Blue by You (7 page)
Authors: Rachel Gibson
“Little Stella Bella.”
She glanced up as she shut the door behind her. Crap. Ricky. “Mr. De Luca.”
“Are you leaving so soon?”
“My shift was over half an hour ago.”
Ricardo De Luca was a good seven inches taller than Stella and easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds. He always wore traditional guayabera shirts. Sometimes zipped, sometimes buttoned, but always pastel. Tonight it looked like tangerine. “You don’t have to leave so soon.” His lifestyle had aged him beyond his fifty-three years. He might have been handsome, but too much booze made him pink and bloated. He had a black ponytail and soul patch because he was under the delusion that it made him look younger. It just made him look sad.
“Good night,” she said, and stepped around him.
“Some of my friends are meeting me here.” He grabbed her arm, and his booze-soaked breath smacked her across the face. “Party with us.”
She took a step back but he didn’t release her. Her Mace was in her backpack, and she couldn’t get to it one-handed. “I can’t.” Anxiety crept up her spine and sped up her heart.
Relax. Breathe
, she told herself before her anxiety turned into panic. She hadn’t had a full-blown attack in several years. Not since she’d learned how to talk herself out of one.
This is Ricky. He wouldn’t hurt you.
But if he tried, she knew how to hurt
him
. She really didn’t want to shove the heel of her hand in his nose or her knee in his junk. She wanted to keep her job. “I’m meeting someone,” she lied.
“Who? A man? I bet I have more to offer.”
She needed her job. She made good money and was good at it. “Let go of my arm, please.”
“Why are you always running away?” The lights from the back of the bar shone across the thin layer of sweat above his top lip. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem, Mr. De Luca.” And she pointed out rather reasonably, or so she thought, “I’m your employee. You’re my boss. It’s just not a good idea for us to party together.” Then she topped it off with a little flattery. “I’m positive there are a lot of other women who would just love to party with you.” She tried to pull away but his grasp tightened. Her keys fell to the ground, and an old familiar fear turned her muscles tight.
Ricky wouldn’t hurt me
, she told herself again as she looked into his drunken gaze. He wouldn’t hold her against her will.
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”
“Please let go.” Instead, he gave her a hard jerk. She planted her free hand on his chest to keep from falling into him.
“Not yet.”
A deep rasp of a voice spoke from behind Ricky. “That’s twice.” The voice was so chilly it almost cooled the air, and Stella tried in vain to look over Ricky’s left shoulder. “Now let her go.”
“Fuck off,” Ricky said, and turned toward the voice. His grip slid to her wrist and she took a step back. “This is none of your business. Get out of my fucking lot.”
“It’s hot and I don’t want to work up a sweat. I’ll give you three seconds.”
“I said fuc—” A solid thud snapped Ricky’s head back. His grasp on her relaxed and he slid to the ground. Her mouth fell open and she sucked in a startled breath. Her Amy pouf tilted forward as she stared down at the tangerine lump at her feet. She blinked at him several times. What had just happened? Ricky looked like he was out cold. She pushed at his arm with the toe of her boot. Definitely out cold. “Holy frijole y guacamole,” she said on a rush of exhaled breath. “You killed him.”
“Not hardly.”
Stella glanced up from Ricky’s tangerine shirt to the big chest covered in a black T-shirt in front of her. Black pants, baseball cap, he was almost swallowed up in the black night like some hulking ninja. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt his gaze on her face. As cool as his voice and just as direct. There was something familiar about him. “I don’t think that was three seconds.”
“I get impatient sometimes.” He tilted his head to one side and glanced down at Ricky. “This is your boss?”
She looked down at Ricky. He
was
her boss.
Not now
. She couldn’t work for him now, which was moot because she was pretty sure she was fired. “Is he going to be okay?” And that made her mad. She had rent and utilities and a car payment.
“Do you care?”
Ricky snored once, twice, and she glanced back up into the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. Square chin and jaw. Thick neck. Big shoulders. Anna’s G.I. Joe. Did she care? Probably not as much as she should. “I don’t want him to die.”
“He’s not going to die.”
“How do you know?” She’d heard of people dying from one blow to the head.
“Because if I wanted him dead, he’d be dead. He wouldn’t be snoring right now.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know anything about the man standing in front of her, but she believed him. “Is Anna out here with you?” She looked behind him at the empty parking lot.
“Who?”
Stella knelt down and quickly grabbed her keys by Ricky’s shoulder. She didn’t want to touch him, but she paused just long enough to wave her hand in front of his eyes to make sure he was good and truly out. “Ricky?” She peered closer looking for blood. “Mr. De Luca?”
“Who’s Anna?”
“Anna Conda.” She didn’t see blood. Which was probably a good sign.
