Chicks Kick Butt

I drag my eyes back to the note, open my hand, smooth the paper against my thigh. I can’t imagine being interested in anything Max has to say to me. The bastard left without saying good-bye.

The handwriting is cramped, uneven. As if he wrote the note in a hurry.

  Anna. I need your help. Call me. Max.

“Wow.” I wave the note toward Culebra. “This makes me want to drop everything and ring him right up. He doesn’t even say please. Christ. Why would I want to help him?”

Culebra lifts his shoulders. “It must be important.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Didn’t tell you what exactly?”

“For Christ’s sake, call him, will you?” Culebra’s irritation flares, radiates outward from his thoughts and burns into my head. Don’t be so goddamned stubborn.

I don’t even know if I still have his number. A last whining excuse.

Of course you still have his number. In your cell.

He’s right. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of telling him. Just like I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that deep down I want to call Max. Only to satisfy my curiosity. Only to find out how Max plans to grovel his way back into my good graces. Only to enjoy turning him down no matter what he says.

His leaving was no laughing matter, but telling him to go to hell would be good for a laugh, not to mention my ego.

I turn my back on Culebra and stomp out, letting one thought drift back.

Fucking men.

CHAPTER 3

On the drive back home I debate with myself.

Do I want to call Max? It’s been eight months since the last time we ran into each other in Beso de la Muerte under less-than-perfect conditions.

Why would I want to call Max? On the off chance that he wants to tell me what an ass he’s been and to thank me at long last for saving his ass in Mexico?

Shit.

It irritates me to realize I’m curious. It irritates me to realize I want to know why he wants to talk to me.

It irritates the hell out of me to realize I know how long it’s been since I’ve seen him without doing the math.

I’m sure Culebra knows more than he let on. Max is a drug enforcement agent. He spends quite a bit of time in Mexico, and has used Culebra as an informant. Not in an official capacity. Culebra has a lot of contacts on both sides of the law and the border. He and Max have a quid pro quo arrangement. Culebra helps Max when he can, and in turn, Max keeps quiet when he comes to Beso de la Muerte to ensure that those under Culebra’s protection are not hassled.

At least that’s the way it worked when Max and I were together.

A lifetime ago.

CHAPTER 4

I’ve been sitting on the bed staring at the telephone in my hand for fifteen minutes. Max’s number is up on the screen, just waiting for my finger to press SEND . I’m not sure now why I’m so hesitant. There’s only one reason I’d call him, and the only thing I have to decide is the number of expletives to insert before I tell him to fuck off.

So what’s the problem?

I suck it up and punch SEND .

He picks up so fast, it takes me a second to realize he’s on the line.

“Max?”

“Anna.” There’s relief in his voice. “Thanks for calling. I need to see you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. Can I come in?”

My grip on the phone tightens. “What do you mean, come in? Where are you?”

“Outside. On the boardwalk.”

I cross the bedroom to the deck, look toward the ocean. The boardwalk is crowded. It takes me a second to locate him. Max is leaning against the seawall, staring up toward the cottage. He waves when he sees me. But it’s not a cheery wave and he’s not smiling.

I’m not smiling either. “What are you doing here? How did you know I’d call?”

“I didn’t, but Culebra told me you’d picked up the note.”

“Did he also tell you I don’t want to talk to you?”

“Yes. I’m glad to see he was wrong.”

“He wasn’t wrong. There’s only one reason I’d call you. To tell you to fuck off—”

“Anna, please.” I see Max cup his hand around the phone. “If there was anyone else I could go to about this I would. You are the only one who can help.”

“Jesus, Max.” Irritation and anger crash like cymbals in my head. “Why so dramatic? You sound like you’re jonesing for a fix. God. Is that what this is about? You tired of screwing anonymous vamps? You remembering what a good thing you threw away?”

“No. Anna.” He bites off the words. “Everything isn’t about you . I need you because I think I’m dealing with a vampire. A vicious vampire. And I don’t know how to fight him. I thought you’d want to help. Culebra thought you’d want to help. Guess we were both wrong.”

He snaps his cell phone shut, ending the conversation before I can respond. He doesn’t look my way again, but heads up the boardwalk toward the parking lot. He shoulders are drawn up, his strides long, fast, stiff with anger.

Shit. A vampire? It takes me about a heartbeat to decide. I’m probably going to regret this, but I’m down the stairs, have grabbed up my purse and keys and reached the end of the boardwalk before he does.

Max isn’t startled when I appear in front of him like a genie sprung from a bottle. He knows what I can do. But he doesn’t look relieved or pleased either. He stares down at me from his six-foot-three-inch vantage point and waits for me to speak first.

“What do you mean you’re dealing with a vampire?”

His shoulders hunch up even more. The lines of his face draw down, as if weighted. He looks tired. He looks stressed. The Max I knew—the one with lively blue eyes, a quick smile, and sun-burnished Latino good looks—has been swallowed up by this sallow-faced, sober, weary doppelgänger.

“Are you sure you want to hear this? Or are you waiting for another opportunity to tell me what a fuckup I’ve been?”

I close the distance between us and jab a finger into his chest. “Oh, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to do that. Right now, I want to know what you meant on the telephone.”

He looks around. “Let’s walk. I don’t want to risk being overheard.”

The boardwalk teems with people. Skateboarders, cyclists, Rollerbladers, joggers. If we walk here, we’ll spend most of our time dodging incoming. I’m not going to invite him to the cottage, either. I don’t want him invading my personal space.

“Let’s cross to the bay side.”