by Vivian Arend
Cash meant they would be gone soon. They’d get some blow from Johnny, top off the gas tanks, fuck a girl or three at the Coyote Ranch, be gone by dawn.
Big Papa said, “We’ll open a tab.”
He tossed back one shot of tequila. Mad Dog downed the other. Trouble hung back, thumbs hooked in his pockets, the muscle in his jaw working as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. It wasn’t restraint holding him back. I could see in the bulge of the veins on his tattooed forearms that he was fighting hard against himself on the inside, way down in the dark places where nobody could see. His bones and flesh were only a cage for his fury.
“More,” said Big Papa.
I refilled the shot glasses.
Mad Dog took his shot and ambled around the bar, looking around at my pride and joy—the place that had sheltered and employed me since I was twenty years old, back when I was still healing the wounds that now left my shoulders and neck a twisted mess of white scar tissue.
The bar wasn’t much. Our pool table was upholstered with patchy red velvet. Its broken leg was propped up by a piece of slate. The TV had been bootlegging football games since the seventies. The scattered tables were clean, but mismatched.
Our usual clientele didn’t care about fancy things. They only cared about the stripper’s pole affixed to the bar, the shelves of alcohol I had behind me, and the main feature of the back room.
The biker leaned against the door and lifted a black eyebrow. “When’s the next fight?”
He was looking at the cage hidden behind the curtain: twelve feet by twelve feet of wicked iron enclosing a concrete platform with an old bell on one side. It was stained from years of monthly bloodshed.
That cage was the only reason we had any kind of economy in Lobo Norte. Men came to us for the cage fights. Johnny’s drugs and the Ranch girls had followed to service those men. Gloria and Johnny and I lived a good life off of those weekends. A modest life, but good.
“Tomorrow night,” I said, and pointed at the chalkboard advertising our fight nights. There was a signup sheet next to it.
“Prizes?”
“Five hundred dollars to enter. Winner takes all.” There were usually at least five or six guys chomping at the bit to climb into our cage. It was good money for those willing to risk it, and the liquor sales were even better.
“Steep,” Mad Dog said. Unlike Big Papa, he didn’t sound or look Mexican. The back of his vest said Fang Brothers, just like the others’ did, but none of them looked to be related. Brothers in soul but not in blood.
“It’s worth it,” I said.
Mad Dog squinted at the signup sheet. During his moment of distraction, my eyes traveled back to Trouble. He was quiet and still. But even though he hadn’t budged, it felt like he was shouting my name, demanding my attention.
Trouble wasn’t interested in the cage match. His gaze was fixed to Big Papa’s back.
“We need a motel,” Big Papa said to me. “Where do you think we should stay?”
Far, far away from here. These weren’t the roughest men that had ever crossed my doorstep, but their quiet intensity had the hair on the back of my neck standing. They hadn’t even threatened me and my adrenaline was twisting to dizzying heights.
But I didn’t want Trouble to leave. I wanted him to look at me again. I wanted him to speak.
“There’s only one motel in Lobo Norte,” my lips said as my finger lifted and pointed to the east. “They have three rooms at The Lodge.” Most people didn’t bother staying at The Lodge when they visited. Most people didn’t have a stomach for that many scorpions and the smell of fifty years’ worth of tobacco stink. They slept under the stars, propped against their motorcycles, or in a hooker’s bed.
That was part of the reason the Coyote Ranch girls made so much more money than I did. Guys would pay a premium to sleep on soft pillows and softer tits after long weeks on the road. But Johnny told me he didn’t take scarred whores. I wasn’t welcome at the Ranch. I’d turn off the customers.
Fine by me. I did well enough in the bar, and I didn’t have to put up with Johnny’s bullshit. It was worth it.
“Another,” Mad Dog said, dropping his shot glass back onto the counter. Big Papa agreed by pushing his glass toward me as well.
I refilled them. “And what do you want?” I asked Trouble. The words were out of my mouth before I could think to stop them.
