#Kevin “KJ” Jimenez | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artemiseamoon · 2 years

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3 am

Mayans: Kj x Wife! f reader (Kevin Jimenez)

Words: 1,337

Warnings: ⚠️ angst, almost dying, marriage issues, a hit

gif credit to gif owners

💫 Arte releases a draft from the void 💫

Under different circumstances, this would be a beautiful setting. You always loved this cabin and the lush green landscape surrounding it. You and KJ made so many memories here.

This cabin on the lake was a paradise whenever KJ had a break or took some time off work. The two of you would come here and unplug from your lives and the world.

Sitting in front of the fire now, you glance at your phone and stare at the last text he sent you.

On my way

That was today at 6:14pm. Now it's 30 after midnight. It doesn't take long to get from Santo Padre to here; something is wrong.

When you arrived, your first red flag was seeing no one else was there. Why would he tell you to meet him here and not show up?

The first hours of waiting were filled with anger and annoyance. A few times, you contemplated going back home. Plans falling through came with the territory, though it was never on purpose.

A case, his boss, a lead; there were so many times you and KJ had to cancel plans suddenly. But the difference between then and now is the lack of communication. Now, there's nothing, no text, no call, no "I'm so sorry baby."

It's worrisome.

…

Even with the fear something was wrong, you remained upset. Things between you and KJ aren’t good. Though you’ve ridden rocky waves before, this one appears to be the worst. Things got so bad you moved out of your shared home four days ago.

You tried to remain compassionate and understanding. But watching the man you love, the man you married, waste away, become rage-filled, and an asshole all because of his job and inner demons got to be too much. You needed a break and some space.

You were worried about this very thing for years. KJ has had hard jobs in the past, but this one is taking a toll on him.

This current job is eating him alive, you could see it with your own eyes, and most nights, when he did come home, you barely recognized him.

This is his 3rd year under his current assignment of taking down the Galindo Cartel. You love his passion and his desire to make a difference and hate the effect this job is having on him.

You understood KJ couldn't talk to you about most things, it's part of his work, but over the last four months, he's shut you out and become so distant you don't even know how to talk to him anymore. You can see him hurting, but can't help.

KJ tried so hard to not be like his old man, but he’s struggling now and picking up a bunch of old bad habits, including drinking. It's one of the many issues driving you two apart.

With all of this going on, you didn't know what to expect when he asked you to come here. Bad news? A divorce? Was he going to beg for you to come back?

Maybe something went terribly wrong at work and now he needs to leave town? Maybe he was taken off the case due to an outburst, or maybe your life was now in danger too?

You don't know how you made it through the last number of hours. It's nearly 3 am now, and any attempts to contact KJ fail.

"That's it, I'm looking for him."

You head to the bedroom and gather your bag. Yes, you're mad at him, yes he's been a pain in the ass. But you love him and if anything has happened to him, you will scorch the earth to find him and get revenge.

Setting the bag in the hall, you sit on the bench and put your shoes back on. Just as you slide your second boot on, you hear a car in the driveway.

You jump to your feet and rush to a window. You don’t recognize the car. A different kind of panic rushes through your body as you retrieve the pistol from your handbag.

KJ set up the cabin in a specific way. If there ever was an intruder you’d have the vantage point and numerous places to hide. You utilize one of those very spots with the gun in your hands, trying your best to keep your aim steady when the door opens.

Then it comes, his voice.

A wave of relief washes over you as you follow the sound of your name and find KJ standing in the living room.

Letting your head fall back, you let out a huge sigh and drop your shoulders. Uttering a curse under your breath, you click safely back on and place the gun on the nearest surface.

"I almost shot you!"

“Sorry I scared you, baby,” he says softly.

He’s exhausted, it's written all over his face, and he also looks disheveled. With each step closer you take to him, you notice something else. Something harder to read in his brown eyes.

By the time you reach him, KJ pulls you into his arms, holding you close in a tight hug. A moment passes like this, the two of you holding on to each other. Both needed it more than the other knew.

With your head against his chest, KJ starts to speak but stops, seemingly struggling with his words. You rest your palms against his back and look up at him, finding his eyes already on you.

“Are you okay? I was worried….” you study him, “are you injured?”

“I’m okay,” he tries to assure you, you know it's a lie.

KJ softly kisses your forehead and takes you by the hand, guiding you to the couch. His hand is shaky in yours, and you can smell the liquor on his breath.

You start, “KJ - if you were late because you were out drinking - "

“I - I fucked up baby, “ his brown eyes are sad and heavy. “I’ve got a hit out on me. An old contact gave me a heads-up. I had to hide out for a few hours before making the drive. I'm sorry."

“A hit? Who? Galindo?” You move closer to him and hold his hand tighter.

