INFORMANT by Ava Archer Payne Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m bright and attentive, but not too attentive. I want this to work.
    After my last meeting with Beckett, I gave myself a firm talking to. If he can compartmentalize, so can I. This is a job. That’s all it is. If I’m smart enough, careful enough, I might just pull it off.
    I slide the last slice toward Ricco. He hesitates, then picks it up.
    “You like it?” I ask, watching with satisfaction as he polishes it off. I told him I wanted to introduce him to an American specialty.
    He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “Awful,” he says. He reaches for his glass of water and gulps it down.
    I laugh, thinking he’s kidding. I slowly realize he’s not. “No… really?”
    “Horrible,” he says with a shudder. “How can Americans eat like this?”
    “If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
    He playfully bats his eyes—his lashes are incredible—and leans closer. “Because I am big, handsome Cuban man,” he replies, exaggerating his accent. “And I do not want to insult my pretty American friend.”
    I ignore his use of the word ‘pretty’ for now. That’s not the direction I want this to go. “Ah-ha,” I say. “I get it. You’re being polite . Like when an explorer sits down with a group of natives and is served a bowl of monkey brains. He has to eat them, or he risks insulting the powerful chief and touching off a war.”
    “Yes, exactly. You are the chief.” I happen to be wearing my hair in a loose braid. To underscore his point, he reaches for the tip of my braid and gives it a soft tug.
    He is definitely not Beckett. If Beckett played with my hair, I would dissolve into a shivering, quivering puddle of need. Irritated with myself, I push the thought away. I cannot, will not, compare the two of them.
    “Tell me what you like to eat,” I say.
    He speaks with rapturous delight of hearty Cuban stews, black beans and rice, mojo pork chops, spicy shredded beef, and Havana style eggs.
    This time I shudder. I’ll admit it: I’m a picky eater. “That sounds really, really... interesting.”
    We both laugh. “That’s it,” he declares. “We are at war. We can no longer be friends.”
    “You’re right,” I breezily agree. “It’s over.”
    He releases a sigh. His gaze softens as he looks at me. “Kylie Porter,” he says. Just my name.
    “Ricco…” I say, then let my voice trail off. I tilt my head in quizzical invitation.
    “Ricardo Diaz,” he supplies.
    “Nice to meet you, Ricardo Diaz.” I hold out my hand and we shake. Although we’ve been lab partners for weeks, we are finally getting to know one another. “Tell me about Cuba. I’ve never been there.”
    He pulls back slightly, shrugs. Although it’s subtle, I read a slight tension in his body language. “It’s a small country,” he replies flatly. “Not like this city. There it’s very warm.”
    “And beautiful, right? I picture miles of beaches and brightly colored houses. Swaying palm trees, vintage cars, lots of clubs, hot Latin music, and dancing all night.”
    He relaxes slightly at the fantasy I paint. “Yes,” he says. “But there is more to Cuba than music and dancing. That’s like imagining America full of speakeasies and jazz, with gangsters like Al Capone running through the streets.”
    “You don’t have gangsters in your country?”
    His eyes shutter. “Yes. There are gangsters in my country.”
    Idiot, I silently scream. Slow down . I am pushing too hard, moving too fast. I know better. This isn’t supposed to happen in just one night.
    The waiter drops off our check and Ricco insists on paying, even though I invited him. We leave the restaurant and step outside.
    The light, playful mood we enjoyed earlier is gone. Ricco’s eyes are hooded, and there is an edgy restlessness about him. I can’t help but feel guilty. It was beyond stupid to directly ask him about Cuba, about gangsters.
    I wish Beckett had never shown me the photo of Ricco lying in that hospital bed. I wish I