His eyes locked onto mine, then drifted. He took a long minute to look me over. The boots gave me an extra two inches, so he could see everything from the waist up from behind the bar—the way I kept my hair in finger-width braids all down my scalp, the way my curves tried to bust out of my tank top. I wondered if he could tell that my nipples hardened under his stare. I didn’t dare look down to find out.
It felt like his gaze might burn away my clothes, leaving me naked and vulnerable with only Little Bo Peep to save me.
I knew what I was doing with the shotgun. I’d killed my fair share of starving coyotes in the dry months. But just standing in my bar, my home territory, and sharing the oxygen with Trouble made me forget every self-defense I knew. Like I’d just found myself alone in the wilderness with a predator.
Trouble’s lips parted. There were sins hiding on his tongue, just waiting to be spilled.
It was Mad Dog who said, “He doesn’t want anything.”
His voice broke the spell between Trouble and me. Mad Dog hadn’t drunk the second shot of tequila. He grabbed Trouble by the collar and jerked him toward the door. Trouble was still staring at me even as his companion dragged him outside—until the very last moment, when the door swung shut and stole away my view.
My heart was suddenly hammering. Sweat rolled down the nape of my neck, disappeared under my shirt. I rubbed my thumb over Bo Peep’s stock.
Big Papa didn’t look behind him at the younger men. He drank the orphaned shot of tequila. Rolled the empty glass between his meaty forefinger and thumb. I realized that his eye socket was scarred with four parallel lines, the top of which began near his eyebrow and sliced toward his ear. It looked like he had lost a fight against a bear. “You look like a good girl. I’ll give you advice. Free of charge.”
Not many people mistook me for a good girl in Lobo Norte. Good people didn’t live here. Especially not good people with so many scars.
“I’m the bartender,” I said. “I give the advice.”
A hard look from Big Papa. I knew I shouldn’t have been poking at him, but I was giddy, like I’d just survived another assault.
“Stay inside tonight, girl,” he said.
Big Papa unhitched himself from the bar. Strolled outside. When the door swung open, I got a glimpse of burning desert, glistening motorcycles, and harsh midday.
Just hours until sundown. Those hours suddenly didn’t seem long enough.
It was hot enough that the bottle of tequila was sweating, but I shivered.
CHAPTER TWO
Gloria relieved me an hour after the Fang Brothers left. She was five feet of attitude on six-inch stilettos. She didn’t wear the shoes for the height or for vanity. I’d seen her jam those heels into the nuts of drunken men twice her body mass and make them beg for mama.
She took one look at the shotgun on the bar and said, “You’ve already met them.”
Them. The Fang Brothers.
I was a little embarrassed to be caught petting the gun. I should have put her away, but it felt comforting to have my hand on Bo Peep. “What about them?”
“They just checked into The Lodge,” she said, rolling herself behind the bar. She wore a tight skirt, coin belt, tube top. Gloria embraced her generous curves and didn’t fear showing them off. Any man who tried to touch her would pay in blood, and they frequently tried to touch her—the kind of guys who came to our bar didn’t think much of personal space.
I asked her the question that I had been dying to ask Big Papa. “How long?”
“Get this, Ofelia,” she said, slapping my butt to get me out fro
m behind the bar. I sheepishly tucked the shotgun under my arm and gave her room. “An entire month.”
A month? In a transient town like ours, that was practically like putting down roots. “They must need a lot of blow.”
Gloria snorted, grabbed a rag, started wiping down the bar. “Just wait. They’re the first, but their friends will be here soon, and then more will follow. They’ll spend the whole month making trouble. Not of the drug kind. More like the kind that leads to pain and blood. Don’t go near them.”
All of this was said casually, as though it were no big deal for men to come to our little town and make pain and blood happen. I guess it wasn’t a big deal. Our world was filled with darkness, demons, and a million other evils that go bump in the night. You could never hope to escape pain and blood—but you could profit off of it.
That was why we had the cage, after all.
