Beyond My Darkness Page 2

  I peer up at the large chalkboard menu adorning the main wall of the diner. “Could I get a coffee and…” I trail off because there are so many choices, and many of them I’m not familiar with. What on earth are torrejas?

  The waitress hesitates before taking pity on me. “How about the breakfast special? Tostada Cubana with scrambled eggs, bacon, and country-style potatoes?”

  I have no idea what Tostada Cubana is, but everything else sounds perfect. “Could I request the bacon be extra crispy?”

  This time, her expression relaxes, her smile turning warmer. “You got it, sweetheart.” She turns and grabs a clean mug from the array behind her and sets it down in front of me. After she pours my coffee, her eyes sweep over me curiously once again.

  “Thank you.” The coffee’s aroma has me practically swooning, and when I take the first sip, I instantly question everything. Why on earth aren’t people giving thanks to this coffee? Because this is honestly the best I’ve ever had.

  The woman watches me with a satisfied expression. “Good, isn’t it?”

  My response is breathless. “Yes.”

  She smiles. “I grind my own beans fresh each morning. That’s one part of the secret to the flavor.”

  “Well, whatever the other part of the secret is, it’s definitely working.” I inhale the aroma deeply before taking another sip of the hot brew. “It’s perfection in a cup.”

  She chuckles before turning pensive and tipping her head to the side to peruse me. I get the impression she’s trying to figure me out.

  The ding of a bell signals an order is ready, and she bustles off to the window. With practiced ease, she grabs the steaming hot plates of food and delivers them to a table of older men.

  I sip my coffee while attempting to discreetly glance at the L-shaped booth in the rear corner. Five men are seated there, one of whom is none other than Bronson Cortez, The Scorpions’ gang leader himself.

  That’s right. I’m here with the intent to approach the notorious gang leader.

  See? I told you I’ve officially lost my mind.

  Groaning into the coffee mug I’m quickly draining of goodness, I wonder, yet again, what the hell possessed me to come here. Here being The Scorpions’ territory.

  “More coffee?” My waitress stands poised with the carafe in her hand.

  “Please,” I answer with a smile. Thankfully, her return smile isn’t quite as guarded as when I first stepped foot in this diner.

  She refills my mug, and when the bell dings again, she grabs the plate from the kitchen window and slides it in front of me.

  “Whoa. That looks amazing,” I mutter without thinking.

  She snickers before sliding the small square sheet from her apron and setting the check off to the side of my plate. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Again, she surveys me carefully, as if she’s trying to determine my intentions, but ventures off to check on her other customers.

  I dig into my food, which is heavenly, and observe the group of men in my line of sight. When I take the first bite of bacon, I nearly moan. Because, let me tell you, the fact that this cook understood my request of “extra crispy” goes a long way with me.

  Not that I’ll be coming back here, though. Which saddens me greatly. Mainly because that means I’ll miss out on delicious coffee, perfectly cooked bacon, and this Tostada Cubana—thick, toasted slices of homemade bread—which is a-ma-zing.

  But I digress.

  I continue savoring my breakfast while keeping tabs on the man in question, and I wonder how the hell I’m going to work up the nerve to approach him.

  Maybe I can slip him a note.

  Hey,

  I’m concerned that two people who died in a house fire in your gang’s territory might not have died of natural causes. I think they might have been murdered, and I wanted to let you know so you could be more careful.

  Sincerely,

  A concerned citizen

  * * *

  I groan into my coffee mug, and for what must be the trillionth time, I wonder what the hell possessed me to drive here.

  After my Internet search—the one where I had to use an uncensored search engine, no less—produced more information about this gang, it compelled me to dig further.

  That’s when I hit the motherlode.

  One headline read: Big box stores terrorized, run out of business by The Scorpions.

  The caption beneath that stated: Only small family-owned businesses remain thriving.

  Another headline stated: Sources claim local gang, The Scorpions, earns millions yearly by illegal moonshine, weapons, and drug smuggling.

