I snort; “What, tired of the beach look already?” I arch my brow, trying not to focus on the fact that her crossed arms have her tits pushed up against her bikini top, giving me a great fucking view of her cleavage. I'm seriously going to miss this view even if we do need to be normal people and get clothes.
Of course, she's right. We do need to stop looking like beach bums and probably even change our appearances if we're going to avoid getting shot on sight by a bunch of trigger-happy Blackriver assholes.
“Alright,” I finally say; “We should go get cleaned up.”
Chelsea makes a face; “We?” She shakes her head; “I don't think so. You're staying here.”
I smirk; “You're the one they're after, princess.”
“You're the prisoner.”
I narrow my eyes at her, feeling my temper flare more than I thought it would at her words.
“You know what I mean,” She looks around the balcony everywhere but at me and shifts her weight uncomfortably.
“So what, you're going to head into town and leave me here like a fucking puppy or something?” I get to my feet, glaring at her; “You gonna lock the door and crack a window? Leave me with some water and a treat?” She starts to open her mouth but I shake my head; “If I was going to leave, you think a fucking motel door would stop me? Sorry, spy-girl; I’m coming with you.”
“OK, so we meet back here in an hour?” She's wearing these giant, tortoiseshell grandmother sunglasses that we picked up at a gift shop as we walked into town. I can't help but grin at the way she's trying to sound authoritative and in charge while looking like she’s about to go play a round of bingo with my abuela.
“All by myself? Unsupervised?” I shrug dramatically; “I don't know, princess; you sure you don't want me coming along with you?”
“I have to buy clothes.” She frowns.
“What, don’t want me helping you pick out some new panties?”
She blushes, predictably; “I think I'll be just fine without your help, thank you.”
I grin wickedly and lean in closer; “I’m a great second opinion for that sort of thing, you know.”
Her face grows even redder, if that was even possible, before she shakes her head; “Try not to get lost, Javier.” She walks away, leaving me grinning at my own jokes, but still feeling like they're empty.
Considering that I'm the only Spanish guy in town, with no shirt on and a chest and arms full of fairly identifiable Día de Muertos sugar-skull tattoos, I buy a new t-shirt first. After that, I'm looking at hats before I decide I don't want to look like a total dipshit and find myself ambling around the market instead. Fantastic. I've got fifty full minutes to kill before I'm supposed to meet Chelsea; now what do I do?
Oh hey, look; a bar.
Perfect. Killing time and a way to get my mind off Chelsea Archer? Sign me the fuck up.
I straighten my new shirt as I walk up to the place. I swing the heavy wooden door open and blink at the utter darkness of the interior as my eyes try and adjust from the outside; “Hey, let me get a tequi-”
I stop talking as soon as I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.
“Que paso, Toro.”
Ah, fuck.
I frown as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark bar and realize that the place is entirely empty but for the five guys in black t-shirts and tactical vests with the “BR” Blackriver insignia on the chest.
Well, walked right into that one. Literally.
“Figured a place like this was a good spot to bump into a little cockroach like you, Toro.”
The man standing in front of me with the mustache and the leering grin on his face is Benson, and I know him from way back even if he is one of those people you’d love to never see again. Mercenary outfits like Blackriver attract all sorts of types. You get ex-soldiers looking for the thrill of a gun or just the regular paycheck from something they already know how to do. You get the wayward lost souls like me who're just looking for something to escape with, and then you also get the utter psychopaths.
Benson falls into this last category. These guys are the guys that you'd lock up in a normal society; the guys the Marines say no to, because at heart, they're just murderous, trigger-happy lunatics who want a license to kill.
I really don’t miss any of those groups after leaving that life, but it’s the Benson type that I hate the most.
“Have a seat, amigo.” His accent is thickly American and southern, amplified even more by the ridiculously out-of-place cowboy hat he's wearing; as if anyone has any doubts that the man with the trucker mustache, the stars and stripes tattoo on his arm, and the Oakley sunglasses can possibly be anything else but American.