He shakes his head, “not exactly- we don't have a lot of time. I need you to come with me, so I can get you somewhere safe first.”

“Then what, you go dark?”

He nods.

“No, I’m not leaving you. If you need to go under the radar, we do it together.”

Your words surprised him, he was so convinced you were over and done. He didn't even expect you to still have your wedding ring on, “Really?”

“You drive me mad sometimes. But I love you. And if a price is on your head, that means I have one on mine too. Say you vanish, then what? I may have a week, a month, a few months then someone rolls up on me and shoots me to send a message to you? No, fuck that, we disappear together.”

KJ pulls you close and rests his forehead against yours. “Are you sure about this?” He asks again.

“Yes,” you confirm.

He raises your hand to his lips and then kisses it, “you know what you're signing up for?”

“I had an idea when I picked you, I’m not stupid. I knew the stakes were raised by taking this job.”

“I don’t deserve you” he holds your face then kisses you, “I love you. I’m sorry I wasn’t - stronger.”

“Don’t do that, all of this is a lot. We’ll go somewhere else. Start new. I’ll get the old KJ back, yeah?”

He nods, “we need to get the go bags. I have a friend, he's gonna help us get out of Cali, but we need to hurry.”

“You and me. We got this, okay?” You stare deep into his eyes and caress the side of his face.

“You and me.”

KJ forces a smile, kisses you again, then stands. "Let's go."

He needs a hug 😩

Masterlist (Mayans )

I don’t have a lot of Maurice, but find some narcos /Carrillo here

#kevin jimenez #Mayans mc #kj Mayans #kj x wife reader #draft dusted off and released #Maurice Compte characters #kj lives

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the-hinky-panda · 1 year

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Vanishing Act (Kevin "KJ" Jimenez Fic)

Title: Vanishing Act (Part I of II)

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Kevin "KJ" Jimenez x Fem! Reader

Summary: You've lost everything: family members, your job with the US Marshals, your life, all because of one man: Lincoln Potter. When you get word that he's put a hit out on one DEA Agent Kevin Jimenez, you decide maybe you might get an ally in your quest for revenge. You just have to keep both of you and KJ alive until you can get your revenge on Potter.

***

Kevin Jimenez was never a lucky man.

He was intelligent, detail oriented, dedicated to his work but luck had nothing to do with it. It certainly had nothing to do with the current state of his life, that was for certain. Two years of borderline obsession with the Galindo cartel that resulted in divorce papers from his wife, custody arguments about the kids, and for what? If luck had played a part in his life at all, then at least he would still have his job after all that.

But Kevin Jimenez was never a lucky man.

That is, until today.

He has no idea how he managed to stand in the middle of his living room, bullets ricocheting off the walls, pictures, and decorations, and not so much as get nicked.

Larry Bowen, on the other hand, is not so lucky.

KJ is still standing in the middle of the room, no place to go for cover. Bowen is dead, two gunshots to his chest. EZ Reyes is to his right, Angel Reyes directly in front of him, and a third figure, a woman, dressed in black to his left. All three have guns pointed at each other. All he can do is hope his luck holds while the three armed assailants work this macabre interaction to its conclusion.

“Put the fucking guns down!” the woman shouts.

“You put your fucking gun down!” Angel yells back.

EZ takes a shot at her, clipping her shoulder and she returns the favor, plaster from the wall next to his face exploding with the impact of her bullet. Angel raises his gun in KJ’s direction but the woman fires again, this time hitting Angel’s gun and knocking it from his hand.

“Fuck!” Angel shakes his hand from the shock of his weapon being hit. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes are zeroed in now on EZ, who’s crouched low by the wall in the kitchen. Slowly, he takes his finger off the trigger of his gun and holds it up. You do the same and every one takes a breath. The three of you don’t move any closer to each other but you all do holster your pieces. Now that the immediate danger is over, the adrenaline surge that KJ felt with the instinct of fight or flight and he could do neither finally explodes.

“What the actual fuck is happening?!”

Both EZ and Angel are suspiciously quiet. It’s you, to everyone’s surprise, that answers.

“Potter put a hit on you.” You motion to the two brothers. “My guess would be he hired these two bargain basement thugs to do it.”

Angel shakes his head. “‘Bargain basement?’”

EZ’s jaw ticks. “I was more offended by thugs.”

KJ feels the sharpness of the betrayal of the hitmen being family in his chest.

“Either way,” you continue, “Potter wants you dead for some reason, which means it’s in my best interest to keep you alive.”

KJ swallows. “You want Galindo? The Cartel?”

“I want Potter.”

It doesn’t surprise him that the odd ADA has made enemies along the way in his career. There’s a story behind the venom you use when you say Potter’s name. This isn’t about saving him at all. It’s about using him as leverage. And as much as that would have infuriated him in the past, staring down the barrels of three guns and a dead boss have altered his perception somewhat.

