Page 67 of Tainted Blood
Her touch only seems to hurt.
“Go.”
“Santi…”
“Go.”
Tugging on a pair of jeans, I stalk into my office next door and slam the door behind me. Sinking into my desk chair, I pour myself a large glass of Añejo. Maybe a better man would’ve stayed and watched her leave, but as I told her when she first walked into my office…
I’m not a good man, and I never will be.
Chapter Nineteen
Santi
Time doesn’t exist at the bottom of a bottle. Minutes turn into hours, and hours turn into days. Solitude doesn’t count the tick of a clock as much as the pour of a drink.
Slumped behind my desk, I abandon my glass long enough to remove my wedding band. Gripping it between my thumb and my forefinger, I balance it on my desk and give it another spin. I watch, unblinking, as it swirls in dizzying circles, only to lose intensity with each revolution.
Tipping my half-empty glass back, I drink while observing its fight against gravity. I hate every off-beat ping as it hovers above the black lacquer, until it finally relents to the inevitable and clatters to a stop.
Frowning, I decide to roll the dice and go two-for-two, when my office door creaks open, followed by a familiar voice calling my name.
“Santi?”
I don’t bother looking up. “You know what centripetal force is, Lola?”
She chuckles. “I believe we established at our ill-fated family dinner that science isn’t my forté.”
The corners of my mouth twitch. It feels foreign—uncomfortable—as if it’s more an involuntary reaction than emotion.
Clamping my hand over my ring, I drag it toward the edge of the desk and hold it up. “It’s what keeps this spinning in circles, but, like everything else, how long that lasts depends on the force. The tighter the grip, the longer it spins—but at some point, you can’t hold on anymore. You have to let it go and watch it fall.”
“Impressive. I guess you just destroyed the brawn versus brains debate.”
I lift my chin to find my sister standing with her palm propped against the doorframe, hip cocked. She’s wearing a loose-fitting yellow dress, which I grimly note matches her fading bruises.
“Meaning?” I ask, returning my attention to the gold band.
“Meaning stereotypes are almost always based on ignorance. The bad tough guy with the IQ of a bar of soap… The four-eyed nerd with the mind of a diabolical genius… They’re all sweeping generalizations.”
My body stiffens, the color red hazing my already-blurred vision. “Maybe more stock should be placed on those sweeping generalizations. Then signs aren’t missed. People don’t get hurt.”
Muttering a curse under her breath, Lola invites herself into my office, standing over my desk like my own personal guilt warden. “Santi, there’s no way you could’ve known about Monroe Spader. None of us did. Hell, the bastard did business right under Edier Grayson’s nose too, and he didn’t smell a rat…”
I glance up at her. “Not helping.”
“Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best analogy, but you know what I mean. The only one who blames you for not seeing through Spader’s act is you.”
Then maybe everyone should take a few lessons in cause and effect.
I grit my teeth. “I’m the boss. I’m the husband. I’m the brother—”
“Ay Dios mío!” she groans. “You’re also human, Santi, despite what you’d like to believe.”
That’s debatable.
Plenty would claim I’m just as much of an inhumane bastard as Spader and Zaccaria.