Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)

Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2) Page 37

I had to get to Travis.

Then the real freedom would come.

I sighed and looked over myself in the antique mirror. My hair was done up in ringlets again, my makeup still heavy handed but appropriate for daytime. My razor blade necklace hung around my neck, a reminder of who I was and why I was doing this. My outfit wasn’t risqué like last night’s but still pretty. Floor-length black peasant skirt, black and hot pink Mexican print off-the-shoulder top. I’d cut a flower from the patio and pinned it in my hair.

Before Javier dropped me off, we went over the plan one last time. I was to take a taxi to the market and spend a few hours acting like a tourist, stopping at every booth, smelling fruits, tasting samples and haggling with vendors over leather belts. Travis would be making his rounds. Somehow I’d have to get myself noticed in the crowd. Now was the time to make the move, to flirt, or “whatever it was that you did to me” as Javier put it.

I had no idea what that was. I was taken with Javier the moment I first laid eyes on him. It was hard not to be, his magnetism came shining through. But Travis … I couldn’t imagine flirting with him. I knew once I saw him, it would take all I had again to keep myself from hurting him. But I had to be strong. I had to be the con artist that I was meant to be: cool, collected and in control. Or, in other words, I had to become like Javier.

I gave myself one last look in the mirror and swiped on bright pink blush to liven up my face before I headed out to the lobby. The day was sweltering and vacationers were already lying by the azure pool, getting the sun’s rays before it became too unbearable. Half of them looked like tomatoes already.

Enrico called for my cab at the front desk and wished me good luck, adding that he’d check on my room later tonight to see if I needed anything. I knew what that meant – he’d relay my messages back to Javier. I didn’t see why I couldn’t just call him, why this had to be such a secretive operation. Perhaps the cartel had control over the phone lines too.

They certainly had control over the market. I had wondered what the point in all of this was, why did I have to set everything up so delicately and convoluted when someone could just bring a sniper rifle to the market and blow Travis’s head off. Once I got out of the cab, I understood how powerful the man was. He practically owned Veracruz, or at least its army and police force.

Everywhere you looked there were armed guards and army-fatigued police officers, automatic rifles at their sides. They were stationed at all corners of the market, as well as inside the market, patrolling the aisles, hands behind their backs. I did a quick sweep of the surrounding buildings as the cab driver counted the pesos I’d handed him. When you looked for it, you could find them everywhere – a face at a broken window, a couple of guards on the roofs. The entire market was being watched and patrolled from every single angle. Whoever was stupid enough to try and kill Travis here would probably not only fail but certainly die in the process.

All of this protection for one horrible man. A horrible man with far too much power and money.

A man that I was supposed to stop.

It seemed laughable now.

The cabbie gave me back a few pesos – he’d short changed me but I didn’t care. I shoved it in my macramé purse, threw my shoulders back and prepared to enter the chaos of Veracruz’s Saturday open-air market.

Vibrant was definitely one way to describe it. I bet there was nothing you couldn’t buy here. From hanging chickens and chilies to hand-tooled leather bags and expertly woven shawls, it had everything you could want. There was a tiny part of me who thrilled in this, pretending, just for a second, that I was a tourist looking for souvenirs from her trip to Mexico. I smiled politely at merchants, waved my hands dismissively at those who were shoving pig’s ears in my face. I fumbled through my first lines of Spanish, drawing confused looks from a guy I was trying to buy silver earrings from, until I finally hit my stride and was able to communicate the basics. I walked away with the earrings, a white silk shawl, bags of miniature limes (they were cute and I figured in another life I could make margaritas out of them) and brightly-colored chili peppers, a leather belt with a silver buckle that had “bad girl” engraved on it and a greasy paper bag full of churros.

I’d munched through one of the churros and made my way around the market for the second time, the sun beating down mercilessly. I stepped into the shade of an awning, part of a butcher shop where cow hocks were being hung on hooks and flies buzzed around greedily and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I didn’t want to look like I was searching for anything in particular, but I hadn’t seen Travis yet. I figured that was strange considering he’d be easy to spot, no doubt flanked by a whole phalanx of bodyguards, as if all the stationary guards weren’t enough. He really would want to be seen as the city’s Don Vito Corleone.

I stayed in the shade until the sweat cooled and I set off again, this time walking down the middle aisles where the crowd was the thickest. A tiny little shopkeeper in a ruffled dress jumped out from behind her stall and started waving around sarongs, pointing to my skirt and yammering on about how I must buy them.

I did my shake of the head, hands waving no, combined with the polite and sympathetic smile but the woman wasn’t having any of it.

“You American, you buy,” she said in broken English. She was pushy but her gap-toothed smile was so genuine that I felt bad for refusing her. She placed the sarong in my hands, getting me to pet the fabric, as if it were made out of precious gold instead of scratchy cotton.

