I think about my appointment with Maddox for next weekend. I should cancel it, but some stubborn part of me refuses. One visit. A conversation to hear from his own lips how he’s doing. That’s all I want. My father can’t begrudge me that, especially if he never knows.
3
Leo
It takes me several minutes to relax, but eventually the buzz of the needles and the dull pain of them piercing my skin distract me from the clusterfuck that just left the shop.
“You chill, dude?” Maddox asks, pausing to swipe a cool, damp towel over his work before digging in again.
I picture Gustavo’s face and clench my bruised fist, wishing I’d hit the fucker harder. Then the image of Celeste’s shock cools my rage, leaving nothing but shame in its wake.
“I’m such a fucking asshole,” I mutter into the pillow I’ve been clutching all night. I bury my face deeper and emit a frustrated roar that’s muffled by the foam. I’m a little ashamed that Mad Dog saw me lose control like that. I don’t usually give a shit what people think of me, but for some reason his opinion matters.
“You know how dangerous she is, right?”
“Of course I know.” Despite being the daughter of the city’s most prominent crime lord, Celeste has always been above the ruthless, blood-soaked carnage that occurs on the streets of her father’s city. She’s so far beyond my reach, any effort to grasp her is futile. She’s not someone a man like me should pursue. Besides, I may as well have tried to pull down the moon and fuck it for all the attention she’s ever given me. Our contact is limited to the role I play as her bodyguard, and more recently the casual friendship we’ve formed because my older brother is joined at the hip to her best friend. She keeps a careful distance from us despite how much time we spend together, as if there’s an impenetrable bubble between her and the rest of the world. And I know it’s better to keep my distance too.
But Gustavo was right. Toni and Manny’s relationship doesn’t give me the right to touch Celeste, much less want her as much as I do. That doesn’t stop my driving need to protect her from assholes like Gustavo, who just see her as a status symbol or a way to get closer to her father.
“Papá Flores would rip you to pieces if you hurt his daughter,” Maddox says with a hint of bitterness. I read between the lines. He doesn’t mean me, but any man. Gustavo too. I let out a muffled grunt of agreement and finally relax, lulled by the steady rhythm of his tattoo machine and the monotonous dig of the needles into my back. Arturo “Papá” Flores doesn’t hesitate to protect what’s his.
Maddox’s tone sinks in further, and I twist my head a little, eyeing his profile sideways. “You sound like you know them.”
“Anyone who grows up on the dark side of LA knows Papá Flores.”
I narrow my eyes at his bullshit reply. After a second, he catches me staring at him and puffs out a breath.
“Fuck. Fine, yeah, I’ve met them before.” His head tilts toward the doorway. “Mom was Celeste’s dance teacher for years when we were kids. You could say we grew up together, but I only ever saw her when I was here helping Mom out. Papá Flores came around once in a while to pick her up after class. I learned the hard way how dangerous it is to get close.”
He stops tattooing, and I roll onto my side. I follow his gaze to the doorway and beyond the bat wings. The shop shares a windowed wall with the dance studio next door. Before Maddox took over this space, it was the reception area and office for his mother’s studio, but a shit economy and downsizing required some compromise. I think it’s part of the reason Maddox keeps the front of his shop so trendy with the artsy photographs. The walls in his mom’s studio are also covered with photographs of dancers he’s taken over the past year. The man is all about the side hustle and apparently earns a fair bit of extra cash shooting rich ballerina wannabes for their parents.
But now he has that thousand-yard stare like he’s lost in the past, and I wonder if it’s a good memory or a bad one. He doesn’t share much about his time in Afghanistan, but every now and then his rigid control over his features shatters and some of the damage he hides peeks out. It’s not that hard to tell that the sleeve of tats that covers his left arm is meant to conceal some serious scar tissue. Sometimes I wish he’d share more, but he’s cagey as fuck about his past. This new tidbit promises to be revealing, but for the first time I’m not sure I want to know.
“You saying you got close?” I ask, jealousy twisting my gut. I’ve known the Flores family since I was a kid but only ever from a distance, until about five years ago, when La Valla officially became part of Papá’s empire. If Mad Dog knew Celeste before that, my admiration for him will probably turn into full-on hero worship.
His expression grows thoughtful. He turns back to me, dips his needles into the ink and taps my shoulder with a black-gloved hand. I lie down again, itching to know the story, but it never pays to push Mad Dog Santos into doing anything he doesn’t want to do.
“This fucking stays between us,” he says in a low voice. “But Celeste was my first kiss.”
I’m so astounded by the confession I don’t reply. He works for a few minutes, and my jealousy is eventually overrun by
