Page 15 of Reckless Woman
We all turn with interest, but it’s only me who’s left gaping at the newcomer in recognition.
There, standing in the doorway, looking as smoking hot as the day I met her in a bathroom stall in Colombia—in black skinnies, a tight white Tee, brown leather cowboy boots and a wicked grin—is Viviana Santiago.
Chapter Six
Anna
She enters the room like an electric storm: lighting up the atmosphere and commanding all the attention. Acting like she’s addicted to trouble more than anything else.
“You must be Elena,” says Rina briskly.
“Yeah, ah, Elena. That’s me.” Vi shrugs at her fake name. She couldn’t give two shits about keeping up pretenses. She’s already daring the therapist to call her out on it.
I want to murder her for this. She doesn’t belong here, and her company is making a mockery of our pain.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed most of the session today.” Rina adjusts her spectacles and glances at her notes again. “Not to worry, we can have a one-to-one CBT after meditation.”
Vi wrinkles her nose like she just offered her a colonic. “Yeah, um, sounds great.”
Ignoring her less-than-lukewarm reaction, the therapist checks her wristwatch. “We still have a few minutes left. Would you like to use that time to tell us about yourself?”
“Is that the fun part?”
“Excuseme?”
“You know, the movie scene tragic confessional?” She straightens her face and fakes a bass. “My name is Batman and I’m an—”
“Yes.” Rina’s response thunders around the room, echoing disapproval. If her lips get any thinner, they’ll be disappearing altogether. “Those ‘words’, Elena, offer structure and meaning. We’re here to share our experiences, not demean them.”
“Fine, let’s do this.”
All eyes are following her as she crosses the room to the empty chair next to Soccer Mom, giving me the ghost of a wink as she passes. Her raven hair is longer than before, tumbling down her back in a silky cascade, but it’s the swagger in her steps that’s the real revolution.
She’s standing taller…bolder.
Braver.
When we first met, she was a scared girl on the run with a couple of kilos of coke taped to the inside of her dress. These days, she’s Colombian cartel royalty and people run from her.
The room holds its breath as she makes herself comfortable—well, as much as you can on these stupid chairs—stretching out her long legs and giving every man in the vicinity a new focal point.
“My name is Elena,” she intones, playing fast and loose with the drama again, catching my gaze and holding it. “And I’m an addict, too…”
After that, the lies come smoothly. Too smoothly. Vi didn’t have to leave South America to lose her guilt. She lost it the day she aligned with her uncle, Dante Santiago.
I still love her, though. Even when I’m crazy mad at her, like I am right now. That’s why I’m waiting by the door as everyone else files out for the afternoon meditation session, knowing she’ll be hanging back as well.
Once we’re alone, she kicks the door shut, grabs me by the waist and spins me around, filling my senses with that cool spicy scent as visions of car crashes and murder flit through my mind.
“Vi, stop!”
“Surprise,parcera!Did you miss me?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I wriggle out of her embrace.
“I was in Miami when I got your message.” Vi pouts at my expression, looking more like a Colombian supermodel denied lip gloss than a stone-cold criminal.I know the lines she’s crossed, because I crossed them, too.“Santiago said that you andEl Asesinowere over here for the next couple of days. I thought you were having a dirty weekend...” She looks around the room and does that wrinkled up nose thing again. “I didn’t expect to find you having an overnight in the nuthouse.”
“This isnota nuthouse. It’s a rehabilitation center. I’m a recovering addict, remember? When I say my ‘movie scene tragic confessional,’ I actually mean it.”