Page 19 of Intent to Kill
Mercedes turned over in bed, hopeful that, as usual, he wouldn’t stay long.
She also wished Adam wouldn’t stay long. That he’d stayed away. She’d fought so hard to keep everyone together after he’d left. She gave everything she had to make sure she didn’t lose the others the way she lost him, and him being back jeopardized every bit of hard work she had put into keeping them safe.
Dorian wasn’t the love of her life. He wasn’t a thrill. But being with him kept them safe. Only sometimes did she allow herself to miss the great love that she had when she was younger. Back in the day, she and Adam would have given up the world just for one last kiss. They would’ve killed, murdered, beaten their way through anything to find their way back to each other. It was a fire of love so strong she was sure she’d never have another in her lifetime. And after what it cost her the first time, she never wanted one like it again.
* * *
JULY 1985
Behind the bar at the Neptune Club, Mercedes spun the vodka in her hands, spilling droplets on the floor as it tipped upright, and she expertly poured the drink into six shot glasses.
Mercedes lived a double life. By night, she worked full time bartending at the Neptune Club. By day, she’d street race under an alias, sporting a black helmet to hide her face and her blonde hair. Dangerous, because she had to keep hidden. Worth it, because she was the best.
Sometime just before midnight, Paul appeared through the front doors of the club. He sat down at the bar stool in front of her, resting his hands on the sticky countertop, and shoveling peanuts into his mouth with the same tact as a circus elephant.
“Envelope for you, my dear.” Paul slid a pay packet over the bar. She couldn’t collect her own race winnings, not without giving away her cover. She’d either get Paul to pick them up on her behalf, or pretend to be her own girlfriend, picking up money for a racer boyfriend.
“So how much did you win on the track today?” Paul asked.
“A hot five hundred,” Mercedes beamed. She served Paul a scotch on the rocks in a short glass…on the house, of course. “And you, my friend?”
Looking a little too smug for her liking, Paul smirked, rubbing his hands over his bald head and puffing up his chest. He was a brute of a man. Thin but still insanely muscular. His dark skin perfectly complemented his golden eyes, and contrasted magically against the gray shirts he insisted were his color. He was right. “You’d never believe me.”
“Go on,” Mercedes said. Tipping a mix into a shaker, she raised the drink above her head and shook.
“Two thousand.”
“Fuck off,” she said, slamming the shaker back onto the bar.
“And that was just my cut.”
“It’s those three guys you’re hanging around with now, isn’t it?” Mercedes sighed. Paul was her first and longest friend. Like a brother. His business was her business. Especially when he made it his business to be an idiot.
“They’re good guys, M.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mercedes said, pouring the contents of the shaker into a cocktail glass garnished with a lemon. “They’re making dangerous work more dangerous than it has to be. Are you even picking up legitimate jobs? Who do they work for? The Blake’s or the Cortez Cartel?”
Paul’s mouth tightened, but Mercedes knew she had made her point. She nodded and went back to flipping liquor into shot glasses. “If you’re not working for the Blake’s or the Cortez Cartel, then you’re asking to die.”
“Mercedes.” Paul lured her in with his finger. “Look me in the eye.”
She wasn’t overtly interested in listening, but for Paul she’d do him the courtesy of pretending to hear him out. Resting her hands on the bar, she leaned in.
“You are the best driver in this town. You drive circles around the fuckwits that these guys have working for them. Aren’t you sick of being overlooked just because they can’t see anything other than a pair of tits on you?”
Paul was right. Mercedes was the best driver in the city. By a mile. If she were a man, the money she would make would set her up for life.
“Fuck this system, fuck these guys, and fuck working for the Blake Family in this useless joint. Look,” he said. “We need a driver for our next job.”
“Of course.” Mercedes broke away. That was plenty. She’d heard him out. “I knew you wanted something.”
“I’m serious,” Paul said. “If you’ve got skills, they won’t give a shit what’s in your shirt.”
Mercedes glanced over Paul’s shoulder where someone she’d never met before was making a direct approach toward her, his smile just as beaming as the insane look in his eyes. He was oozing confidence, and looked more alive than anyone should’ve felt in Ridge City. Every eye in the strip club turned to him, seeming to sense his aura. Threat? Unclear. But likely.
The mystery man pushed in between Paul and the adjacent bar stool, leaning across the counter and eyeing her up and down. “Well, hello.”
“Mercedes Preston, this is Adam Vandemilio,” Paul introduced.
