Matala by Craig Holden Read Free Book Online

worries me. Just because you’re gasping for it doesn’t mean you’re any good for this anymore. It’s no small thing, as you well know. And we can’t afford any cock-ups, neither of us. This is a hot customer, the big time. And the timing matters. It has to be on the island and delivered by Christmas, a special gift for someone who has everything. So I ask myself about you, ‘Does she still got it?’”
    It was the sunshine she thought of now, more even than the money. How long since she’d been down there? And how much would Will love it? She thought of floating, of salt water, of heat, and of resting for a long, long time.
    â€œSo I dunno. I got a bad feeling. You going after that boy again after all these years, like he was yours in the beginning.”
    â€œHe was mine.”
    â€œHe wasn’t yours. He was just some flippin’ squallin’ brat. And I’m sure he still is.”
    â€œFour months, Maurice.”
    â€œI know how old he was. I was about.”
    â€œThat’s a long time for a baby. I helped form him, if you think about it, so he was mine. Part of him anyway.”
    â€œThis is exactly what I mean. I’m sure you’ve cut his balls since you got him back, but it’s like he’s cut yours, too.”
    Now she felt the ice forming in her own eyes.
    Maurice said, “If I decide to go ahead, I’ll see you tonight. If not…then not.”
    Crete, she thought.
    The cigarette was about finished, but she dragged hard on it once more so that it cooked right down, so the filter itself started to burn. She planted it between her lips, squinted, leaned over, and took Maurice’s right hand in both of hers. She ran a fingernail across the palm. He watched stupid-eyed, the way he had always watched as she prepared to hurt him. She said, “How’s this for cut balls, Maurice?” She took the burning dimp from her mouth and pressed the tip into the exact spot where his life line ended.
    He screamed like an animal. He slapped at it and spit on it and ran to the utility sink.
    She grabbed the baggie from the floor, opened the door, and stepped out into the less stale air of the hallway. Maurice was screaming at her and trying to get the water turned on. “Whore!” Time was that was one of her pet names for him.
    She made sure to walk away slowly so he would not think her heart was beating as hard as it was. So he would not see how badly she needed this but how even now, flat broke and sick with desperation, she’d starve before she let some lowlife donk of an ex-hubby push her around. So he could not tell how badly she wanted to be away from him.
    She walked slowly even when another door in the hallway opened and a very large man came out holding a handgun, holding it with both of his hands pointed floorward, as if he knew exactly what he was doing with it. She was sure he did. And when he aimed at her, she slowed even more. She nearly stopped. She looked at the man and could see in his eyes that there was nothing, that he was already as dead as he was planning on making her. She could feel his trigger finger begin to flex.
    â€œNo,” Maurice said then from the doorway of his closet office. He held a wet coral-colored towel against his palm. “Don’t.”
    She looked at him now. She stood with her hand on the handle of the outside door at the back of the hotel and looked at them both.
    â€œKarl, don’t,” Maurice said again, although the man had already lowered the pistol and was fitting it into the holster that hung under his arm.
    Maurice raised his own hands with the pinkish towel between them and aimed a finger at her. “You half-ass this one, Justine, and something might just have to happen to your pretty boy. Remember that.”
    She could only think of how badly she wanted just to lie down.

    W ALKING BACK TO THE L OCANDA, Justine felt as if someone had planted a fist inside her