  The most disturbing headline I came across: Scorpions have created their own laws and rule with an iron fist.

  Its byline was even more chilling: The number of unsolved murders has risen since The Scorpions have claimed their stronghold in Palm Cove, the southwestern suburb of Jacksonville.

  Once I decided to type in Bronson+The Scorpions+Florida, and chose the “Images” option, my world was officially rocked.

  It was decidedly not what I expected. He’s not what I expected. Seeing Bronson Cortez in person, albeit a few yards away, has me wondering who the hell decided it was okay to give a vicious gang leader a face and body like that.

  Everything about him is dark. Black hair hovers between being too long, bordering on perfectly mussed by his own hands.

  In a dark-gray button-down shirt, the sleeves cuffed at his elbows and the top two buttons undone at his throat offer a glimpse at the dark, tanned skin beneath. His corded forearms stand out prominently, the swirls of black ink on display.

  When he gestures with one arm, I catch sight of Ines tattooed in large, beautiful script along the inside of his right forearm. It appears out of place with the other harshly inked designs and makes me wonder who exactly Ines is. His girlfriend? His mother?

  I look away and take another sip of coffee, my mind still reviewing what I discovered on the Internet: a webpage dedicated to Bronson Cortez. It’s a website that would put any Justin Bieber fan’s Internet “shrine” to shame.

  It included Bronson’s favorite diner (here), how he only drinks two black coffees and no more, how he’s “so smart even though you wouldn’t expect it from a guy like him” and how he evidently prefers jeans that are well-worn and have some “thin, frayed areas,” but sometimes wears tailored slacks or expensive suits. Photographs were included, much like paparazzi capture snapshots at a distance.

  Those were the simple, everyday “normalcies” related to the man, however. Because the other details included how Bronson has been accused of murder, but no charges have ever stuck. The author of the webpage—whom I assume is a female—waxed poetically about how Bronson continuously eliminates anyone who gets in the way of his gang. And, again, photographs depicted Bronson entering the precinct. He’d been uncuffed, his features stony.

  Also among the listed information on the site was Bronson’s preferred method of killing: one bullet to the head, point-blank.

  His preferred method of roughing someone up or intimidating them: beating the shit out of them with his bare hands.

  Which is just super. Here I sit, genius that I am, ready to approach the man himself.

  Speaking of whom… When I scan the diner again with the intent of casting another casual glance at Bronson, my eyes clash with his, causing a visible jolt to race through me.

  His eyes are a deep, dark-brown, while his short-trimmed beard outlines lips that are far too perfect to grace a man’s features. His gaze remains locked on me, rendering me unable to break the contact. When he glances down at the table where his cell phone lies, the breath I didn’t realize I was holding rushes past my lips.

  But my reprieve is short-lived because he raises his phone to his ear and those eyes lock on me once again. His laser-focused attention sends prickles of awareness tiptoeing along the length of my spine. I hastily duck my head, averting my gaze under the guise of taking another sip of my
coffee.

  I haven’t experienced a reaction like that to a man in…well, probably ever. And the last time I came even remotely close isn’t something I’ll soon forget. As if recognizing where my thoughts have led, the center of my chest turns to fire, threatening to scald my flesh. I press my fingertips to it in an attempt to assuage the phantom pain.

  My phone lights up with an email notification, and I get a little giddy when I spot the monthly newsletter from Florida Medical Examiners. With a quick glance at the table to confirm Bronson and the men are still there, I thank my waitress for the additional coffee refill before I lose myself in what I consider “nerd heaven”: in my favorite section of the newsletter where contributors share unusual autopsy tales.

  If you’re wondering if I could get more boring or pathetically nerdy, the answer is no. I mean, just look at me. I’m alone in a diner and reading about dead people.

  I deal with death daily, and I’m good at what I do. More than that, though, I love my job, because there’s a lot to be said for dead people. They can’t lie to you, cheat you out of something, disrespect you, break your heart, or physically hurt you. It’s why my job is perfect for me—and vice versa.

