Fucking red lipstick.

Committing the address my informant had given to me to memory, I balled up the napkin and flung it across the Tahoe. All I needed was a pen and she gave me lipstick. How the hell was I supposed to concentrate on torturing information out of some asshole when all I could think about was her perfect red lips wrapped around my dick?

The image conjured a thought that had consumed me for over twelve hours now. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I replayed the overwhelming memory of feeling her again in that parking lot. She’d screamed, and the minute her muscles clenched around my throbbing cock, I knew she was still mine. Luis may have tainted her, but he hadn’t changed her. They didn’t have what we had. If they had, it wouldn’t have felt like coming home.

Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I cursed and dialed. Thinking of Leighton had already put me on edge, so I was amped up to an eleven by the time he answered.

“You on your way?”

“What do you think?”

“Someone’s grumpy today.”

“Fuck you.” Making the left onto Turner Street, a row of two-story plain brick buildings sat in front of me. Hector Diaz’s neighborhood reminded me of the shithole Luis lived in back in San Marcos.

Fuck, how bad did these idiotas suck at selling?

My informant found out the identity of one of the numbers on Luis’s phone. Hector Diaz. I made some calls and discovered Diaz was a low-level Carrera seller, trying to work his way up the ranks. Since he’d been with us for six years and he was still working the streets, the chances of that happening were about the same as Luis rising from the dead.

“Well, enjoy your time with Diaz,” he huffed. “I’m still working on the other number. Either it’s not one of ours or no one’s talking.”

“You have twelve hours.”

“You’re welcome, asshole,” he growled right before hanging up.

After parking the car, I walked toward the back of the cluster of buildings, the scene not getting much better. Air units were tucked into most of the open windows, and laundry was strung along wires tied between poles. An old man sat on the stoop of building 3, blocking the stairs, and of course, Diaz lived in 3C.

This fucking day.

“Estoy aquí para ver a Héctor. Soy un viejo amigo.” I’m here to see Hector. I’m an old friend.

The old man scraped his chair a few inches to the left and laughed. “Good luck,” he answered in our native language. “No one has seen that asshole in three days.”

His words stopped me on the first step. “Three days?”

He nodded. “Can’t say I’m sorry. I live right under him in 3A. People are always comin’ and goin’ at all hours of the night. It’s been nice to get some sleep for a change. I don’t care if he ever comes back.”

Shit.

I started up the steps then turned around and slipped a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. He may have been old, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how things worked, and if Hector had lived here for any substantial amount of time, he’d seen things. Money went a long way toward making even the sharpest of memories hazy when it came to recalling faces during police questioning.

Hector’s door was locked—no surprise there. I had a feeling I could get away with shooting the lock off the door and no one would bat an eye in a neighborhood like this, but I didn’t chance it. Besides, a lock didn’t exist I couldn’t pick. My knife popped it in seconds.

Trading my knife for my gun, I used the door as a shield and entered. Once inside, if I had any question as to Hector’s whereabouts, I quickly found the answer when the stench hit my nose. I didn’t care how many times I’d smelled it—I never got used to the first pungent hit of death.

The place was ransacked, and Diaz was fucked up. He lay face down on the floor of his kitchen, the back of his head looking like a bowl of red Jell-O. I knelt beside him to check out the damage. Whoever got here first did a number on him. The man’s skull was bashed in so far, I wasn’t sure if he ever had a face. On closer inspection, the side of what used to be his forehead seemed to have the imprint of the number six on it.

Golf club.

It couldn’t have been a quick and painless death. He’d obviously suffered.

I stood up to check out the rest of the apartment. Everything had been torn apart, ripped down, and dumped out. Someone was definitely looking for something, but the question was what and why. Covering my hands with my jacket, I sifted through his shit.

Nothing.

The scene didn’t sit well with me. Someone wanted something bad enough to kill for it. This wasn’t just about shutting Hector up. I glanced down at the pile of mangled flesh again, trying to understand the thoughts of a dead man.

If I wanted to hide something, what would I do?

Hide it in plain sight.

My gaze immediately drew toward the television. It was a piece of shit—one of those old box types with a remote control sitting on top. That was what made it seem so unassuming. So safe. So easily overlooked.

In two steps I had the remote in my hands, ripping the back off the battery holder. Diaz didn’t watch much TV in his last few hours because there wasn’t one battery to be found. Instead, I turned the remote upside down, and a black USB flash drive fell into my hand.

I’d spent enough time inside and couldn’t afford to waste anymore. Pocketing the flash drive, I left Diaz’s place, making sure to fix the lock on my way out.