I was still shaking my head, trying to be gentle about it, when my eyes went over her tiny head and focused on something in the crowd of shoppers.

There was a man, a white man about a foot taller than everyone else, who had stopped down the aisle in front of one of the stalls. I couldn’t see his face, just his profile from behind. Strong tanned neck, short black hair that glinted blue in the sunlight, and ears that stuck out slightly.

My heart hammered in my chest, demanding I acknowledge its presence.

It couldn’t be.

Then he turned around and looked my way.

Looked right at me.

Blue, beautifully blue and soulful eyes behind Clark Kent glasses. Strong, wide jaw, full lips, straight nose. Model looks on a model body, dense muscular shoulders, biceps I couldn’t fit my hands around. I knew because I’d tried. Tight black t-shirt that showed it all off, including a sling that went around one shoulder, propping up his heavily-inked arm.

Camden McQueen.

I dropped the sarong, my bags, everything, caught up in his stare. It couldn’t be him. Why was he here?

Had he really come for me after all?

An enormous wash of peace and heart and warmth came over me, giving me strength and resolve that seemed to resonate in my bones. I broke out into a smile so wide I thought my face would split in two. My chest was about to burst.

But he did not return the smile. He kept staring at me, over the heads of everyone bustling past him, the chaotic noise and movements. His eyes were hard, almost cold. Hurt. Something inside me was bleeding, just a trickle.

Then he turned around, started walking away. It wiped the smile clear off my face.

“Wait!” I yelled, trying to be heard above the noise of the market. I left my bags at my feet and started running down the aisle to get to him. I could see his head disappearing slowly, the further he got away from me, the more the patrons, couples, families, tourists, got between us. “Camden!”

Why was he trying to get away from me? Did he not see me? Did he not recognize me?

I kept pushing my way through, knocking over people’s bags, shoving them into each other, knocking over crates of fruit, yelling, “Lo siento,” the whole time. I squeezed past everything and everyone, ducking, dodging, trying my hardest to catch Camden.

And just when the aisle intersected with another aisle, just when I saw the space in front of me open up, someone stepped out in front of me. Not just someone.

Someone and his many bodyguards.

I nearly ran straight into Travis Raines.

My feet stopped in time and I wavered inches away from him.

He was staring down at me, a predatory smile on his face. I shot him a quick glance, forgetting all about the part I was supposed to be playing, and said, “I’m sorry.”

I made a move to get around him – I had to get to Camden – but he reached out and grabbed my arm, softly. His fingers met with my skin and I felt revulsion swarm all over me.

“Young lady, you look familiar to me,” he said. His accent was strange, Southern but he’d subconsciously picked up on the cadence of Spanish.

My brain was caught, bogged up, stuck. I had to act the part. I had to find Camden. I had to destroy Travis. I had to get out of here. I had to stop running from my past. I had to run after my future.

My future was getting away.

I swallowed hard, realizing that Travis was staring at me, waiting for an answer and if I didn’t play my cards right, I wouldn’t have a future to run away to.

“Uh, I don’t think we’ve met before,” I said and smiled sweetly, amazed that my voice sounded steady. “I’m not from here.”

“I can see that,” he said, tone light and eyes … well, I tried not to look at his eyes, at their cold dark depths. I looked at his bodyguards instead, all four of them, big guys with faces made of stone. Each second I stood there was a second away from getting Camden. My Camden. Who came for me, to rescue me, to make sure I was safe. My Camden who looked at me with all the hurt in the world.

Oh god, what have I done?

My eyes drifted over to the stalls, hoping I’d spot him somewhere. Wishful thinking. Travis leaned in closer.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“I thought I saw someone I knew.” Shit. I needed to hold it together.

“Then you see how it can happen. I saw you last night. You were at my club.”

“Your club?” I asked, taking in his bodyguards again because that’s exactly what a young woman would do if this man was talking to her like this, surrounded by these thugs.

He grinned and clacked his teeth together, like he was taking bites out of something. It made my blood run cold. “Yes, my club. I own The Zoo. I take it you don’t know who I am?”

You are the monster who ruined my life, I thought to myself, keeping my face as neutral as possible. You are the reason I’m here and not running after the person who came after me.

“No,” I said, “an American I’m guessing.”

He cocked his head to the side, appraising me, something that Javier would sometimes do. The comparison made me feel sick.

How the fuck did my mother get involved with this man?

“Yes. You’re an American too,” he said. “California accent perhaps?”

I frowned, trying to remember what my fake ID had said. My fake name. My god, I’d forgotten everything already.

“You’re good,” I told him. “I grew up in California. Pismo Beach.”

He clacked his teeth together again. Psycho.

“And what is your name, California girl?”

I swallowed hard. “Eleanor.”