It strange for Gloria to warn me off of the Fang Brother, though. She didn’t warn me off of anyone. It made me wonder which kind of evil they were. Considering the way the sight of them had filled me with fear, I didn’t think they were mere mortals.
“Are they that bad?” I asked.
“I don’t want you dancing as long as the Fang Brothers are in town.”
That sounded like a lot of lost tips. “We’ll see.”
Gloria shot me a look. She didn’t appreciate backtalk. Her hand twitched on the bar, and I could imagine her whopping me upside the head all too easily because she had done it a thousand times before. She loved to cuff me like I was her wayward daughter.
I was getting smarter. I’d moved out of her reach before responding.
“I mean it,” she said with shocking gentleness. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll lie low until they’re gone.”
She meant well. I managed a smile for her.
But I couldn’t get Trouble out of my head, with his stubbled jaw and his wide shoulders and the way that he had looked at me. I didn’t want to lie low to avoid him. I wanted to lie low with him. I wanted him behind the bar under the desert sunset, naked and panting, dripping sweat onto the planes of my stomach as he worked himself inside of me.
The image I conjured was clear. Very clear. Warmth flushed over my cheeks and I fanned myself with a hand. “I’m going to nap before my shift tonight.”
Gloria’s eyes were sharp. “Don’t worry about it. I have your shift.”
“You just want to have my tips.”
The world erupted around me. I’d made the mistake of walking too close to her while heading for the back door—her meaty hand had connected with the back of my head and sent me staggering. “Don’t talk back!” she snapped, and she cursed me out in Spanish as I shoved through the door to the heat outside, still reeling.
Gloria had been right about the Fang Brothers. Once my vision cleared and I could actually count the motorcycles, I saw that there were no longer three hogs parked outside the bar. There were six. Big Papa’s friends had arrived on beasts of sleek chrome and glistening cherry with giant tires that smelled like melting rubber in the hundred-degree summer. The men were nowhere in sight. If they were anything like most visitors to Lobo Norte, they would be at the Coyote Ranch by now.
Shielding my eyes, I searched the horizon for the collection of trailers that formed the Ranch. They stood near the hills, white and blocky and decorated in neon. There were definitely people moving outside.
What do you want? I had asked Trouble. Maybe he wanted a few hours at the Ranch.
Strange how that thought made jealousy stir deep in my belly.
I checked the mail behind the bar as the sun heated Bo Peep’s metal under my arm. Lobo Norte wasn’t on any postal delivery routes, yet the mailbox managed to fill itself every few days, as if paper waste blew its way into our little cubby by a twist of magic that had a strange sense of humor.
It was the usual collection of junk. Ads for used car sales in far-flung places like Madison and Tacoma. So-called “prayer mats” from megachurches in the South with Our Lord and Savior’s blurry, weeping face printed on one side and pleas for donations on the other. Envelopes stamped with messages like “urgent” and “time-sensitive, please respond” on the outside and then generic advertisements for lotteries on the inside.
Today, there was also a slender black A4 envelope sealed with red wax.
Intrigued, I tossed the rest of fate’s garbage in our trash can and carried the envelope back to my trailer. The material was thick and silky. Expensive. The red ink on the front should have been too dark to read, but it seemed to have a phosphorescent glow.
I was surprised to realize that the elaborate calligraphy said my name: “Ofelia Hawke.” No street name or number, no mention of Lobo Norte, no postal code—I was pretty sure we didn’t have one anyway. Just my name in red ink on black vellum.
My trailer was a half-mile behind the bar, a ten-minute walk through thick brambles and dust. Far enough that the rough-and-tumble patrons weren’t likely to take a casual walk out to visit me. Not so far that I needed a car to reach it. I knew the rocky paths by heart. I didn’t even have to look up from the envelope to get there.
I traced and retraced the wax seal with the pad of my thumb. It felt warm, soft, newly-stamped.
This was an invitation to something. I understood that intuitively without needing to know what the envelope held. This kind of fancy presentation was limited to parties where women wore black dresses and heeled pumps and the men looked like James Bond. This kind of invitation didn’t belong in Lobo Norte. Nobody had any business inviting someone like me to this kind of party, either.
