*** NEW AND IMPROVED ***
With her father missing, Shay will do anything to get him back, even if that means teaming up with a cruel gang leader and his band of psychotic men.
CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN.
***WARNING*** OFFENSIVE CON...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SO COLD
The ice cubes had melted in the glass of amber whiskey I held in my left hand. There was a handful of roasted nuts left in the silver dish on the mantelpiece above the fireplace with the dying embers. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table alongside glasses with remnants of scotch, vodka and brandy. Red lipstick stains marked a dozen glasses. The TV which had blared for the past few hours was now switched off. An ace of spades card was isolated from its pack, peeking out from under a cream sofa, forgotten in the clean-up of the fifth/sixth/seventh billionth game of cards. Crumpled £50 notes had been gathered at the end of a table towards where Cebrián sat, a king at poker, intimidation and tricks. He puffed out cigar smoke from the corner of his mouth and met my eyes in passing. "Ven acá. I'll teach you how to smoke."
"I don't smoke," I said flatly and stared at the red end of the cigar and then turned my gaze to the blank TV screen to cut the conversation short.
"Teyo me dijo que fumabas marihuana."
"You're six months behind on gossip."
He laughed shortly, throatily, and raised his attention to Vyacheslav who bid farewell and left. There was a scattering of men left, Svetlana included. Cebrián waited until the front door could be heard closing before saying. "Nunca he estado a favor de los Rusos," he made a noise in the back of his throat, distaste evident, "su lengua es aburrida, sus mujeres son feas, y son insoportables para entretener."
"I like him, too," I returned. "He's funny."
Cebrián gave me a funny look, lips pressed together and spoke no more on his love for the Russians.
I supressed a yawn, I wanted nothing more than to knock out unconscious for the rest of the year. I had slept for three/four hours and it was now 3.34 AM and fatigue weighed down on my eyelids heavily. I couldn't take a quick nap on the armchair though or call a taxi and leave just yet. I had to wait for the men in the backyard to finish their conversation about whatever the hell they were talking about and it didn't seem like it was going to end anytime soon. Their laughter could be heard from the opened window.
I unlocked my phone and tapped on the Messages app. I sent a quick text to Cole.
Hurry the fuck uppppppppp
"¿Comiste el arroz y los frijoles que hice?"
"Yes. It was nice. Spicy."
"There's food packed in boxes in the fridge. Be sure to take it home with you." He blew out the smoke in his mouth and stabbed the end of the cigar out on the crystal ashtray. He raised his head, inquisitive brown eyes fixed on me, a troubled downwards tilt to his brow. "¿Puedo hacerte una pregunta? Teyo me dice que eres sensible–"
"Ask away."
"¿Qué es lo que quiere tu padre?"
"Sorry?" I straightened up in my seat, the glass of whiskey set on the table, mouth set in a firm line.