“Look,” EZ says, “whatever deal you have with Potter-”

You hold up a hand. “Let me stop you there. Because I can tell you all about the deals that Potter makes. I guarantee that one or both of you are looking at a lifetime sentence in jail which will magically go away if you put a bullet in this man’s head. And if you don’t, you’re going to suffer, your family is going to suffer, and no one is going to have a happily ever after.”

“What are you proposing?” Angel asks.

You take out a set of car keys and toss them at Angel. “I have a car sitting three blocks over at the back of a dead end street. It’s set up with a pipe bomb underneath it with a remote control, the garage door opener clipped to the visor. There’s already a body in the front seat, same height and weight as your target. And I’ve already planted his ID and some other belongings in the car.”

Angel looks at the keys. “Why didn’t you just blow it before you came here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to need to add a couple more bodies to the car before I blew it.” Your eyes land on Bowen. “Glad I waited. If you’re worried about an investigation from the coroner blowing the cover, don’t. I’ve already paid him off to say it was Agent Jimenez.”

“You’re CIA.” The realization leaves his mouth before KJ can stop it. Your efficiency, your thoroughness, your resources all point to Black Ops level type shit. But you’re here by yourself, that much is obvious. If you had a partner, they would have been involved in the firefight. They would help with the body. You’re rogue.

“Something like that.” You state it with finality before turning to Angel and EZ. “Potter’s going to show up here to look over your handiwork in about twenty minutes. I suggest you get this poor son of a bitch out to the car and blow it before he arrives. Whatever deal you all had will still be honored.”

EZ looks over KJ. “And what about him?”

“You’re going to forget all about him. He’s my problem now.”

***

Apparently, two hours into the drive up the coast, KJ realizes he’s not the only problem you have. That “clip” of the bullet from back at the house is still bleeding. He’s been watching the red stain grow, soaking the fabric of your black shirt and even spread to the upholstery of the driver’s seat of the Jeep Cherokee that may or may not be yours. If that wasn’t concerning enough, the thin sheen of sweat and pale coloring of your skin definitely is.

“You should let me drive.”

You scoff. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I would if you tell me.”

“Not going to happen.”

He sits back in the passenger seat. “Of course not. You’re just going to pass out from blood loss in another hour and run us off the road. So glad I survived the hit to die in a fiery crash somewhere near San fucking Bernardino.”

“Are you done?” You shift in the driver’s seat trying to position your injured arm on the center console so it has some support. “Thought you would be a bit more appreciative of me saving your ass back there.”

“Only to kill us both out here.”

“Fine.” You jerk the steering wheel and pull the car over to the shoulder of the highway and slam it into park. “You want to drive, have at it.”

You climb out of the driver’s seat, cradling your injured arm against your chest as you stalk your way around the car and stop at the passenger side. Before you can change your mind, he climbs across the console and slides into the driver’s seat. He sits back and feels your blood start to soak into his shirt but there’s no way for him to stop that from happening. He supposes this is the price he has to pay to survive the car ride. You clamber into his vacated passenger seat with an angry, yet tired, huff.

“So?”

You roll your eyes. “So, what?”

“Where are we going?”

“North.”

“How far-”

“North,” you repeat before leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

North it is. He pulls back on the road and drives for the next two hours in silence. Whenever there was a cross road or interchange, he took whatever direction that was north. The gas light turns on somewhere around Bakersfield and he pulls off the highway to a gas station right by the exit. He pays for the gas, pumps it, uses the restroom and you still haven’t moved from your slumped over position in the passenger seat. When he returns to the driver’s seat, he pokes your leg, gives your elbow a slight shake and you come to, mostly.

“Where…”

“Bakersfield,” he answers.

You look around the gas station that he has yet to pull away from. It’s the middle of the night, hard to see any details past the bright service lights of the station. Your tired eyes squint, trying to see into the darkness, trying to see whatever threat may be lurking out there. “We have to keep going.”

“Why?”

“Away,” you slump back against the seat. You’re weak from the blood loss, and still very pale. Your eyes are having difficulty focusing. “From Potter.”

“I thought you wanted to take him down.”

“Take him down, we need to go up.” You laugh weakly at the statement.

You’re not making much sense and with his life completely topsy turvy at the moment, KJ needs you and all your faculties. He reaches over and lays his hand on your forehead, like he used to do for his kids. You swat it away haphazardly but thankfully you don’t feel feverish. “Alright, we’re stopping for the night.”

“No!” You sound like a petulant child.

“Yes,” he states firmly. “You need medical attention and rest.”

“No hospitals.”

On that, he had to agree with you. “No hospitals. You have a first aid kit in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Cheap hotel it is then.”

