Don't Trust Him: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Suspense (King Vs. Queen Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Platinum Press.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Eliza

  2. Grayson

  3. Grayson

  4. Eliza

  5. Eliza

  6. Grayson

  7. Grayson

  8. Eliza

  9. Grayson

  10. Eliza

  11. Eliza

  12. Eliza

  13. Grayson

  14. Eliza

  15. Eliza

  16. Grayson

  17. Eliza

  18. Eliza

  19. Grayson

  20. Eliza

  21. Eliza

  22. Eliza

  23. Grayson

  24. Eliza

  25. Eliza

  26. Grayson

  27. Eliza

  28. Grayson

  29. Grayson

  30. Eliza

  31. Eliza

  32. Eliza

  33. Eliza

  34. Eliza

  35. Grayson

  36. Eliza - Epilogue

  37. Zario

  From the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Bonnie Kennedy

  One

  Eliza

  The way our waitress naturally looks to me for instructions instead of Juan?

  I can tell that cuts his balls off.

  It isn’t just the waitress deferring to me and seeing me as the important one.

  It’s the entire cartel. Cabeza Dios sent Juan like he’s my errand boy.

  I inhale, taking in the crisp scent of the saltwater of San Diego Bay on the incredible backdrop of a blushing pink as I sit in the Club Lounge of the InterContinental San Diego.

  The San Diego InterContinental Hotel is right on Bayfront Avenue. The astounding views of the Bay paired with perpetual 72-degree weather make it amazing. The accommodating, kind, and exuberant staff put it over the edge and into fabulous territory.

  Ever stayed at a Holiday Inn?

  Well, it has a more opulent and luxurious cousin that I stay in.

  The InterContinental.

  Even the carpet is so lush I slide off my Choos to sink my toes in on the way to my room.

  Normally I’m at home on 888 Howard Street–the InterContinental San Francisco. Juan had even booked my room there, but I had him cancel and book me here. I told him, I want a change of pace.

  The elite business traveler stays at an InterContinental, so I still want a suite at the finest hotel. I just decided to temporarily trade one bay for another.

  “Would you like anything else?” the waiter asks me, completely ignoring Juan.

  I look at him. He shakes his head. I tell her no.

  I arrived a few days ago to pamper myself in unmitigated luxury.

  “Is it business or pleasure that brings you to San Diego?” the hotel manager asked me as I did VIP check in.

  “A little bit of both,” I told him with a smile.

  “Well, I hope you have time to enjoy yourself,” he said, intimidated by my stare.

  “I always do,” I had assured him.

  And I kept my word.

  Being prissy, privileged, and spoiled is great, but I’m itching to do more than just luxuriate. I want a bigger piece of the action.

  I take a look at one of my phones. I carry several because, well, when your industry is drugs, you’re pretty much the reasons burners exist. On this particular scroll through my notifications, I’m just looking to see if I have any messages from any of my security guys. They’ll let me know if a shift change at a warehouse or a different customs agent might mean I need to do some extra legwork.

  There are no such emails, so I know that the latest cocaine kilos are moving along precisely on schedule.

  “The rooms are nice here,” Juan says to me, making small talk.

  I look at him. He’s trying to act normal.

  “They gave me a suite,” I tell him.

  “Damn,” Juan says to me. “Lorenzo approved the spend for a suite?”

  “I never stay in anything less,” I say a matter-of-factly and Juan has very little to say back to that.

  Technically, we have the same rank in the cartel. We both handle logistics, do advance work, and make payments at all levels.

  Clearing his throat, Juan watches Danica leave. “Coke squared is why we’re meeting today,” Juan says almost formally.

  Our working relationship has really changed.

  We were doing the same job.

  Now, I’m moving up in the world, and Juan’s following behind me, delivering me messages.

  Where I’m most comfortable on the ground, tackling a problem with tenacity and putting my own thoughts into it. Juan is best placed behind the scenes and following things according to a schedule. My ability to improvise is great for my career. Juan’s inability to think outside the box has pinned him under me. At times, like during this briefing, I get the sense that the cartel just treats him as a glorified errand boy—not worthy of the same type of respect given to me.

  “And yeah, they really call it coke squared,” Juan says.

  It sounds kind of silly.

  I know Juan’s frustrated, but I won’t let it spoil my mood. “Coke squared?” I repeat.

  Juan passes me the file folder wordlessly.

  “What kind of weird name is that?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  Shrugging, Juan tastes his drink. He seems to like that, at least, taking a longer sip.

  “Seriously, if people do the product in balls, why are we looking to square it?” I add.

  At that, Juan laughs with me.

  The air feels lighter then. I take a drink of my cocktail, too, and savor the moment. It feels good to be in a meeting here in paradise.

  I love that my routes take me all over InterContinental hotels all over the world because who doesn’t like to stay in absolute luxury?