“I don’t know any Anna Conda.”
Ricky snored and blew his gross breath on her. She cringed and stood. “The drag queen in the snake gown. You’re not out here with her?”
He folded his arms across his big chest and rocked back on his heels. The shadow from the brim of his hat brushed the bow of his scowling top lip. “Negative. There isn’t anyone else out here.” He pointed to her and then to the ground. “Except you and Numb Nuts.”
Sometimes tourists wandered into the lot or parked in it illegally. What did a girl say to a guy who’d knocked out another guy on her behalf? No one had ever come to her defense like that before. “Thank you,” she guessed.
“You’re welcome.”
Why had he? A stranger? G.I. Joe was big. A lot bigger than Ricky, and it didn’t look like an ounce of fat would have the audacity to cling to any part of his body. She’d have to jump up to deliver a stunning nose jab or eye poke, and she suddenly felt small. “This is employee parking. What are you doing out here?” She took a step back and slid her pack off her shoulder. Without taking her eyes from his, she slid her finger to the zipper. She didn’t want to Mace the guy. That seemed kind of rude, but she would. Mace him, then run like hell. She was pretty fast for a short girl. “You could get towed.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Stella.”
That stopped her fingers and brought her up short. “Do I know you?”
“No. I’m here on behalf of a second party.”
“Hold on.” She held up a hand. “You’ve been out here waiting for me?”
“Yeah. It took you a while.”
“Are you from a collection agency?” She glanced toward the front of the lot, and her PT Cruiser was still in its slot. She didn’t have any other outstanding debts.
“No.”
If he were going to serve her with a subpoena, he would have when he’d first walked into the bar. “Who is the ‘second party’ and what do they want?”
“I’ll buy you coffee at the café around the corner and we’ll talk about it.”
“No thanks.” She carefully stepped over her boss but kept her eyes on him just in case he woke and grabbed her leg. “Just tell me and let’s get this over with.” Although she could probably guess.
“A member of your family.”
That’s what she thought. She was so relieved not to feel Ricky’s pervy hand on her leg, she relaxed a fraction. “Tell them I’m not interested.”
“Ten minutes in the café.” He dropped his hands to his sides and took several steps back. “That’s it. And we should get moving before Numb Nuts comes around. I don’t like to put a guy down twice in one night. Could cause brain damage.”
What a humanitarian. Although she’d really rather not be around when Ricky woke up, either. Or when one of his sleazy “associates” rolled in. Or have G.I. Joe “put him down” again and cause brain damage. Or in Ricky’s cause,
more
brain damage.
“And it will save us both the trouble of me knocking on your door tomorrow,” he added.
He was as relentless as he looked, and she didn’t doubt him. “Ten minutes.” She’d rather hear what he had to say in a busy café than at her front door. “I’ll give you ten minutes and then I want you to tell my family to leave me alone.” Behind her, Ricky snorted and snored, and she looked back at him one last time as she moved toward the street.
“That’s all it will take.”
She walked beside him from the dark lot into the bright, crazy nightlife of Miami. Tubes of pink and purple neon lit up clubs and Art Deco hotels. Shiny cars with custom rims and booming systems thumped the pavement. Even at three in the morning, the party was still going strong.
“Maybe we should call an ambulance for Ricky,” she said as they passed a drunk tourist puking on a neon-blue palm tree.
“He’s not that hurt.” He moved closest to the street as he dug into a side pocket of his pants.
“He’s unconscious,” she pointed out.
“Maybe he’s a little hurt.” He pulled out a cell and punched a few numbers on his phone. “I’m on a traceable. I need you to call Ricky’s Rock ‘N’ Roll Saloon in Miami and tell them there’s someone passed out on their back doorstep.” He laughed as he took Stella’s elbow and turned the corner. The commanding touch was so brief, it was over before she had time to pull away. So brief, yet it left a hot imprint even after he dropped his hand. “Yeah. I’m sure he’s drunk.” He laughed again. They moved to the curb and he stuck out his arm like a security gate as he looked up and down the street. “I’m headed there in about an hour. It should go down easy.” Then he pointed at the café across the street as if he was in command. In charge. The boss.
No one was in charge of Stella. No one commanded her anymore. She was the boss. Not that it mattered. She’d give this guy ten minutes of her time and then it was sayonara, G.I. Joe.
New York Times
bestselling author RACHEL GIBSON lives in Idaho with her husband, three kids, two cats, and a dog of mysterious origin. She began her fiction career at age sixteen, when she ran her car into the side of a hill, retrieved the bumper, and drove to a parking lot, where she strategically scattered the car’s broken glass all about. She told her parents she’d been the victim of a hit-and-run, and they believed her. She’s been making up stories ever since, although she gets paid better for them nowadays.
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