Your head falls against the glass of the passenger side door with a thunk. “Sure know how to show a girl a nice time, Agent Jimenez.”

He pulls back out on the highway, wanting to get past Bakersfield proper, and find something out of the way on the outskirts. “Guess I’m not an agent anymore.”

“Guess not.”

He presses his lips together, grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He supposes he’s not a lot of things anymore: agent, husband, father. All those things are in the past, dead and blown up on some dead end street in his neighborhood. There’s only one thing that he still has, that’s still his. “You can call me KJ.”

He waits for you to give him your name but you’ve already passed out again.

***

You’re quite pretty. The early morning light paints your skin in a soft, hazy glow. Your hair is still mostly pulled back into a ponytail but strands have escaped and curled around your face. But KJ is certain the most attractive aspect at the moment is that you’re still asleep in the front seat of the car. You’re quiet, not angry, snapping at him with sharp sarcasm with a nihilistic edge.

You’re at peace and you’re lovely.

He sighs as he opens the passenger side door and rests his hand on your shoulder. Your brow furrows in your sleep but you keep sleeping so he squeezes your shoulder until your eyes flutter open. Immediately you’re on alert, sitting up straight and trying to take in your surroundings.

“Where-”

“North end of Bakersfield somewhere. Come on, I got a room for a couple hours so we could get that gunshot wound under control. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine. Bleeding’s stopped by now.”

“Yeah, well, it still needs to be bandaged.”

“We need to keep moving. We need to keep going north.”

He’s tired, bone tired, weary of dealing with one clusterfuck after another. He needs a break, a block of time to reassess the situation and come up with a plan. “Well, I need a fucking moment to breath. You said you need me because Potter wanted me dead. If that’s true, you’re going to fucking follow me into the hotel room. Let me patch up that wound and get some real sleep before moving forward.”

“Look, I know the DEA-”

“You don’t know shit!” he snaps. “You don’t know shit about me, about what I’ve had to fucking sacrifice for this fucking case! You probably don’t even know that those two ‘thugs’ that showed up to kill me were family.” He feels tears stinging his eyes. “Mi familia. Mi sangre.”

You don’t back down, but you do soften a bit. When you do speak, there’s no harshness to your tone. “You’re right. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

It’s a hollow victory but he’ll take it at the moment. He goes to the back of the Jeep and takes out the two duffle bags, slinging his bag over his shoulder and carrying yours. When he comes back to the passenger side, you’re standing next to the car but have a death grip on the door. He can see your muscles shaking from the effort to keep you upright. He slips his free arm around your torso and is surprised that you don’t protest. Perhaps you know just how bad a shape you’re in at the moment.

You lean on him for the short walk across the parking lot and then follow him into the room under your own power. It only lasts until you make it to the small wooden chair. The hotel room is basic, bare bones, but it looks relatively clean. He still pulls the comforter off the bed before putting the bags down on it.

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“It’s in my bag, towards the top.”

He unzips the worn, leather bag and finds a smaller bag, equally as worn, sitting on top of clothes. He carries it into the bathroom and opens it up. There’s a good sized bottle of rubbing alcohol and he uses that to sterilize the counter and sink. He sees you in the mirror, leaning on the doorframe and unbuttoning your shirt. Well, trying to at least, as your hands are shaking from the injury and its side effects.

He steps over to you and immediately starts undoing the buttons himself, concentrating on the task and the reasoning behind it. The sooner he can patch you up, the sooner he can sleep. He expects you to swat him away, determined to do this intimate act yourself, but you don’t. You just lean back and let him do it, helping only when he starts to peel the semi dried fabric from your injured arm. He also expected your fire to come back, that ice cold determination to see your mission through but it hasn’t. You’re still leaning against the door jam, right shoulder and arm bloodied, clad in your jeans and simple black sports bra.

You look tired, weak…soft.

He turns and reaches for a clean washcloth, soaking it in the alcohol, before starting to clean the blood from your arm. “So you’re not CIA.”

You hiss and jerk your arm when the alcohol runs into the wound but still your movements. “What makes you think that?”

What makes him think that? He certainly can’t say the truth, that you lack the hard dissociative edge that he’s seen before in CIA agents. You’re staring at him through the haze of pain but you’re very much reading his expression. So he throws out the question that’s been plaguing him since he left Santo Padre.

“Why didn’t you just kill Angel and EZ?”

You take in a deep breath through your nose and release it slowly. “Because I know how Potter works. The people he sends to tie up loose ends are just as much the victims as the people they kill.”

He couldn’t argue with that statement.

“You’re right,” you say. “I didn’t realize they were related to you. How?”

“Second cousins.” He scoffs. “Not like they were my brothers.”

