Page 28 of Vicious Little Liar
Wordlessly, I follow. We pass by a large fountain, the water making a soft gurgling sound as he takes me deeper into the home.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Sí, princesa. This is exactly where you should be.”
Voices reach my ears as we clear the courtyard. Making our way up a handful of steps, we pass through another curved archway into what I assume is the primary living space of the home. I immediately spot Andres’s brother, who’s taken a position in the far corner of the room. There are a few other men milling around. One I recognize as being the man that drove us here. The others are new, and based on their appearances, they’re members of the DeAnde Cartel, but not blood relations to the family.
“Did you enjoy yourself, brother?” Adrian asks as soon as he notices our arrival. His words are said with humor, but the look on his face is far from amused. Eyes narrowed into slits, he looks me up and down. His disapproval of my being here is obvious.
“No,” Andres says, not bothering to elaborate. “I have things I need to discuss with Leticia. Clear the room.”
The other men are quick to follow Andres’s orders, making themselves scarce without so much as a word of complaint at their quick dismissal. But his brother is slower to comply. His reluctance is obvious in the hard set of his shoulders and pulsing vein at his temple, both of which he follows up with a glower my way.
“There are no secrets in this family,” Adrian says.
“No,” Andres agrees. “There aren’t. But this is both a sensitive and a personal matter.”
Adrian scoffs. “Yet it is still one that affects our entire family!”
Hearing the anger in his brother’s words, Andres goes eerily still. I doubt he is accustomed to anyone—even members of his family—speaking to him like this. If I’d used that tone with Papá, I’d find myself on the ground, holding a red marked cheek.
“Leave.” Andres is stone-faced, his body coiled tight with tension. “I won’t tell you again.”
Adrian leaves the room, his angry steps echoing across the tiled floor. If there was a door in the archway that led out of the room, I have no doubt he would have slammed it. Several seconds go by before the sound of his footsteps fade away. When they do, a small fraction of the strain on Andres’s face subsides, and he releases my hand.
Andres cuts across the room to an intricately carved wooden bar that is positioned in the corner. He starts to make himself a drink, retrieving a glass, ice, and his liquor of choice.
Uncertain of what I should do, I stay where I am, watching as he pours three fingers of Gran Patrón Burdeos tequila into a glass before taking a small sip.
“I’ll have one, too,” I tell him.
His brows climb up his forehead. “You drink?”
I shrug, understanding his surprise. On more than one occasion when we were teenagers, I swore I’d never touch so much as a drop of alcohol. He never asked me why, but knowing Andres, I’m sure he knew.
Papá is a ruthless man, but he’s an even angrier drunk. And I never want to become someone like him. But I’ve realized as I’ve gotten older that alcohol doesn’t create vileness or cruelty in a man. It can only heighten or dull the emotions that are already there.
In this case, I need it to dull my anxious nerves. “Things change.”
Not questioning my response—a fact for which I am grateful—Andres retrieves a second glass from beneath the bar.
“Do you want anything added to it?”
I stifle a scoff. Gran Patrón Burdeos is not a tequila you mix with anything. At five-hundred dollars a bottle, it is meant to be sipped and enjoyed as it is. “No. I’ll take it neat.”
He nods and pours the tequila into my glass, giving me half of what he’s poured for himself.Cute.
Andres makes his way back to me, a glass of dark amber liquid in each of his hands. Offering me the glass he’d intended for me, I bypass his outstretched hand and instead take the glass he poured for himself.
Without hesitation, I throw the liquor back, wincing at the uncomfortable burn that slides down my throat. Gran Patrón Burdeos is not supposed to be downed like a shot, either. But if I’m going to survive this next conversation, a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
With a grunt, he takes my now empty glass and sets it on the side table before taking a seat in one of the large leather lounge chairs decorating the room. Taking another small sip of his drink, he peers at me over the rim of his glass and indicates that I sit down in the chair seated across from him.
For a moment, I consider denying him. Though what would be the point?
Feeling petty, I do as he asks, but instead of taking the seat he suggests, I sit down in a different one, realizing too late that the club seat I’ve chosen puts me closer to him when what I want is for us to be further apart.
Andres smirks into his drink, but doesn’t comment on my choice.
