CHAPTER
6
RODARTE’S GRIN TURNED HIS FACE INTO A HALLOWEEN MASK. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
Griff’s indrawn breath whistled through his teeth, which were clenched in pain. He dabbed at his cheekbone, and his fingers came away red. “Son of a bitch!”
Rodarte lit a cigarette, laughing as he fanned out the match. “That’s what I heard, too.”
Griff glowered at him.
“I heard your mother would screw a dog if nothing else was around. Poor little Griff. You had it rough, didn’t you? Till Coach Miller and his wife took you in.”
When Griff had been indicted, overnight going from poster boy to pariah, a lot of his ugly past had been exposed. Neither Coach nor Ellie had been a source of information. Griff would have bet his life on that. But a hotshot reporter from the Morning News had dug until he’d excavated just enough facts to hold together his speculations. They made for a sensational exposé. In conclusion, the writer had implied that Griff Burkett’s fall had been predestined from birth, that he’d been bred to transgress, and that the crime he’d committed should have been foreseeable.
Rodarte leered at him. “Tell me, how did it feel to throw the big game? Honestly, now. Just between us. Did you have any twinge of conscience? Or not?”
Wyatt Turner’s warnings rang in Griff’s ears. Do not cross him. Turn the other cheek. Which seemed an ironic admonition at this particular moment, when his cheekbone was throbbing and the entire side of his head was hurting so bad he thought he might throw up.
Griff wanted to grab Rodarte by his greasy hair and smash his face against the concrete wall of the parking garage, again and again until his ugly features had been pulverized to mush.
But Griff couldn’t do a goddamn thing without bringing trouble down on himself, and Rodarte knew that. Nothing would have given the bastard more pleasure than seeing Griff locked up again on the very day he’d been released.
Muttering an invective, Griff turned away, but Rodarte grabbed him by the shoulder, brought him back around, and shoved him up hard against the wall. “Don’t turn your back on me, you cocky fucker.”
More than the name-calling, being manhandled like that cleared Griff’s head of sharp pains and made his anger as brittle and cold as glass. He could kill this bastard. Easy. Being tackled in a game was one thing. Being touched by Rodarte was quite another. “Take your hands off me.”
Either his steely tone, or maybe his eyes, telegraphed the murderous fury he felt, because Rodarte let go and shuffled back several steps. “You were owed that,” he said, hitching his chin up toward Griff’s bleeding cheekbone. “For flipping me off today. I drove all the way out to jackrabbit country to commemorate your release, and that’s the thanks I got for my thoughtfulness.”
“Thanks. Now we’re square.” Griff brushed past him.
“I had an interesting conversation with some former associates of yours yesterday.”
Griff stopped and turned.
Rodarte took a deep pull off his cigarette, then dropped it on the garage floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe while he blew smoke upward. “I don’t need to name names, do I? You know who I’m talking about. Your former business partners.”
“They went slumming?” Griff asked.
Rodarte merely grinned.
The three bosses of the organized crime group—the Vista boys, as Griff thought of them. That was who Rodarte was talking about. The men in the five-thousand-dollar suits. The trio Bill Bandy had introduced Griff to when he needed a quick fix to a big gambling debt.
The Vista triumvirate had been obliging, and then some. They’d opened wide the doors of their luxury offices in the high-rise building they owned in Las Colinas overlooking the golf course. And that was just the beginning. There were lavish dinners in the private dining rooms of five-star restaurants. Private jet trips to Vegas, the Bahamas, New York, San Francisco. Limousines. Girls.
Seduction in its purest form.
The only thing he’d turned down was the drugs, although at any given time, he’d had access to any and all he wanted.
“Those guys know you’re out,” Rodarte was saying. His smile was dangerous and insinuating, a jackal’s grin. “They’re not all that glad about it. They thought for sure you’d get nailed for doing Bill Bandy.”
“I had nothing to do with Bandy.”
“Riiiight.”
Griff would be damned before he stood here pleading his innocence to this asshole. “You see the Vista boys again, tell them I said they can go fuck themselves.”
Rodarte winced. “Oooh, they’re not gonna like that. First you kill their key bookmaker—”