Something akin to pain, but deeper, passes through your eyes. It happens so quickly, he thinks he may have imagined it.

“And I’m not CIA. I’m a US Marshal,” you confess quietly. “Well, was one at least.”

He’s cleaned away most of the blood so he can see the wound. It certainly isn’t a clip, the bullet went completely through the muscle of the underside of your bicep. It went clean through though, but the bullet wound is still oozing blood and will continue to do so until it’s packed and bandaged. “Let me guess, witness protection?”

“Right again.” You glance down at the wound. “Guess it was more than just a clip.”

He pulls out cotton, gauze pads, and bandages, laying them out on the sterilized sink counter. “Spoken like someone who’s never been shot before.”

“My line of work we tried to prevent situations from getting to that point.”

“Sounds like you were successful.”

“Until I wasn’t.”

He wonders if he’ll reach a point when he’s able to talk about this clusterfuck with the succinctness and resignation that you just did. But you’re talking and that’s something he wants to encourage. The more he knows the better. “So how did Potter fit into that situation?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “You almost done?”

And just like that, the conversation is over. He wraps the bandage over the cotton and gauze and fixes it in place with a metal clip. “Done.”

“Thank you.” You pick up your bloodied shirt and toss it in the trash. “Are you hungry? There’s a Burger King across the street.”

“No,” he starts cleaning up the bandages. “I’m good. You?”

You shake your head. “Maybe after some sleep.”

Which brings up another issue. There is only one bed out there. By the time he repacks the first aid kit, you’re already under the sheets and balanced on the right edge of the bed. He debates taking a shower, getting into a clean set of clothes, and then laying down but it all seems to be too much of an effort. Instead, he lays down on top of the sheets and stares at the cheap, popcorn ceiling. He listens to your breathing, wondering if you’re just going to stop mid-inhale from the blood loss. IF he’s going to have to take you to the hospital for an infusion and proper stitches. But you don’t. And soon, he finds himself being drawn under the blanket of sleep listening to the steady exhalations of you next to him.

***

When KJ wakes up, it’s completely dark in the room. He listens for your breathing but doesn’t hear anything. There’s nothing. No sound, no movement, no warmth.

“Fuck.”

He turns on the light next to him and braces to find your dead body. But you’re not there and somehow that’s worse. You’ve left him stranded in northern Bakersfield with no car, no new ID, and fifty dollars in cash. What exactly did he expect though? He has nothing on Potter, less than nothing in fact. His entire career in the DEA has been completely erased. The sight of his office being stripped and torn apart still makes his stomach churn.

There’s nothing for him to do until he figures out where he’s going to go and how he’s going to get there. He gets up, grabs his bag, and heads into the bathroom to get cleaned up. He tries to come up with a way to make some money while he showers. Without being able to use credit cards or withdraw from his bank accounts, if he even has them anymore, he’s going to need to make some fast cash. Maybe the hotel needs some extra help and he can get enough together to get somewhere further away from Santo Padre.

He’s pulling his t-shirt over his head when he hears a noise come from the other room. He had left his gun on the back of the toilet and he picks it up as he peers through the steam left over from his shower. The door is partially open, light flickers in from the faulty streetlight outside the room. The smell of fresh food: charbroiled and smoked meat, cheese, and grease hits his nose and causes his stomach to growl. There you are, struggling with bags of food, a hurt arm and a stubborn, dented door to a cheap motel room.

You didn’t abandon him. You didn’t leave him in the middle of nowhere.

“Jimenez, some help here?”

He tucks the gun in the waistband of his jeans as he moves to help you through the door. “Sorry. I, uh, I thought you left.”

You give him a slightly concerned look. “I did leave. To pay for a few more hours for the room and grab some food. You okay there?”

The relief he feels at your return shouldn’t be as strong as it is, but here he is. Heart slowing from its rapid pace, a slight burning to the back of his eyes. You didn’t leave. You didn’t abandon him. This too means more than it should. He puts the bags of food down on the small desk and re-locks the door. You drop into a chair, exhausted and pale.

“You shouldn’t have gone out there by yourself.” He tries to sound chiding but it lacks conviction. He’s still too relieved that you didn’t leave him behind. “You’re still recovering from the blood loss.”

You pull a hamburger out of the Burger King bag and unwrap it. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

He gives you a disbelieving look and you slowly cave.

“Okay, okay, I haven’t actually been shot and had significant blood loss before.”

He starts pulling food out of the other bags. “What did you get?”

“I didn’t know what you like to eat so I got a bunch of stuff.” You point to a plain white plastic bag with styrofoam containers. “That’s supposed to be some award winning BBQ, coleslaw, and potato salad. There’s also some more Burger King, lo mein and egg rolls, and a meatball sub.”

“What, no Indian food?”