Once in the car, I drove to a gas station and pulled Luis’s laptop from the backseat. In seconds I had the flash inserted. However, instead of answers popping up, a file full of random letters and numbers filled the screen.

“Goddamn it!” I yelled, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.

Encrypted.

I knew Val would be waiting on a report, so with a frustrated sigh, I pulled out my phone and made the call. It only took half a ring for him to pick up.

“What do you have for me?” His tone left no room for pleasantries.

“Diaz is dead, and his place was ransacked.”

I could hear him pacing. “Find out as much as you can. Call in a clean-up crew to get that asshole out and down a drain somewhere.”

“There’s more,” I said, a sharper edge to my voice. “This wasn’t a cartel hit. It was too sloppy. Fucker’s head was bashed in. That’s not our style. Plus, a sicario wouldn’t have left the body to be found.”

Val’s silence spoke more than if he’d said anything. He knew I was right.

“Whoever did this wanted something Diaz went to a lot of trouble to hide.”

“But you found it,” he said, knowing me well.

“Yeah, a flash drive. It’s encrypted though. I’m going to take it to one of the suits on our payroll this afternoon.”

“Muy bien.” Be discreet.

Pocketing the flash drive, the suit in question reached for the passenger’s side door handle. “I’ll take care of it as fast as I can.”

Relaxing in my seat, I pressed the door lock button. “You’ll take care of it today,” I corrected. “I need that decrypted by tonight.”

He flinched, sweat beading across his forehead. “Things like this take time.”

“How are the wife and kids, Professor Bright? Does your wife still enjoy driving that Infinity we paid for?”

“I earned that money,” he bit out.

“And you’ll live long enough to earn more, provided you deliver what I need tonight.”

I made no move to restrain him. Although I locked the door, I didn’t engage the child lock. He could easily unlock it from his side. The whole thing was a display of dominance. A warning in case he forgot who he was dealing with.

“I’ll call you later,” he finally mumbled.

I smiled, unlocking the door for him. “You do that.”

He jumped out and sprinted toward Rice University, his shoulders hunched and his head down. He was pissed, but he’d do exactly as I asked.

Nothing motivated a man more than a well-timed threat against his family.

I pressed my foot on the break and reached for the gear shift to back out of the alley when my phone rang. I picked it up, hoping my informant had the identity of the other number for me, but my screen was dark.

What the hell?

The ringing continued, and I followed the sound to the passenger’s side where that fucking trench coat Leighton had on last night lay on the floorboard. Just the memory of her wearing that asshole’s coat put me in a worse mood than I was already in, so when the next thought crossed my mind, I saw red.

If she gave that motherfucker her number, I’m going to put a bullet in his head.

Grabbing it off the floor, I tore through the pockets, answering the call with rage. “What the hell do you want?”

“For starters, I’d like to know why you’re answering my sister’s phone?”

Shit. Brody.

“Hey, man.”

“Don’t you fucking, ‘hey, man’ me,” he warned. “This makes twice she hasn’t come home, Cortes. I want to know what’s going on.”

I didn’t have time for this. True, out of respect, Brody deserved an explanation. However, it was a conversation that’d have to wait. There was no way I’d make it back by three o’clock.

“I need you go to the townhouse and pick up Leighton. She has to be at the cantina at three, and I’m not going to make it back to take her.”

“Why? She has a car.”

Here’s where Brody loses his shit.

“It’s still at Caliente. I picked her up last night.”

Literally.

“Why the hell would you pick my sister up from work when she has a drivable car that could’ve gotten her home just—”

“Brody...”

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no. Tell me you didn’t...that she didn’t...that you two didn’t—”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Before he could say another word, I hung up. I half expected him to call back, but to his credit, the phone stayed silent. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing, or if it just gave him more time to plan my murder.

As I tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat, my gaze fell on the damn trench coat again. I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore, so I rolled down the window and just as I drew my arm back to chuck it out of the car, a piece of paper fell out of one of the pockets. Picking it up, I read the words printed on the front.

You Are Cordially Invited to a Fundraiser for Mayor Lilith Donovan

Questions flew through my mind, none of which had any answers. Why the hell did the guy who hit on Leighton have an invitation to her mother’s campaign party? I hated questioning her, especially after last night, but I’d learned never to underestimate anyone for any reason. Especially when the heart was involved.

Picking up Leighton’s phone again, I scrolled through her call history. Besides Brody’s, there were two other number she’d called lately—one of them looked familiar, so I called it.

Before the first ring even completed, a man answered, his voice impatient. “What do you have for me?”

I hung up when it hit me why the number looked so familiar.

It was the same one I’d seen on Luis’s phone.