Page 7 of Rent an Enforcer

It’s a Mexican place. Small, wedged between a laundromat and a nail salon. The door is heavy, and when it swings shut behind us, it cuts the street noise to nothing. Right away, the aroma of cumin and roasted chili wraps itself around me, and I close my eyes, breathing deep.

“This is what you want out of an authentic restaurant,” Tristan murmurs as we head for a booth with a red vinyl seat.

“What is?” I ask.

“You want a place that doesn’t look like much.” When I lift an eyebrow, he adds, “That’s always where you’ll find the best food. Some hole in the wall where they haven’t bothered updating the decor because they’re so busy cranking out great food.”

Makes sense.

A waiter brings chips and salsa that smells like charred tomato. My mouth is watering before I’ve even reached for one.

Then our waters reach the table, and my hand freezes in midair because oh my God.

Straws. One in each glass. Paper ones, already starting to soften in the water. My fingers go cold. I swear, I can already feel that straw stabbing the inside of my mouth.

Tristan follows my gaze and frowns. I don’t have to say anything. Without a word, he reaches over, pulls both straws out of both glasses, and sets them on the far edge of the table under a napkin, like he’s hiding them.

Just like that. No comment. No face.

Before I think about it, I’m up, out of my side of the booth, and sliding in next to him. He takes up most of the bench, but I squeeze myself into the space left for me with my shoulder against his arm.

He shifts to make room without asking why. “Better,” I murmur. All he does is put a chip in his mouth and nod, like this makes all the sense in the world.

He’s right about the food. The enchiladas are messy and perfect; the rice is maybe the most flavorful rice I’ve ever eaten in my life. The beans have a smoky flavor that leaves me wondering if it would be okay to lick the plate. I decide against it, but just barely.

“Do you come here often?” I ask him between bites, which isn’t easy, considering I can’t stop shoveling the food into my face. I don’t even want to think about the last time I ate a solid meal like this.

“When I’m passing through the area.”

“Do you do that a lot?” It doesn’t hit me until a frown touches the corners of his mouth that I’m asking too many questions. There I go again, reminding myself why I don’t do the whole in-person thing. “Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of beans. “You know, you can tell me to mind my own business. It’s okay.”

“Why would I do that?” His frown deepens.

Who is this guy? He’s a walking contradiction.

The waiter comes by to refill our water. I look up at him to say thank you when I notice the way he’s staring at the wall. Even that wouldn’t be too weird if it wasn’t for the way his hand is shaking. It makes the pitcher rattle against the glass. He sets it down too fast, making the water slosh dangerously. “Anything else, sir?”

He sounds like someone is squeezing him.

“No, thank you,” Tristan murmurs. The waiter backs up two steps before turning around and practically running for the kitchen.

I can’t help but watch him go, and once he disappears behind a swinging door, my attention falls on the man behind the counter. He’s older, thick forearms, with a dish towel over his shoulder. He basically looks like the kind of guy who could throw you out on the street without breaking a sweat.

And he’s staring at our table. No, he’s staring at Tristan.

“Are these people afraid of you?” I whisper to Tristan, who has been chewing through all of this and occasionally glancing up at the TV mounted to the wall where a soccer game is underway.

“Some people,” he mumbles, shrugging.

“But that waiter looked like you were holding his family hostage.”

“Eat your food.” He says it warmly, almost like he’s joking. Almost. I shrug and go back to my rice because what am I going to do? Let’s face it, he is an intimidating guy. They see the shaved head and the tattoo and the size of him, and they interpret it one way while I interpret it another. They might see the scars and the ink and go on the defensive. I see it, but all I see is a man who hid straws for me without asking why he had to do it.

I’m looking down at my plate, once again wondering if it would be rude for me to lick it clean, when I feel his body change next to me. It just so happens the front door has swung open, making the bell above it chime. Every muscle goes tight and his breathing shifts.

I glance up at him, then at the men. They don’t sit, either of them. They stand inside the door, hands in their jacket pockets, and they look at our booth. One of them has a neck thicker than my thigh. The other has eyes that remind me of a fish—flat, wet, empty. He mutters something to the thick-necked guy out of the corner of his mouth.

“Tristan?” I whisper.