Ricky chuckled. “I don’t need your permission to beat off.”
“No, but you want it.”
Ricky’s smile slipped.
Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. It’d been all joking fun until he inadvertently hit on the truth.
Silence crept in, and unspoken words caught and held between them. Neither of them looked away.
Throughout their seven-year friendship, he’d accepted his best friend’s sexual interest in him. It was never shoved in his face, and he didn’t let it make things weird.
They were too close to ever feel awkward around each other. Even now, as Ricky stared at him in a way he couldn’t reciprocate—eyes hooded, pupils dilated, lips parted—he didn’t resent his friend for it.
But he wouldn’t send mixed signals, either.
“Ricky.” He hardened his voice. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” With a forced smile, Ricky steered them back to the safety of their banter. “So no solitary sex? For three months?”
“I advise against all sex.” He glanced around at the scarred, tattooed faces of Mexico’s hardest criminals. “Considering your pool of potential dates.”
“What about the smokin’ hot chili pepper at your ten o’clock?”
His gaze shifted, instantly locking on her deep brown eyes.
She was watching his interaction with Ricky, a frown pinned on her gorgeous face and the turned page of her book forgotten in her hand.
He could’ve looked around the room and determined how long each man had been here by the dimness in his eyes. The light in hers hadn’t completely faded, but fractures distorted the glow. Broken memories of a different life.
She bore tattoos, carried weapons, smoked cigarettes, and scowled at everyone. But beneath the tough exterior lurked an innocent sort of curiosity that didn’t fit in Jaulaso.
Maybe he was wrong, but she hadn’t been here very long. Not as long as most of these men.
Her attention pinged between her book and her surroundings, lingering on Ricky and him more than anyone else in the room.
“She’s watching you, isn’t she?” Ricky asked.
“Watching us.” He shared a smile with his friend and returned to her.
Her brows gathered, her expression incredulous.
“She looks confused.” He smiled bigger. “Like she’s never seen a happy person.”
“Maybe she hasn’t. Certainly not in this shithole.” Ricky scanned the perimeter. “Nothing but gray walls and breathing corpses.”
“I wonder how long she’s in for.”
A lot of the prisoners came here to rot, and they carried that hopelessness in their bones.
This was the hardest assignment he and Ricky ever attempted, but it was temporary, just a job, not the end of the road for them.
“We need to talk to her.” Ricky put away the playing cards. “Find out who she is.”
“We don’t need to do anything.”
“Because she’ll come to us.” Ricky sat back and carved a hand through his thick black hair.
“Yeah.” Holding her gaze, he gave her a wink.
Her shoulders tightened, and she shut the book. Then she pushed away from the table and strode out of the room.
Garra straightened from his post against the wall. Instead of following her, he made a beeline to their table.
“Incoming,” Martin said beneath his breath.
Ricky slowly twisted in his chair, his expression hardening into granite.
He was one of the most laid-back guys Martin had ever met, but when the situation demanded it, he could switch on his primitive drive and turn into one scary motherfucker.
Garra towered over their table, dressed head-to-toe in black, resembling a forty-year-old Antonio Banderas, without the congeniality or charm.
“We’re not interested,” Ricky said in Spanish, exaggerating the trill of his Rs.
“Not interested?”
“Gold necklaces.” Ricky motioned at the heavy chains draped around Garra’s neck. “Are you not a jewelry salesman?”
“Stupid fucking gabacho.”
“It’s a joke, not a dick. Don’t take it so hard. And for the record, calling me a gabacho isn’t entirely accurate. I’m at least one-eighth Latino.”
As if. Ricky might’ve been born in the U.S., but his mother was an illegal immigrant from Mexico.
With a growl, Garra turned toward Martin and leaned in, his eyes like black marbles. “I don’t like the way you look at her.”
“What way is that?” Martin rose to his feet, forcing the man to step back.
“You want to fuck her.”
“Every man in Jaulaso wants to fuck her. Look around.”
Garra didn’t move his eyes. He didn’t even blink.
“What I want is a meeting with her.” Martin knew the answer before it punched through the air.
“No.”
“Just tell me one thing.” Ricky drew out a long pause, probably just to fuck with the scowling man. “I’m trying to get a jump start on my Christmas shopping and noticed she likes books. What was she reading?”
“200 Ways To Gut A White Boy.”
Ol’ Garra didn’t miss a beat, but neither did Ricky. “If the rumors are true, she doesn’t need a book to do that. I hear she’s terrifying with a knife.”
Ricky didn’t believe the gossip any more than Martin did. He was fishing for the truth.
“If you want your balls to remain attached to your body,” Garra said, “you’ll heed those warnings and stay away from her.”