  After yesterday, I realized how thankful I am to work with no one else around to witness the goings-on. However, even though I discovered I can bring dead people back to life, I have no plans on doing that ever again.

  A shiver dances through me as I stare into my mug, and I wish—not for the first time—that my soul didn’t match the darkness of this coffee. That I wasn’t some sort of freak. A monster, of sorts. I wish that I wasn’t tainted because then maybe, just maybe, I could have a normal life.

  A fresh scent of body wash precedes the moment someone slides onto the empty barstool beside me. There are plenty of open seats available at this counter, and I instinctively tense, my fingers tightening around my coffee cup. I lift my eyes to peer directly at the table I’d been observing, only to find it now vacant.

  Ohshit.

  “Come here often?” The man’s deep timbre greets my ears. While his words are innocuous, his presence is the furthest thing from it.

  I brave a glance to my right, my eyes instantly clashing with his. Harsh, dark brows lie in a flat line, mirroring his lips, and I find I was correct in my previous perusal. He has no business possessing lips like that. They’re far too perfect.

  Perhaps it’s a small mercy that his nose isn’t. Though narrow, the bridge holds the slightest imperfection.

  But those eyes of his… The deep brown surrounding his pupils bleeds into a golden brown, creating a unique beauty all its own.

  With one arm braced on the counter, the fabric of his shirt stretches taut across his lean, muscled body as he sits, facing me on the stool.

  I do my best to steel my spine and find my words. “No. It’s my first time.”

  His eyes flare with something that resembles surprise. Perhaps he expected me to lie. But I’m not here for that. I just need to say my piece and be on my way.

  He presses his lips together as if pondering my response while his eyes canvass me from head to toe. Tipping his head to the side, he bores his piercing gaze into me. “What are your thoughts?”

  His question leaves me with an opening, and my mouth runs away from me—which is further proof as to why I’m better off dealing with dead people for a living.

  “What are my thoughts? Well, I think the humidity today is ridiculous, the bacon and coffee here are”—I bring my fingertips to my lips and give a chef’s kiss—“perfection, and I also think that I’ll always find it physically impossible not to sing along to Britney Spears’ song ‘Toxic’ whenever I hear it. But—”

  He suddenly moves closer into my personal space and I freeze mid-word-vomit. I can’t resist dragging in a deep breath because why does he also have to smell so incredible?

  His brows slam together fiercely, disbelief coloring his dark expression. “Did you just sniff me?”

  “You smell good.” I pin him with a haughty glare. “Last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime to smell someone.”

  My eyes go wide, and I cringe. Ohmygod, I did not just say that. What is it about this man that instantly catapults me into the humiliating word-vomit version of myself?

  “You did just say it.” One brow rises a fraction, and a gleam of what appears to be amusement flickers in his gaze before vanishing. “You got a habit of speakin’ your thoughts?”

  “No. Yes.” I wince. “Can we just rewind and forget that happened?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  I dig into my wallet and rummage up the cash to cover my breakfast and the tip and set it on the counter. Swiveling on my stool to face him, I suddenly find our knees colliding. “Whoops! Sorry.”

  Surprise lines his handsome face, but before he can form a response, my words emerge hastily. “I just wanted to mention something about, um, two people—Naomi and Leo—who died in a house fire in your territory.”

  I attempt to slide off my stool to finish my spiel, but his strong fingers encircle my upper arm, stopping me. His hold is firm and not painful, but it certainly leaves a strong impression that it could be.

  His voice may be muted, but it slices through me like icy barbs. Those fingers tighten a fraction on my arm. “How the fuck do you know Naomi and Leo?”

  Shit. Here comes the hard part. “I work in the morgue, and I know it’s probably going to sound bizarre, but something seemed off.” I hesitate because I can’t actually tell him the truth. “Something just didn’t make sense, even though everything else looked like they’d died of smoke inhalation. Anyway, I just wanted to pass that on to you, so maybe you could be careful, just in case.”