You take a large bite out of the burger. “I owe you some chicken tikka masala then.”

He takes half the BBQ and sides, sitting down on the other chair at the small desk. It only takes a couple bites before he realizes just how ravenous he is. He can’t remember the last time he ate. He can’t really remember how much time has actually passed since the events in the living room. It seems like a lifetime ago already. You’ve finished the burger and are reaching for the meatball sub.

“I don’t normally eat like this.”

He motions to your shoulder with his fork. “It’s the blood loss. Your body is trying to make up for what it’s lost. Protein is the best thing to eat.”

“You’re not just saying that to keep the potato salad all to yourself, are you?”

He looks over at you and sees a small smirk at the corner of your mouth, a slight brightness of mirth in your eyes.

You didn’t leave him.

Not yet, anyway.

***

You finally tell him where you’re heading: Olema. It’s a small, touristy town along the coast about thirty miles north of San Francisco. You have a friend who runs a bed and breakfast there and who is willing to give you both some space to regroup. Right now though, the plan is less focused on revenge and more on healing. You try to drive but have to pull over two hours in because you’re still too weak to keep your head up and your eyes open.

“You can get some sleep. I can use Google Maps-” he stops himself short. That’s right. You made him toss his cell phone into the car before Angel and EZ blew it up. No phone along with everything else. All his pictures of his family, his soon to be ex-wife, his two kids. The loss of something so simple like a picture hits him like a tidal wave and he has to forcibly swallow down the lump in his throat.

You open the glove compartment and pull out a slip of paper, writing the directions down. “Here, just keep taking the 5 up to the 580 West. When we get to San Rafeal, you’re going to get on the 101 North. Then we hit the 1 which will take us straight into Olema. If I’m asleep by the time we make it into town, you can stop at the Due West Tavern. It’ll be on the left side of main street about a mile into town. We should get there towards the end of dinner.”

He takes the slip of paper and tucks it in the visor, hoping you don’t see the sheen of tears in his eyes. But he knows you probably do. You’re incredibly astute and detail oriented. He figures you wouldn’t be successful in your job if you weren’t. “Thanks.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Eighteen months.”

“What?”

“That’s how long I tell people that it takes to adjust to their new lives. Eighteen months.”

He feels another wave of grief hit him. “That sounds like forever.”

“The first year is hard. You remember all the anniversaries, routines, holidays and traditions. Once you get past that first year, that’s when you stop existing and start adjusting. It takes another four to six months to settle into the new life then.”

He remembers what it was like when his mother died. The first year had been terrible, all the memories and holidays exacerbating the loss of the quiet, kindhearted woman who endured hell on earth so he wouldn’t have to face it alone. “It’s like the grieving process.”

“That’s exactly what it’s like.” You turn your head and study his profile for a moment. “It’s okay to grieve, to feel the loss. It’ll help shorten the adjustment period if you acknowledge the emotions for what they are.”

“Grief.”

You hum as you fold your legs close to your chest and put your feet on the dashboard. “Survivor’s guilt is a big one too.”

Bowen. He can still see the dark red stain of blood soaking into the jute rug and spilling out onto the hardwood floor of the living room. He chances a quick glance over to you, your relaxed posture, half closed eyes. He’s detail oriented too and wonders if you’re in a sharing mood now.

“Who did Potter take away from you?”

You pick at a rip in your jeans. “Everyone. Everything.”

He waits to see if you’ll elaborate but by the time he looks over, you’re already turned towards the door and asleep. He glances up at the directions you gave him and estimates there’s only about another two and half hours of driving ahead. So he does what you suggest and he sits with his grief for that time.

***

You’re still asleep, curled into a ball in the passenger seat when he pulls into the gravel parking lot of the tavern. He wonders if the place is open given there’s only two cars in the lot despite it being seven forty at night. He turns the car off and releases a long sigh. He’s drained. Emotionally, mentally, physically. Now all he wants to do is sleep for about a week. He reaches over and gently squeezes your arm.

You sit up immediately and take in your surroundings, letting out a slightly disgusted noise. “Can’t believe I slept all the way here.”

“Six to eight weeks.”

You open the passenger side door and slide out of the car. “What?”

“That’s how long it takes for someone to get their strength back from significant blood loss.”

You nod as you start to make your way towards the front door of the restaurant. He takes a moment to take in the area. The sky is not completely darkened by night yet. The smell of the tavern food, fish and steak, drifts through the air and mixes with a sharper, cleaner scent. He knows he should know what it is but he can’t put his finger on it at the moment.

“Hey,” you shout and he sees you’re holding the door open for him. He hustles his way over to you and follows you into the building. You’re familiar with the place given the ease in which you navigate the formal dining room and lead him into the dark bar area of the tavern. Everything is dark wood, the floor, ceiling beams, bar, tables, chairs even.

