defiance lacing every word.

We stand there, breathing heavily, the weight of our situation hanging between us like a guillotine.

"Enough!" Camila's voice cuts through our shouting match like a knife. James steps back, his chest heaving with suppressed anger. "What's done is done. Call Denny at the sheriff's office; he'll get us her address. That's what he's paid for," she snaps before storming off, leaving a trail of icy disapproval in her wake.

Great, now Camila's pissed at me too. My stomach churns with the realization of how deep in this mess I am. As James turns to make the call, I quickly delete the maid's photos from my phone, then pocket it with a swift motion.

I exit the office, leaning against the fence, watching as the doctor finally arrives, his hands diving into the gruesome task of extracting a bullet. The man's screams are a distant echo, drowned out by the pounding in my ears.

James storms out, looking like he's seen a ghost, his phone ringing incessantly. I turn to face him, his distress palpable even from a distance.

"What's wrong?" I ask, though his glare could freeze hell over as I approached.

"Someone from Florida won't stop calling," he mutters, his head dropping in defeat against the fence.

Without thinking, I step closer, my hand finding its way into his hair, fingers tracing up his neck while the other tugs him to face me. Our proximity is electric, his eyes locked onto mine.

"You can handle this, James. Just answer the damn phone," I urge, my voice a blend of concern and irritation.

He shakes his head, breaking eye contact, and steps back, gripping the fence like it's his lifeline.

I slip between him and the fence, my back against the cold metal, a sensation eerily familiar from not too long ago.

My hand wraps around his wrist, thumb brushing over the blood that's dried there.

"James," I say, ensuring my voice carries the weight of the moment, "you've dealt with worse. Now pick up the damn phone." My tone is firm, laced with the kind of snark that comes from being pushed to the edge.

"No," he replies, his voice barely a whisper.

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what to say."

My fingers trace the line of his jaw, moving down to his lips, where they pause, feeling the warmth of his breath. He stiffens, absorbing the intimacy of my touch, then gently pulls away, yet remains just inches from me.

"Pick up the phone, tell them what they need to hear," I insist, my eyes locked with his, his hand still gripping the fence above my head.

As he answers the call, I nod slightly, my hands finding their way to his stomach, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him subtly closer.

His gaze, intense and dark, never wavers from mine as he starts to weave his tale.

"Yeah?" he begins, his body tensing under my touch.

"Who's this?"

"Yeah, Beto's my boy. What's up?"

"What's going on?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"What?"

"Look, Leon, you just woke me and my girl up, man. You're throwing shit at me that I can't even process. Back up."

A shiver runs through me as he says 'my girl', a slip that feels like a declaration. His expression doesn't change, but I sense a flicker of realization in his eyes.

"Alright, listen, this has nothing to do with me or my crew. We met, I got the dope, they got the cash, end of story."

"Okay, Leon, let me make some calls. I'll hit you back soon."

He hangs up, eyes closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. I exhale, releasing his shirt, the gravity of the situation crashing down.

"You're a good liar, James, and that's terrifying," I confess, the words tumbling out, charged with a mix of admiration and fear.