The walls looked like they were painted a lighter bronze than the bedding. There was nothing fancy about the bedside table, or the headboard or footboard of the bed. Just wood, from what Bianca could see. To the right, there was a small, free-standing bar with three stools in front of it. Straight ahead was a large, abstract painting. Bianca was sure that if she didn’t have a throbbing headache, she would have been able to stare at it long enough to figure out just what all the different shapes, sizes, and colors formed into. But not right now. Staring at that thing any longer and forcing her brain to do more work than necessary would only make her headache worse.
“So, she awakens.”
“Ugh!” Bianca screamed and grabbed her chest. Her eyes followed the sound to the corner of the room, between the painting and the entry door on the left, where the voice had just come from. There, she could make out a male figure. She couldn’t focus in on his face, but she could tell that his legs were crossed. One of his arms rested on the wooden arm of the oversized upholstered chair, while another one looked to be up near his mouth. There was a flickering red spark at his mouth, letting Bianca know that he was taking a puff of something. From the large size of the tip, she was willing to bet it was a cigar.
Bianca exhaled, gathering her bearings. She’d come too far to appear weak now. “Rocco, if all you wanted to do was get me in bed, you should have said that from the start.” Bianca used her hand to wiggle her nose bone. “You didn’t have to punch me. Besides, didn’t your mother ever teach you that boys shouldn’t hit girls?” Bianca waited for an answer. She could hear him exhale.
“For one,” he started, using a strained voice as he tried to speak and exhale the remaining smoke at the same time, “mi madre taught me very well.” He stood, taking a step toward the bed. “For two—” He paused, taking another puff from his cigar. Once again, he spoke as he blew out a puff of smoke. “I’m not Rocco.”
The mystery man now stood in the light of the lamp, and Bianca could see clearly that he was not Rocco. He reached down to the lamp, pushing a button that now gave the bulb a brighter glow. Bianca could now see the gentleman’s facial features in detail. She observed his eyes, nose, mouth, and complexion. They were all so familiar to her. She had no doubts that the person her entire night revolved around was now standing only a couple of feet from her.
“Who . . . are you?” Bianca asked, trying to keep it together. “You’re not Rocco.”
He sat on the bed, his back to Bianca. Once again, he crossed his legs and puffed on his cigar, only now Bianca could tell by the scent of marijuana flowing up her nostrils that he wasn’t smoking a cigar, but instead a blunt. He exhaled. He then held the blunt over his shoulder, offering Bianca a puff.
“No, thank you,” Bianca said. “I don’t do drugs.”
He snickered and then took another puff. “You don’t do drugs, huh?”
“You heard me,” Bianca said. “And I usually don’t share a bed with strangers, either.”
He turned his head to the left, just barely able to see Bianca sitting behind him. “You come to my place of business, you try to sell drugs right here on my turf, in my fucking house—” He beat on his chest—“and you don’t even know who I am?”
Bianca put up her hand. “Whoa. Is that what this is about? Me offering some skeezer bitch a couple of pills?”
“You didn’t offer her shit. You tried to sell them to whoever she could find for you,” he said. “That’s a big difference. Either way it goes, you’re fucking up my business.” His voice rose with anger.
“Sorry,” Bianca apologized, as diplomatically as she knew how.
“Sorry, huh?” he said in a disgruntled but calm tone. There was something about this guy’s swagger and demeanor that let her know that he wasn’t one for her to play with. All she could do was be as respectful as she knew how to be.
“I guess I didn’t look at it like that. I wasn’t trying to infringe on your . . . business. Pushing drugs isn’t really my thing. I came across a few Molly pills on my travels here to Miami.”
“Where did you come to Miami from?” he asked.
“Georgia,” Bianca said. She hadn’t lied. Georgia was actually where she’d left her car and where she’d taken the Greyhound into Miami.
“Let me guess: Atlanta. The place where everyone goes these days if they can’t make it in their town.” He laughed.
Bianca let him laugh, deciding not to confirm or deny his assumption. “I figured since I had them, I might as well make a little extra money unloading them until I got my real business all set up. A girl’s gotta eat.”
“Real business, huh?”
“Yeah, a real business. Something that I have and you’re missing.”
He laughed again. “Let me guess. Since you don’t ordinarily push pills, what is it you usually push?” He turned and looked at Bianca then said, “Girl Scout cookies?” He laughed again as he got up. He then abruptly stopped laughing and turned around. “I’ll take all the Thin Mints you have in stock, and then after that, I don’t want to see your ass around The Den ever again. You hear me?” He was right in Bianca’s face, nose-to-nose. His threatening voice and facial expression didn’t even make her flinch. He smiled while pulling back. “Rocco was right. You are a wannabe bad-ass. He was wrong about you being the law. Too young and dumb to be five-oh.”
Bianca had figured out that that was why Rocco had ripped off her dress—to check for wires. She’d proven that she wasn’t wearing one,
