Numerous times, he had laid down the titles of houses and cars to cover his outlandish bets. Any advice from us urging him to get help was met with anger and hostility. I had even set him up on a date with a shrink. He didn’t know she was a shrink, but the moment she attempted to psychoanalyze him, he dumped her.
A deep sigh escaped when his troublesome words sank in. Shit! I knew what kind of trouble followed seized drug shipments. It meant that dealers and the streets weren’t getting fed.
“You know the Cardenas Cartel don’t care that it was the law that seized the shipments. They are going to want their money next month. The streets don’t care either. They are going to want drugs. The whole system falls into chaos when shit like this happens. I couldn’t afford to let the streets dry up, so I had to crack the safe on the money I’ve been stashing and cop like a low-level to keep things going until I figure this mess out.”
The Cardenas Cartel, one of the most notorious in the country, was my father’s supplier. He had been dealing with them since he was in his teens and had built a trusted rapport with them.
This was the first time I’d seen him shaken. He was one of the most confident men I knew, but that confidence had been replaced with a hollow gleam in his gaze, constant pacing, and dark circles under his eyes.
“I have a few million left in the safe, but the last shipment was worth over ten million. Arjen Vallin is willing to partner up with me. He offered to invest the money if I added you to the deal to solidify the alliance.”
“What about Mecca?” I asked. “She’s the most involved Evans woman in this lifestyle, and she would give her left tit to improve her status in this world, no matter the background, nationality, or job title of the husband.”
No guilt surfaced at serving my cousin up on a silver platter because she would have high-fived me if she were here. She was my father’s brother’s daughter. She and I were both twenty-six, and although we differed in lifestyle choices, we got along like sisters.
Mecca’s father, my Uncle Calvin, had died serving under the Evans name when she was four, and she had come to live with us. It was because of Mecca that I was lucky enough to stay on the outskirts of the illegal activities my family was involved with. She loved the lifestyle, believed she had something to prove to the men and often did so with unrelenting force.
My father shook his head. “I already made the offer. Vallin requested you by name. He wants Mecca for his brother. I didn’t think he would remember you,” my father mused, eyeing my simple jeans and fitted T-shirt with a critical eye. His pinched expression revealed that he was as perplexed as I was about Arjen’s choice.
I had danced with Arjen once six years ago at a function my father had asked me to attend. Was it possible he had been planning to pimp me out even back then? My father had a ruthless streak in him that I would be foolish to overlook.
Men like Arjen Vallin weren’t concerned with remembering women because he could have any one he wanted. How the hell did he remember who I was? Or had my father put me in his head?