Birdy (Upper Echelon Duet Book 1)

corner into the kitchen, and, sure enough, there she is, pulling the mug from the microwave.
“Tell me that’s the first one you’re having today?” I chide, dropping my keys onto the small table.
“El unico.” The only one, she agrees.
Somehow, I doubt that. This woman always has sweets lying around the house. Chocolate bars stuffed in her drawers, pound cakes and cookies littering the small pantry. And when she has nothing else on-hand, she’ll bake anything her sweet tooth desires from scratch. I’d know. I’ve helped her in the kitchen more than Thomas and Noely combined.
Lips curled suspiciously, I place a kiss to her cheek. “Let’s keep it that way, okay? A lifelong condition isn’t worth it.”
“Lo se, mija.” I know. “They’re just so good and so quick,” she explains, popping open the fridge for the can of whipped cream and raspberries.
She eats it the same every time: one chocolate cake packet, a mountain of whipped cream, and a handful of berries.
Not the worst choice, but… “Still not worth it, Ma.” I’m leaned up against the counter, watching her merrily prepare her late-night conquest as if I hadn’t said a word.
She eyes me with a smirk as she covers the top of the mug cake with a dollop of cream. “So, I see you had company last night.”
Shit. My entire body locks up because this conversation is about to spiral from routine to a full-blown argument in the next fifteen seconds. It always does when Ángel is the topic.
“I did, yes.” That’s all I offer—in the most nonchalant tone possible.
My mom hums knowingly, opening one of the drawers for a fork. “He was still here this morning, too, no?”
He sure as hell was, gloriously naked in my bed. “He was.”
Her chocolate brown eyes shift my way, frustration, worry, and disappointment evident in their warm depths. Sighing deeply, she sets her hands to the counter’s edge and bows her head. “Why, Benita? Why him?”
Aaand here we go.
For a man she hasn’t seen more than three times—if that—she doesn’t care for him…at all. She’s practically yelled my ear off about him more times than I can count at this point. The slightest hint I’ve seen him, and she flips her shit.
Every. Single. Time.
“Why are we having this conversation again?” I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“Because you don’t listen! How many times do I have to tell you que es un delincuente!” He’s a delinquent. “Are you trying to get into trouble again?”
My eyes roll to the heavens and back at the juvenile word. “He’s not fifteen, Ma. He’s a grown-ass man.”
“Ah si, pero esta lleno de tatuajes y navegando la calles con drogas encima,” she snaps.
“Um, hello?” Holding her fiery stare, I lift my arms, reminding her they’re also very much covered in tattoos. That’s where I leave it, though. She doesn’t need to know I’m riding around with a plethora of drugs again, too.
After my last six-month stay in County, I was determined to keep my stubborn ass off the streets and finally make her proud, but La Carreta pays shit, and once you get used to the money, it’s hard to let it go. Ángel made it even harder by offering me a position of power in his surreptitious world of corrupt elites; hence, why I’m caught in this lifestyle deeper than ever before.
Undoubtedly the stupidest decision I could have made, I know, but being la Jefa has extreme perks. My wallet no longer weeps from the paltry clutches of poverty, and my family wants for absolutely nothing, unlike when we first arrived here from Cuba. I pay my bills, pay most of Ma’s bills—my brother handles the mortgage—and I can still take an impromptu trip to Bora Bora with my girls if I felt like it. I don’t need to wait tables at La Carreta, but I do it because I need a solid cover.
Ma has nothing to say to my virtually silent reply, lips thinned as she lifts her chin much in the same challenging way I often do. What is there to say? She knows judging others based on their exterior is wrong, especially when she knows nothing about them to support such judgment. Does Ángel look like the good boy next door? Hell no. Still doesn’t give her the right to assume—even if she’s right.
I’m about to tell her as much when the vibe of my phone leaves me with the rebuttal on the tip of my tongue. Retrieving it from my back pocket, I glance over the illuminated screen.
My stomach flips around furiously at the message displayed.
Papi: I’m here, muñeca. Open up.
Trying my damnedest to remain unaffected—because the last thing I need is to add more fuel to her fire—I type out a quick reply and stuff the phone back into my pocket.
Me: Two minutes. I’m downstairs at my mom’s.
“Well, looks like this conversation is over.” Pushing off the counter, I take the three necessary steps toward the table and grab my keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ma.”
“Don’t walk away from me, Benita,” she grits, halting me before I can so much as spin on my heel. “No termine.”
My arms shoot out at my sides in pure irritation. I’m so fucking tired of having this conversation with her at least once a month. “What is there left to say, Mom? You don’t like him, I get it. I don’t need to hear you say it five more times.”
Her eyes blaze in barely-contained fury, face overcome with the crimson tinge of anger as she slams a fist onto the counter, rattling her mug. “Bueno, me vas a oir!” You’re going to hear me! “He’s not the man for you, Benni! You need to let him go before you wind up in prison. Porque tu lo sabes, you know damn well if they arrest you again, you’re not going to County. They’re going to lock you in Max and throw away the key, whether you’re guilty or not!”
She’s not wrong.
Just a couple years ago, I served