Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

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"Do we really want to keep up this life when we have a way out right now!"

"It's not always about what you want, Elena!" Drew shot back, his glare piercing as he paced, fingers raking through his hair.

One second we're good, the next we're at each other's throats—someone must be hitting a switch somewhere.

"Drew, you don't have a clue about running this business or the risks involved!"

"ELENA!" he yelled, arms flailing.

"DREW!" I retorted, mimicking his tone. By now, we were both panting, fueled by rage, eyes locked in a standoff.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "I've done my homework, I know the risks with the cartel... But I've got a plan." He looked up, pleading. "Please, Elena, for us. It's insane, I know, but it can work. We can have it all, and more, if you just do this."

"What you're asking could get me killed."

"You're smarter than that."

Was I?

Slumped in the back of the sleek black SUV Drew had arranged, his plan echoed in my skull. It was reckless, moronic, and utterly insane. He wanted me to become Camila's second-in-command.

But James has that spot.

The whole idea was ludicrous. We had this life once, when Geuro was in charge—back when Drew was already eyeing Geuro's throne. No surprise he's still chasing that high.

But asking me to something like this. Something so dangerous that could and mostly get me killed me? Why would he do this, why would he do this to me?

I let out a dramatic sigh as the car screeched to a stop, eyeing the men waiting for me to dive back into that godforsaken tunnel. My stomach churned, already dreading the fury James would unleash.

I wonder if he sold me out to Camila?

Would I emerge to find them waiting, ready to put a bullet between my eyes and bury me six feet under, where the sun don't shine?

Hell, would James be the one to pull the trigger?

With those grim thoughts swirling, I somehow managed to descend the ladder, praying to any deity who might listen that I wouldn't be walking into my own execution.

Emerging from the tunnel, my feet screamed with every step—four relentless hours had shown me just how out of shape I was.

I headed for the bus stop, needing to find James ASAP. Digging into my jacket for my phone, my fingers brushed against crumpled paper. Pulling it out, my brow furrowed.

What the actual hell is this?

The paper was covered in numbers, dates, and unfamiliar names. Where did this come from? Who stuffed this into my pocket? I tried making sense of the scribbles but was drawing a blank.

Flipping it over, there in the corner, was a note:

Elena,
Use this paper to navigate Camila. It's from the book. Take it to Erik.

No return address, how thoughtful. I rolled my eyes, then scrutinized every inch of that paper, front and back, but it might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense it made.

"James..." My voice trembles, a whisper lost in the hum of the diner, My hand grips the phone, feeling the weight of James's fury from the other end. The fear of his next move, whether he'd expose my betrayal to Camila or come for me himself, twisted my insides.

"Where are you?" His voice, cold and cutting, sent shivers down my spine. This was a new depth of anger, one I had unearthed in him. "Do you realize what you've done? You've turned Camila against you. You'll be running forever."

"James, I'm not running. I need you. Please, come get me." My pride shattered, replaced by desperation and fear.

"I'm on my way."

Five agonizing hours later, a black SUV screeched to a halt outside. James emerged, his anger palpable, his chest rising and falling with suppressed rage. He stormed towards me, and for a moment, I saw my fate in his eyes.

"James..." My words failed me as I trailed behind him, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Where's the maid?" he demanded, turning abruptly at the car.

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I haven't told Camila. But I need you to give me the maid."

He hadn't told her? Why? A flicker of hope, or perhaps just wishful thinking, danced in my mind. Could it be he cared?

"Why didn't you tell her?" My voice cracked with a mix of hope and dread.

"Elena, where's the damn maid?"

"Not here. She's gone, James."

His frustration flared, his eyes narrowing. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"I do, but it doesn't have to be like this. I won't become like you."

His gaze darkened, his body tense. Before he could retort, his phone pierced the tension. My heart sank.

"Hello?" His voice was sharp, irritated.

"With Elena."

It was Camila. My breath caught, the world narrowing to the sound of his voice. He was going to tell her, seal my fate. But then, his expression shifted, a battle within.

"The maid's dead," he lied, his voice steady.

He lied for me. Why?

"It's over," he concluded, ending the call. He looked at me, his face a mask of conflict.

"I didn't ask you to lie for me."

"You didn't have to." He stepped closer, the air between us charged with unspoken emotions.

"Why, James? Why protect me?" My voice was a whisper, my body trembling.

He closed the distance, his hand reaching out, fingers brushing my cheek. "Because despite everything, I can't let you go." His voice softened, a vulnerability breaking through.