  Let other business travelers discuss their mundane lives in express hotels where they don’t even have a bar, much less a waitress in a private lounge. I’ll take doing advance work for narcotraffickers if it means I get priority turndown service and dinner at Michelin starred restaurants.

  It feels surreal, to feel the San Diego Bay breeze, and talk about some magic new cocaine product. But this is my life. I love it all. But there’s something else that’s itching at me. Why I wanted a change of scenery.

  Because there are a few things about my life that I would like to change. For now…only the location can change.

  Juan points to a few lab charts, bringing me back to reality as he starts to talk again.

  “I know that we only move this shit,” he says, belittling our positions. “But the higher ups think that they need your specific skill set for coke squared.”

  I shrug. I’m not opposed to getting my hands dirty. Human capital needs to be deployed where its most effective. We’re basically like any other executives in billion dollar companies, except our product is highly illegal.

  Juan continues. “This product has no comedown, which means it will completely change the marketplace. Problem is, there was one only batch produced, and the chemist and his supplies are all gone. The lab? Gone. Looks like the guy blew it up and took the formula. So we need to piece this shit together and get it onto the market for our bosse
s at Cabeza Dios.”

  I nod.

  “We need to figure out how to make coke squared so that Cabeza Dios can start selling it on the street. Because apparently whoever goes to market with this shit first is going to reap a fucking killing. And they’ll get customers who will never go back to cocaine. So it’s really going to be winners and losers on this one,” Juan continues, emphasizing his point.

  Cabeza Dios is the cartel that Juan and I work for. Our capo, big boss in charge, Lorenzo Quentin, will be all over this new formula. My wheels are turning in my brain and I look to Juan, wondering what he’s thinking.

  “Nice to have a change of pace?” I ask him, raising my drink.

  Juan ponders for a second. “For you, sure,” he clinks his glass to mine. “But me, I like not having any change. Change is where shit gets fucked and brown motherfuckers like my ass end up dead. Your pretty ass survives just about anything and you get to enjoy the thrill. I’m like one of those no-name guys with a red shirt on in Star Trek. Not big jefe shit like you coming up in the world. Do they treat me like shit? Sure. But I can’t do anything about that now. I just gotta take my lumps and live with it.”

  Juan looks into my eyes and for a second that shit makes me uncomfortable, because I’m fucking paranoid and I play my cards close to the vest. Don’t want anybody prying or looking too closely. But I listen to Juan. “You’ve got a sparkle in your eyes. You still have a desire to hunt. Me, in my old age, I want predictability.”

  I laugh. He’s basically my age, and I’m in my mid-twenties. I think Juan’s more concerned about the four kids he already has at home. Yeah, he’s married with children. He doesn’t want the thrill.

  The Juan that I knew when I first started working with him would never have said those words. I know there’s a bit of professional jealousy in his eyes. I live the life. I travel. I spend. He goes home to his wife and kids.

  I get the respect. He pays my restaurant bills.

  I get glamour. He gets grind.

  I’d go insane.

  The thrill is all I have in the glamorous life of narcotrafficking.

  I’m Columbian born to American, now deceased, parents…and I have no one else is in the picture. No family, no ties to anyone, so I’m free I travel the world smuggling cocaine for Cabeza Dios.

  No, I’m not a mule. Think of it more like air traffic control. Except all illegal.

  I make bribes where I need to. I hire the men, muscle, and movers for a globe girdling multinational operation. I’m on a first name basis with dockmasters, police commissioners, and shipping magnates.

  I stick out of the war and stick to smuggling products. I keep my nose clean—literally in that I don’t fucking do cocaine, and because I’m squeaky clean and avoid the ire of the law.

  To anyone else, I’m not smuggling, I’m heading logistical operations for a microwave manufacturer. Because the number one appliance in the world is a person’s microwave. And it so happens that they’re perfect for plating sheets of cocaine to in our shipments and getting our product out there.

  I love my work. I love my life. Fuck, if I was just shipping microwaves, I’d be happy to be in the world’s finest hotels...but more than anything it isn’t just the beautiful locations and the work that I’m good at.

  I like being a bad girl.

  I like smuggling cocaine.

  It’s not something you’re supposed to be proud of. I don’t feel any guilt about what I do.

  Because it’s wrong.

  It’s a thrill.

  And that, more than the money is what keeps me going. The thrill of getting a deal done. Of moving kilos of cocaine to satisfy the party guy in college frat bro and his CEO dad with the executive nose sore.

  So, yeah, when Juan says I want a challenge, he’s right.

  This is absolutely what I want to be doing. Well, maybe I want more responsibility, I mean, but living an absolutely pampered life, that can’t be beat.

  “Ms. Lang!” the concierge on duty, Carter, pops in and he presents me with the bath bombs I ordered. Because, when I’m not smuggling cocaine, I’m asking our concierge to get me a local spa’s products so I can take advantage of the incredible tub in my suite’s bathroom.

