Dangerous Games Read Online Free Page A

M.”
    “He had on a black T-shirt as far as I remember. It happened pretty fast.”
    “I understand. Don’t blame yourself.”
    “I’m trying my best not to. What’s lambiche? ”
    “Roughly, a kissass. I don’t think it’s anything special. Just a random insult. Now what was it that you didn’t tell Padilla?”
    He watched her eyes, now as hard and flat as stones. She was on the job. “You can’t know me that well yet,” he said.
    “Yes, I can.”
    It took him a while. “Several years ago I was backed into a corner.” He wasn’t sure he should say this, but the relief that Maeve would live had pulled some plug in the side of his chest, and a lot of emotion was rushing out without any exercise of his will. “I killed a guy. He was unarmed. It changes you when it sinks in. It rearranges the whole sense you have of what’s normal for you, who you are, what you’re capable of.”
    “So?”
    “So, if I see that kid again, I’m not sure I won’t kill him. I’m just telling you, Glor. Don’t go ape on me.”
    “You need a dose of Father Greg Boyle.”
    “Unconditional love for the gangbangers, sure. He’s famous for it.” Father Greg Boyle—G-Dog to the kids—was the patron saint of the gangbangers and had made it his policy not to write off a single soul for years. His parish had started Homeboy Industries to give them jobs and refused ever to turn them into the police when they came to him in trouble. “I try to appreciate the concept. I’m just telling you how I feel. They shot my baby.”
    “I understand, Jack.” She regarded him somberly. “You have any idea how many of our neighbors are living with a loss like that? Kids that died senselessly in a drive-by or just the result of poor aim? Almost every family has one dead cousin or son. In the next few days, they’ll come to comfort you, bring you things like chiles rellenos. Ask them about it.”
    “I’d rather strangle the little fuck. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
    Luisa Wilson went into the back bedroom and shut the door quietly so no one would hear. She had made it into her own private space, like that wonderful red-tailed hawk’s nest she had watched for years from a taller hill back in the Owens. She had a single mattress with two sheets and an old blanket, her old army surplus B-4 suitcase laid out next to it on the floor as a closet, an upended red plastic crate for a bedside table that held her three romance novels. The only thing in the room not hers was a big poster on the wall that she couldn’t do much about and was finally getting used to. It was from one of Rod Whipple’s movies, Coming Traction, and showed a nude Amber Lynn driving a tractor away from three dungaree-wearing men in hot pursuit of her. Luisa had set one of the last of her Owens rocks in the corner of the room, a small rounded nondescript pebble, by its presence tying this place to the one she had left behind.
    It was amazing, she thought, how little you really needed to create a refuge. She’d only been here three days, after crashing at various other unlikely L.A. pads, and yet she felt such an immense sensation of comfort in her nest. Rod didn’t even insist on sex very much, just that first night when he was bored really, and he didn’t ask for anything weird at all. She was coming to like him. He was lively and fun, when he wanted to be, and he seemed to be a protector.
    She leaned back, turned on the light, picked up Treasure Chest Ranch and opened it where she’d sheep-eared the page.
    Ashton had dark hair that wasn’t always tidy, thanks to his outdoor lifestyle as a rancher and broncrider. He seemed to be gittin’ over his mother’s messy divorce and his father’s new 18-year-old blond trophy wife. His eyes were a piercing blue and steady as sapphire now. He was always active, squirming a little where he stood, and he had a great body—strong shoulders, muscular thighs, tight pecs and abs.
    Yum! Teresa thought. Oh, yum!
    She was