Page 62 of No First Kisses

When the sun started to go down, I finally got up. I was outside under the streetlight before I opened the note that Sam gave me.

Ortega Grimes

I recognized the name immediately, and I knew where he could be found. Three hours later, I put the bloody knife in my pocket without bothering to clean it off.

“You’re lucky I didn’t cut off your ear,” I whispered to the broken man.

His nose was broken. His arm was dislocated. There was snot mixing with blood as it poured down his face and onto his neck and chest. His once white shirt was covered in dirt and grass and blood.

“You killed my little sister, Ortega.”

He whimpered.

“It was an accident, man. I told you before you went all Dahmer on my face.” His cries, reasoning, and the disgusting way he begged for his life made me sick. But more than that, him being alive while Lettie was in the ground made me want to vomit.

“You dumped her on my parents’ lawn. You made my mother and my father watch their little girl die. Right in front of them.”

“She was already dead, man. She was already dead. The dumb bitch wouldn’t put out, so I had to tie her down to get the shot into her. How was I supposed to know she’d never partied before?”

If I hadn’t put the knife away already, I would have stuck it into his throat and watched him bleed out.

“You’re going to prison, Ortega.” I pulled the phone out of my pocket and stopped the recording that I’d started after beating his ass.

I left him there, broken and bloody, and walked away.

“You there, pussy?” Ortega snaps his fingers in my face, and I grip the button on my gun holster. “Or are you thinking about that hot baby mama you got?”

“Leave. Now,” I order him quietly. “Before I give you a reason to stay. In the emergency room.” I cock my head to the side, taking in the little bit of muscle he’s managed to put on in the years he spent in prison. “Or maybe you’re looking for a fight.”

“Heard you knocked up that redheaded bitch, but I didn’t believe it until I saw how fat she was with your kid.” Ortega runs a scarred hand over his mouth, cracking the type of smile that would look more in place during a horror movie than between two men standing in a hospital. “Might have to break a piece off o’ that. Like I did your sister.”

The button on my holster snaps loudly in the silence around us, and I smirk at the panicked expression on his face.

I’m not an idiot.

I know exactly what he is doing.

Coming to the hospital.

Waiting until I walk into a public area from a parking lot to approach me.

Directly underneath a camera.

Careful not to appear aggressive on the camera for anyone who may be watching.

But two can play at that game.

I have a bag of food in one hand, a woman waiting for me, and a gun that I never take off my hip. That isn’t even considering the backup that I have in the small of my back.

“Heard you took a shank or six in prison,” I counter when he doesn’t have anything else to say. “Must suck trying to take a good piss. Well, I have better things to do than to talk to a ghost.”

I walk away, not bothering to watch my back or look over my shoulder.

“This isn’t over.” His words may as well have been shouted with how hard they hit me. “Not when I didn’t get what I wanted the first time.”

I don’t worry about him going after me. Ortega isn’t the type of man to face me in the light of day. He never has been.

No.

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