“Sorry, kitchen’s closed-” a man appears from behind the bar but stops mid sentence when his eyes land on you. A large smile breaks across his face. “Hey, you made it!”

“Hey, Tony!” You give him a one-armed hug. “I know it’s late but-”

“I got you.” He motions to a corner booth, away from windows and a guttering candle in the center of the table. “Have a seat and I’ll scrounge up something for you guys. I’ll call Mom too, let her know you’re here.”

“Please tell me you have some clam chowder left over,” you ask, easing yourself down into the booth.

“For you, I will find some.” He turns to KJ. “What about you?”

He has to admit, he’s hungry again and anything sounds good to him. “I’m not picky.”

Tony claps him on the arm. “My kind of customer. What do you guys want to drink?”

“Whatever’s on tap is fine for me.” You’re already propped up in the corner, your injured arm resting on the table. KJ can see some slight bleed through your shirt. Tony notices it too.

“I’ll bring some whiskey too. Make a couple boilermakers out of it.”

KJ slides into the booth across from you. He can’t tell if it’s the poor light but your skin tone is still ashy and you look exhausted. “So, Tony and his mom are going to help us?”

You nod. “Tony’s mom, Amelia, used to be my boss. She was my mentor, taught me everything I know. She’s retired now but helps me out when I need a safe place to crash or stash people for a short time until witness protection can iron out paperwork.”

“She’s the one who runs the Bed and Breakfast?”

“Yeah. It’s a good front for moving people quietly. A good blend of tourists and fugitives. It helps that Olema is out of the way for most people.”

“Why do people come here?”

“Mostly for the hiking trails in Point Reyes National Seashore. There’s lots of hikers and backpackers that come through here. There are some horse stables and you can do trail riding too. But in a state where you also have National Forests like Redwoods, Sequoia, Lassen, and Yosemite National Park, this little place gets passed over quite a bit.”

Tony comes back with two bowls of rich looking clam chowder, a container of oyster crackers, two beer glasses, a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. “Alright you two, eat up because mom is on her way and says she’s a lot to discuss. You know what that means.”

You roll your eyes but immediately reach for a spoon. KJ looks at you expectantly. “What?”

“What does that mean?”

A small frown crosses your face. “It means we don’t have a lot of information to work with. I don’t know why she’s surprised though. Potter is as slippery as an eel in an oil spill.”

“How long have you been chasing him?”

“About five years now.” You close your eyes when the first spoonful of food goes in your mouth. “No more talking about Potter. This food is too good to be ruined by conversation about that asshole.”

KJ actually finds a small laugh inside of himself before picking up his own spoon.

#kevin jimenez x reader #kevin jimenez x you #kevin jimenez #maurice compte #Vanishing Acts series #mayans mc fic

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cheshirelibrary · 2 years

Photo

11 Playful Books for Fans of P. G. Wodehouse

[via BookBub Blog]

From his beloved My Man Jeeves to Piccadilly Jim, P. G. Wodehouse delighted his readers in the first half of the 20th century with a vast number of humorous books. Here are 11 modern books similar to the works of P. G. Wodehouse to brighten your day.

The Chicken Sisters by KJ Dell’Antonia

The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83 ¼ Years Old by Hendrik Groen

The Little Old Lady Who Broke All The Rules by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg

Part of Your World by Abby Jimenez

Nora Goes Off Script by Annabel Monaghan

Tracy Flick Can’t Win by Tom Perrotta

The Lost Ticket by Freya Sampson

How to Be Perfect by Michael Schur

Four Aunties and a Wedding by Jesse Q. Sutanto

Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson

Joan Is Okay by Weike Wang

#cheshire library #humorous fiction #fun fiction #book list

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drabbles-mc · 3 years

Text

Maurice Compte really went from Horacio “In Control” Carrillo

to Kevin “Hot Mess” Jimenez and I love that for him

#i know he was probably in other stuff in between but this is what i know him from #the range 🤌🏻#maurice compte #horacio carrillo #kevin jimenez #kj #mayans mc #narcos #narcos netflix

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nocturnal-milk-dud · 3 years

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I mean I knew he looked soft in this show but DAMN 10/10 would cuddle, just let me snuggle right in there

#we're not gonna talk about what happens #i know what happens #right now i'm gonna focus on that scruff #and that hoodie #and just think about getting cozy in those arms #BYE #kj #kevin jimenez #maurice compte #mayans mc

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adesertdaydream · 4 years

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So, since you’re looking for ideas... What about an argument that breaks out between one of Maurice’s characters (your choice because I seriously can’t choose) and another character, and then the reader tries to break it up and she may or may not be successful. Could be a one shot or even something leading up to it to make it longer ☺️

So for this ask... we are going to throw a lot of timeline and story details out the window. Just buckle up and enjoy this ride.

