Page 62 of Hit Man
Better keep her at arm’s length. Better keep us moving. And better keep her angry, because angry is so much more predictable than afraid.
18
Aubrey
Diego hitches us a ride in the back of a pickup truck. Well, I’m in the back, he’s up front in the passenger’s seat. I’d been given a choice: sit on his lap or ride with the chickens.
I chose the chickens.
You might think I got the short end of the straw. Wrong.
Through the open window of the cab, I pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. And from what I can piece together, it doesn’t involve me.
To my delight, it seems to be about the truck driver. And . . .him.
“I have a larger sweater . . . cold?”
“I’m not.”
“Pink is a nice color.” My eyebrows rise. I’m not sure but I believe the driver just commented about Diego being “big like a bull.” Because he follows this by adding, “How do you say it in English? You’ve got big guns?”
I swear to God, even the chickens are smiling. I resist the urge to giggle. And the urge to holler into the cab, “Ask him about his biggest gun.” Yeah, Diego can parade his penis pride all the way to Mexico City.
I roll my eyes at Diego’s response, also in English. “One hundred push-ups a day. Like ’em?”
Now it’s the truck driver’s turn to giggle.
Oh. My. God. The devil’s flexing his biceps.
Show off.
Flirt.
“She can’t resist grabbing a feel. Dug her fingers right in and ripped my sweatshirt.”
I roll my eyes. Half the morning was spent with me imagining ripping that sweatshirt off of him, then rewrapping it around his neck and strangling the infuriating man. God, he has a knack for pissing me off. Me, who’s built a reputation on being coolheaded and rational.
The driver invites us to his home.
I hold my breath. No. Please. The only home I need right now is my apartment.
“Compadre, I appreciate the offer. But that woman back there is possessive.” He lowers his voice as if I can’t still hear him. “Jealous. Demanding, too. Don’t give her cause to do something drastic like mess with your chickens.”
Abruptly, I’m airborne.
Chickens squawk.
Diego curses.
And truck driver is out of his truck and running back in my direction like an angry rooster’s chasing him.
“Get out.”
I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt your bleeding chickens.”
“Bleeding my chickens. Out. Shoo. Shoo.”
Oh no. He didn’t just shoo me away, did he? I clamber out of the truck. Diego comes to stand beside me, offering me the protection of his presence. Except, he’s scowling and shaking his head at me.