  This lifestyle lends itself well to the finer things in life, for sure. It’s a very materialistic way of life. There’s isn’t much spiritual growth here. No real human connection. No one you can really fall in love with, like other offices with their co-workers and #MeToo movements. Someone in my line of work touches my ass, I’m usually going to be breaking his legs.

  I look towards the bar and wonder if I want to go tonight, or if I’ll just stick to the lounge. I mean, what this life doesn’t lend itself well to is getting close to any man. I am constantly paranoid that some fuck face is looking to fuck me and steal a shipping manifest out of my room. I mean, I’ll cut off a motherfucker’s dick if he fucks with my work with the knife that’s right there in my room.

  Maybe put it on a room service tray, but then again I don’t want to scare housekeeping. They’re so lovely and they keep my tissues made up like flowers. I like that shit. Definitely don’t want to mess with them.

  I can see myself going to the bar for a Passion Tea Collins. Ordering five and then falling asleep like a rock. Getting some stares as I wait for my drink. Flash a few smiles at the common folk as I walk back to the elevator.

  I also think I’d flirt with the men that might want to buy me the Pacific Daiquiri. It’s blue and it has a flower in it, so I’m down in that sense. But otherwise I don’t find anyone interesting enough.

  Or if they too interested, I’m fucking paranoid.

  “I’ll get started on this,” I tell Juan. He stands up and I stand as he leaves. I see his face. There’s a flash of disappointment. This is the closest Juan is going to come to getting the glory. In taking the briefing and acknowledging my mission, I’ve basically dismissed him. To go back to his boring life and his boring family and his boring house he lives in.

  “Bye, Eliza,” Juan says.

  Is that a hint of displeasure?

  No. I’m paranoid. I need to chill. When all you do is look for shadows, you never get out of the dark.

  The waitress gets the door for him, coming out to bus his drink and to see if I need anything else.

  I do, but nothing she can give right now. She tells me to try these new cookies they got in, and tells me breakfast is going to have excellent croissants. “I’m a croissant snob, and these are the best,” she assures me.

  “You haven’t steered me wrong yet,” I tell her, and that’s the truth. “I’ll definitely try those in the morning. And damn, these cookies are divine.”

  I may have to eat an extra one because I’m sure as hell not getting laid this century.

  Two

  Grayson

  I’m ready for the next kill.

  I call the InterContinental Hotels Ambassador phone line and tell them I’m looking for a suite in Downtown Los Angeles, and they set me up. Tell me to make sure I hit up the rooftop bar, Spire73, while I’m in DTLA.

  “Sure thing,” I say, smiling and genuinely happy with the level of service I’m receiving.

  “Thank you again for being a Royal Spire Elite Ambassador, Mr. Teague, and we hope you enjoy your stay,” the woman on the other end of the line says after she asks me if she can help me with anything else.

  Shit. Maybe drug dealers should go to school to get hospitality degrees, or poli sci degrees, or whatever they do to please hotel management, because they could learn a thing or two about rewarding loyalty.

  I’m going to DTLA InterContinental Hotel to take care of a wayward dealer that got too big for his britches. The distributor in that area, for our cartel, sent me in because this job isn’t just about slitting his throat, it’s about doing it with an audience. Well, an after the fact audience. I have to stage the bodies so that everyone else gets the message. Apparently this is a bigger deal than just a hit. Zario, the head of the cartel, is pe
rsonally flying in and wants to see me after the matter is taken care of. So that tells me this is a killing with a message.

  The message being, you don’t fuck with the cartel. The cartel fucks with you if and when and how it sees fit. You serve it. You stay loyal. Then you’ll live a good life. Fuck the finest bitches, drink the finest alcohol, and sleep in beds that make you remember there’s a happy moment before you sleep like a goddamn dead man and then get up and face another day.

  You aren’t loyal? You think you need to mete out your own justice and fair share?

  Then you’re going to be found by vice cops in so many gruesome pieces your momma will cry loud enough for God to stop listening.

  God will fucking tell her that you should never have betrayed the cartel.

  That’s why we carve skulls on those we kill.

  We mark you.

  We send a message.

  The next fucking body will be yours if you betray the cartel.

  I’ve never had anything but the cartel. I’m loyal because it’s in my blood.

  My name, Grayson Teague, is synonymous with loyalty. I’m an enforcer, fixer, and handler of any and all items the capo, Zario Dantes, of our cartel needs. I am like a son to Zario because he took me from ashes and molded me into his right hand.

  So of course I have no reason to be disloyal. It would be like the sun setting on the wrong side of the sky. If the sun stops shining. My blood is cartel. My actions are to serve. I am a human weapon, and yes, baby, you can blow the gunsmoke off me after I do the deed.

  My body wears the tattoos of every trial I’ve passed for the cartel. I’m the weapon they always needed, the loyal man that is always there to send the messages.