You had been dating Kevin for almost 2 years when you had taken the assignment to Colombia. It was serious enough that you shared an apartment and you loved him, you honestly did, but you also loved your career with the DEA. You both knew that time apart like this was always going to be an eventuality with your jobs but that didn’t make actually being apart any easier.

At first, you both took the distance in stride. You spent late nights on the phone, filling each other in on your days and planning ways that you could fit in trips to visit. He sent care packages with your favorite things from home and you sent him touristy little gifts that he loved. Then you got more and more involved with the drug war here in Colombia and gradually the calls became more spaced out, your job here taking up so much of your life that everything else got pushed to the backburner.

Kevin was a good man, a great one even, but he could be a sensitive man too. You had always known this and in many ways you loved that about him. What you didn’t love was the edge that his voice took on the first time he heard your partner Javier speaking in the background when he had called you during a late night work session at your apartment. And you especially didn’t love the accusations that started after that. It was ugly and the feelings that it caused were equally ugly.

Slowly over the next few months, your work life became chaos and your relationship with Kevin completely crumbled. When you finally ended things, you told him to put your stuff into storage and to stop contacting you. It had hurt but in a way it was a relief too, the work you were completing here was important and you couldn’t afford to be distracted.

A few months after the break up Javier was determined to get you to stop moping and invited you out to drinks with some friends from the Colombian National Police. You had met Major Horacio Carrillo and your life had become a whole lot more complicated.

The sex with Kevin had often been slow and sweet, he was a passionate man and made you feel loved with his every touch. The sex with Horacio though? Mind blowing. The man knew what he wanted and somehow intuitively knew exactly what you wanted as well. He was intense in all aspects of his life and what started as a rebound fling for you quickly became something far more serious.

You had heard the rumors around the office that a new agent was being stationed here but when Kevin had walked through the doors this morning, you had spit your coffee back into your cup mid sip in surprise. He kept things professional but somehow you knew that his being here was anything but. When you worked together all week without him ever trying to bring up your not so distant break up though, you thought maybe you were just being paranoid.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the knock on your apartment door on Friday night while you were making dinner for Horacio. He had made the drive from Medellin to surprise you and you were happy to have him close after such a trying week. At the unexpected knock, his protective side had shown when you had made to move away from the counter and he had insisted on opening the door.

“Can I help you?” He had asked the person standing on the other side of the door and you had almost sliced through your finger when it registered that Kevin was standing in your hallway holding flowers.

For a moment, a tense silence reigns before you watch in horror as Kevin’s face becomes angry.

“I don’t know who YOU are but no you can’t, I didn’t come here to speak to you.”

He locks eyes with you inside the apartment as you move away from the counter, coming up behind Horacio’s tense form and placing a hand on his back.

“Look Kevin, maybe this isn’t a good time to talk. If there’s anything you need to discuss I’m sure we can do it in the office on Monday” you say evenly, trying to diffuse the situation and keep things professional.

He rolls his eyes and tosses the flowers down at your feet then, losing his temper at your response.

“So this is why you left me?” he says incredulously while looking Horacio up and down. “Tell me, were you fucking him the whole time or just when you assured me you were ‘busy’ with work?”

Horacio’s muscles harden beneath your hand and you feel him step forward.

He stares down his nose at Kevin as he backs him away from the doorway and further into the hall.

“I believe she has already told you that you can speak to her on Monday ‘Kevin’” he says in a commanding tone, leaving no doubts about who is in charge in this situation.

When Kevin keeps speaking you are surprised by the anger in his words, his raw pain still evident as he spouts at you over Horacio’s shoulder. When the word whore flies out of his mouth, you should have seen Horacio’s reaction coming a mile off, but you still watch in horror as his fist connects with Kevin’s face.

The fight that happens in the hallway as you try to pull Horacio away from Kevin in vein, draws the attention of most of the building. Javier eventually ends it and tells Kevin he ‘better start packing his fucking bags’ because he will ‘personally make sure he is on a plane home for this shit’.

When all is said and done, you are thoroughly mortified to have had two men fighting over you like cavemen while your coworkers and neighbors watch and you definitely aren’t looking forward to the paperwork that is bound to come your way because of this.

As you ice a bruise on Horacio’s cheek that night though, you drop a kiss onto his brow and murmur a thank you for defending your honor. Kevin may be your past, but you are sure that this is your future.

#horacio carrillo #kevin jimenez #maurice compte #I tried a thing #a little sweet and a little salty #to be clear I love both of these men for different reasons #poor KJ #a part of me reread your ask and now thinks you didn’t mean two maurice characters but oh well you created this monster

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