Yet that was my name on the front. It had blown across the desert like a tumbleweed and landed in my mailbox.
The shadow of my trailer fell over me. I finally looked up.
Trouble leaned beside my door, muscles lax, a toothpick sticking out the righthand side of his mouth. It should have been a lazy posture but he had somehow fixed himself into it rigid with tension. It was the look of a beast coiled and waiting to attack.
I thought about throwing my door open and shoving him inside. I thought about ripping open the fly on his jeans, freeing the erection that stretched his zipper even now, swallowing him in one long stroke. I thought of his salty flavor on my tongue and the grunts he would make as he fisted his hands in my hair to drive himself deeper down my throat.
But all I did was lift the black vellum envelope.
“Did one of you deliver this?” I managed to keep my voice from quavering when I said it. I was squirming on the inside, desperate to move, barely controlling my traitorous body.
His only response was to lazily lift an eyebrow. That silent expression was like screaming an admonition at me. Stupid girl, it said. Do we look like the kind of people who write in calligraphy?
Trouble’s eyebrow had a point. I flushed all over, and not from arousal this time.
“You have no business near my home,” I said, emboldened by my embarrassment. “Not mine or Gloria’s or Johnny’s.” Their single-wides flanked mine, in similar states of disrepair, with equally dust-blasted paneling and tin roofs.
He straightened. A slight motion, yet it made me go rigid all over as if he’d swung a punch at my head.
I didn’t move as he stepped down toward me. He wasn’t the first visitor to think he could make himself comfortable on my private property. Like I said before, the kind of people Lobo Norte attracted weren’t big on personal space. A half a mile of walking wasn’t enough to deter those most determined to violate me.
Every fiber of my being said that Trouble was different, that he wasn’t a random cage fighter that wanted a piece of the bartender. That he was here for a greater purpose I had yet to understand. And every fiber of my being awoke at his presence, making me acutely aware of how I stood, where I stood, and the relation of my body to his. Like the sagebrush’s roots straining deeper in the soil to seek the slightest moisture.
He stopped in front of me without touching me, but just b
arely. If I took a deep breath, my breasts might brush against his leather vest.
It was hard to stand without swaying. I licked the sweat off my lips as I looked up at him. Heard the wooden beads tipping my braids clack softly against each other. I thought I might have heard him suck in a breath when our eyes met, too—but I was probably imagining that.
His eyes were strangely bright, a coppery gold that would be easy to mistake for light brown at a distance.
I was acutely aware of how much bigger he was than me, how much stronger, how easily he could force his will upon me and how little I could fight against him if he chose. It should have scared me.
It didn’t.
He dipped his head. I couldn’t breathe.
For the first time, Trouble touched me, and it was only a graze of his nose along the juncture where neck met shoulder. Goosebumps erupted over my upper arms.
Trouble inhaled deeply, dipping his nose behind my earlobe, teasing that sensitive, scarred flesh with his breath. And then he groaned. It was a deep, longing, animal sound, so much better than I had imagined he would make when I sucked him past the brink of sanity. When—not if.
My thighs clenched together. Any waning resolve I might have had not to let him into my home vanished. I reached up to grab his shoulders.
But before I could touch him, he stepped back.
Trouble shook his head as he backed away, wiped the back of his hand over his upper lip, almost stumbled on a rock. I wasn’t imagining the hunger in his eyes. I couldn’t be. He wanted me as much as I wanted him, in every way possible, anywhere and at any time. Yet that hunger was tempered by something else—something that verged on fear.
He broke into a jog and loped easily across the desert toward the waiting motorcycles. His shadow stretched long in the evening sun.
Casting a last look at me over his shoulder, Trouble rounded the bar and disappeared.
I opened the black vellum envelope after Trouble left, once my senses had a chance to return. In the safety of my trailer, sitting directly in the swamp cooler’s moist flow, I slid my thumb underneath the flap until the wax cracked and shook out the contents.