Page 63 of Hit Man
I glare at him, hoping he’ll read the accusation in my eyes.This. Is. Your. Fault.Was it too much to ask him to simply keep flirting with the man? Whatever floats your boat, right? Except now our boat is quickly sinking. The mere thought of resuming our walk exhausts me. “How about I ride up front and he takes the chickens?”
The man eye-fucks Diego one last time, considering my proposal. I’m just about to breathe a sigh of relief when a damn chicken squawks. How I’d like to wring his long neck right after I’m through with Diego’s.
“Thanks, my friend. We appreciate the lift.” Diego turns to me, and in a less flirtatious, less sickeningly sweet voice, says, “Let’s go.”
I hang back yet keep up the pace as the daylight’s rays compete with the clouds rolling in. It’s going to rain, the moisture growing heavy in the air. And the only one of us prepared for getting wet is the man with the perfect ass flexing within his shorts as he keeps a steady stride ahead of me.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Hot as hell and sporting swimwear. What the hell? Did he take a dip? And more importantly, what did he steal? What is the real reason why Juan Carlos wants me dead? I’ve no doubt whatever it is, the man ahead of me is in the thick of it.
I drag my gaze away from his flexing buttocks and onto the man-pack slung low across his waistline. The black case looks oddly out of place on him. Not that my cover-up or the flip-flops are any better. What is stored inside it? Coke? Heroine? Pills?
You would think after serving his country, Diego would have a deeper respect for law. That he’d have a stronger sense of morals than your average American.
Still, he might be an asshole with the body of a devil incarnate, but he didn’t abandon me on that mountaintop. Despite his grumbling and cussing, and his threatening to do so.
He’s stuck with me.
And I’m stuck with him—a possible drug dealer. Temporarily, anyway.
I can’t get back to Mexico City fast enough.
Raindrops begin to fall about a half mile outside city limits. Diego’s curses start to drop like lightning bolts about quarter of a mile away. I tuck my chin in and march in time with them, exhausted, frustrated, and so overwhelmed by everything that’s happened to do much more than push myself onward.
“The time for tears is long gone.”
I stop, midstep, and look up with a scowl. “It’s the rain hitting my face, asshat.”
“Good. Can’t have you wuss out on me now. Stay put. I need to use the facilities.” He unhooks his sack, then carries it to the side of the road and gently places on the ground before disappearing over the embankment flanking the roadway.
“Some facilities,” I call, looking first toward where he disappeared then at his man-sack.
Do I dare?
Before I can weigh the pros and cons of my actions, I rush over to it, fall to my knees, unzip the zipper, and peer inside.
My purple thong is the first thing I see. With my pointer finger, I push it aside. And gasp. He’s carrying not one but two guns. Ex-military . . . not so unusual, right? Though the fact doesn’t warm my heart. Balled-up pieces of black construction paper take up most of the space. Don’t marijuana growers black out windows with something similar?
Then I notice the heavy oval-shaped rock. It’s the size of my hand, fingers included. Gray in color and smooth to the touch. It’s like an oversize pond rock, perfect for skimming across the water.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I jump and drop the rock back inside. A guilty flush creeps up into my cheeks. Busted, red-handed. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Snooping around, as usual. You failed my test,chavita.”
“Test? You expected me to go through your bag?”
He glares down at me from the top of the embankment as he ties the bathing suit waistband. His fingers rub against his lower abdomen as he works, drawing my attention like a honeybee to a sweet-pie convention. His raw sexuality makes me nervous.
His big body straightens, his shoulders squaring off, his manner hinting at a subtle violence that has me scrambling to my feet.
I back away slowly as he descends. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t steal anything. You can check.”
“Who do you work for?” he says, casually, while adjusting the contents of his bag back in place, zipping it then scooping it up and refastening it securely around his waist.
“My answer hasn’t changed from the last time you asked me this.”
“Tell me again.”