  His fingers go slack on my arm, so I take advantage of the moment and slide off the stool. My flip-flops smack along the tile floor as I stride toward the exit. It isn’t until the door falls closed behind me, that little bell jingling in my wake, that I finally exhale.

  The Florida sunshine and trademark humidity assault me with a vengeance, because bitch that it is, it didn’t get the memo; it’s early October, and people might actually like it to taper off a bit.

  I set my sights on my vehicle in the parking lot. It shines more like a beacon of freedom and safety instead of the bland, white symbol of reliable transportation that it is.

  Panic surges through me at the sound of footsteps trailing me. Picking up my pace, I’m preparing to sprint the remainder of the distance to my vehicle when my wrist is snagged, and I’m tugged around to face the man I just abandoned inside the diner.

  When I stare up into his face, it happens again. Word vomit. “Ohhh, you’re pissed.” I tip my head to the side and peer at him quizzically. “Why are you pissed? Because I honestly can’t fathom how anyone could be, especially after having the amazing coffee and food here.”

  As he looms over me, malevolence rolls off him in thick, oppressing waves. “You think it’s cool to bounce on me after spoutin’ off the shit you just did?”

  I will my voice not to waver. “Look, I just thought telling you was the right thing to do.” I raise my hands in surrender. “That’s all. Nothing more.”

  His eyes bore into mine, practically flaying me open. “You’re tryin’ to tell me that two of my people”—he leans in closer, his tone possessing a menacing edge—“who are dead might’ve been murdered?”

  “Maybe?” I hedge. “I don’t know. All I know is that something just didn’t…make sense.”

  His steely gaze searches my features before he leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “Explain.”

  Shit. You knew what you were potentially getting yourself into, I remind myself. Now, I’m facing a man who could easily prevent me from leaving. Or even living, by all the accounts I read on the Internet.

  As I scour my brain for an answer that will satisfy him, nervous agitation has me blurting out, “It was something in their lungs, but it wasn’t a large enough sample for me to determine anything for certain.”

/>   I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly before stating what I recited in my head on the drive here. “Anyway, I thought you might want to know in case there’s a threat still out there and they were actually murdered.”

  My shoulders relax a fraction now that I’ve said my piece. “Sooo…it’s been lovely.” I gesture toward the diner. “This is a great place y’all have here. Congrats. Now, I’d best be on my way.”

  I edge a step closer to my car when he says, “Not so fast, Red.”

  Mirroring his pose, I cross my arms and offer him a dour look. “Wow. How original. I haven’t heard that, oh, you know, a million times or more in my life.”

  My hair has always seemed to give people the idea that it’s okay to nickname me by its color.

  Spoiler alert: It’s not.

  “You’re sayin’ Naomi and Leo might’ve been murdered? And I might be in danger?”

  I huff out an exasperated breath. “Yes! Can we move on from that now?”

  His expression turns to granite, his tone arctic. “How the fuck do I know you’re not workin’ with the police to try to incriminate me?”

  “I’m not working with the police.” I vie for a patient tone. “I work in the morgue. That’s it.” I attempt to edge away from him.

  “You’re not workin’ with the police, and you think Naomi and Leo were murdered.” He poses this as a statement instead of a question.

  I stare at him. “Are you planning to repeat everything I’ve already said?”

  Tense lines bracket his lips. “You’ve got some sass in you.”

  I cock my head to the side and squint at him. “Even though that didn’t sound like a compliment in your tone of voice, I’m going to take it as one.”

  Those intriguing eyes narrow on me, and pure menace radiates from him. “You came to talk to me about two of my people who died.” He steps closer, crowding me now. “You came marchin’ right into Scorpion territory.”

  I lift my chin, forcing myself to remain calm as I hold his gaze. Determined not to be intimidated, I fall back on my trustworthy trait of sarcasm to navigate my way through the tense circumstances. “Is this recap really necessary? I feel like you could have this conversation entirely on your own.”