“What was that about?”
“I called Tío Luis, told him I needed his help. He’s an early riser. I’ll hear from him in a couple of hours.”
“By then we’ll be in Hermosillo.”
“We’re not going to Hermosillo. Not just yet.”
“We aren’t?” she exclaimed unhappily. “Why not?”
“Juanito can’t take us. It’s not on his route and he can’t afford to detour, got a schedule to meet. This is his livelihood. I can’t pay him enough to risk that.”
“He’ll risk prison but not his job?”
“It’s a manhood thing.” He shifted slightly. No matter how he positioned his body, they kept touching. Not that he minded touching her. The problem was he liked it too much, especially his cock, alert as a bird dog sniffing quail. “Lose your job and you’re a loser. Go to jail for a friend, you’re a man.”
“The two of you are that kind of friend?”
“I’m half-Mexican, spent a lot of my life here. I know how to bond with these guys. They’re mostly poor, don’t have much. But they have their manhood. That counts for a lot.”
She turned onto her side. He could feel the soft prod of a breast against his right arm.
“Did you expect something like this? Is that why you were up late with him and the others?”
“I didn’t expect anything like this or we wouldn’t have been there, but yeah, I made a point of spending time with them. When you’re in-country, it’s smart to get to know the locals, let them get to know you.”
The touch of her breast was driving him crazy. He pulled up his arm and put his hand behind his head.
“In-country?”
“Army slang from the Vietnam era. We’re not really in-country, not that way, but it helps to think like that when you’re on a mission.”
“This is a mission?”
“Yes and no. It’s something I intend to finish and it’s not without risks. Close enough.”
“So where are we going?”
She shifted and now the top of her head was touching the underside of the arm he’d raised. It was warm in the sleeper and he could smell the clean, floral scent of her shampoo. He pulled the curtain open a little to admit cool air from the cab. Through the opening he could see headlights as they cut through the night.
“We’re going to a truck stop just outside a town called Cosalo, about thirty miles from here.”
“Is that safe? Won’t the police check there like they did here?”
“Doubt it. When I said ‘truck stop,’ I didn’t mean a motel, just a truckers’ café. Anyway, we won’t be there long. I’ve got enough money left to hire someone to take us to a garage in Cosalo. Old friend of mine runs it. He’ll let us lay low until our ride comes.”
There was just enough light from the cab that he could see her face turned toward his, the mane of red hair tumbling over her shoulders. He liked the way she bit her lip when she was pondering something, like a schoolgirl worrying out a homework problem. “Nice girl, little young maybe,” Art had said. Not that young, in her twenties at least. And he wasn’t that old, not even out of his thirties yet.… For Christ’s sake, Rock. Drop it.
“Then where do we go?”
“To my town, Parajito. It’s a village really, but pretty and safe, about three hours from Cosalo. I’ve got friends there, lots of them.”
“But won’t they look for you there?” She raised herself on one elbow. Her breasts pushed out her t-shirt, soft bulges dimly lit by light from an occasional headlight. The thought came that if he could see the bulge in her shirt, she could see the bulge in his pants. He crooked his knee as much as the ceiling permitted. “Once they look up your license plate, they’ll have your name and address.”
“They’ll have my name right enough. The address I put down is just a mail drop in another town. Mexican government has no idea where I live – damn few people do.” Several curls of red hair had fallen in her face. She tucked them behind her ear with a small, elegant hand. Red fingernails, a couple chipped from her ordeal. He hoped that would be the worst thing she’d take away from it. Hard to say. Sometimes post-trauma stress didn’t show for months. He ought to know. “That’s not to say they can’t find me one way or another, but not right away.”
“All right, but how do I get to Hermosillo?”
“I can borrow a car or truck but I’m thinking we need to take precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?”
“Your hair—“
“I’m not cutting it!”
Her eyebrows knitted together and her eyes narrowed. Cute when she got angry. It took all his willpower not to reach out and pull her to him. What would she look like then? Angry, mouth glowering? “Let me go!” Fearful, mouth open in surprise? “What are you doing?” Responsive, mouth puckered for a kiss? “Hmmm!”… Stop it, Rock.
“Wouldn’t ask you to. You can dye it though.”
“Ugh! What about a wig?”
“No wig stores around… Wait a minute.” Of course! Lola! “How’d you like to be a blonde?”
She screwed up her face in a “tastes yucky” expression, then shrugged. “I guess I could stand it for a day or two.”
“I know someone who’ll loan us one. As for me, I don’t disguise so easy but I can get someone else to drive while I hunker down. One way or another, we’ll get you to the consulate in the next couple of days.”
“What about your motorcycle?”
“What about it?”
“Can you get it back?”
“In theory. The cops will impound it and if I clear myself, it’s mine again. Unless of course between now and then it gets lost somehow. Been known to happen.”
“I can clear you. I will once I get to the consulate. We’ll get a lawyer and I’ll come forward.”
“That would be good but I won’t hold you to it. Wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to set foot in Mexico again.”
She shook her head emphatically, red hair tumbling in her face again. “That won’t happen. I like the people. I like the color and the vitality here. In the US, everything gets smoothed out. Here, everything is more… more itself.”
“Don’t think I follow.”
She closed her eyes briefly to concentrate and he studied her long, dark lashes. She opened them and tilted her head slightly, thinking it through. “Everything is more extreme here. Happy people are happier. Sad people are sadder. The bad guys are badder. And the good guys, well…” She smiled. “They’re gooder… way gooder.”
She put her hand on his arm. At that moment, there was the deafening blare of the truck’s air horn and a loud screech of tires. They abruptly slowed, throwing both of them forward. Already pressed against the metal barrier, Rock hardly moved, but Rory landed on top of him with a sudden squeal. He instinctively wrapped his right arm around her back to steady her. After a moment, the truck resumed its speed.
“Lo siento,” said Juanito. “Estás bien?”
“Bien,” said Rock automatically. His mind was elsewhere. The girl’s hip had landed beside his cock. No way she wouldn’t feel it. Her face was turned away; all he could see was the top of her head. A moment ago he’d wondered what her expression would be if he’d grabbed and kissed her. God knows what it was right now. He put both hands around her waist to lift her off.
Before he could, she lifted her head and stared at him, her eyes intent on his. He couldn’t tell what was going through her mind. What do you say in this sort of situation? “Pardon my hard-on, ma’am.”
And then she did the last thing he expected. She slid her body up his until they were face-to-face, tilted her head and pressed her lips against his own.
A Crowded Ride
Being thrown onto Rock’s body was a shock, but also something like a relief. His nearness had been driving me half mad. I kept wanting to rub my leg against him, stroke his arms, run my hand over his chest, rest my head on his shoulder. My panties were damp from the moistness seeping through my slit.
The moment I landed on him, I felt an unmistakable erection against my hip, hard and sizeable and sending an electric charge throughout my body. The dreamy yearning I’d felt before was nothing compared to this sudden surge of desire. Gay? Hah! This man wanted me and I was going to see he got what he wanted.
I made this decision in an instant but my body was already ahead of me. Without realizing it, I’d moved until I was close enough to kiss him on the lips. I touched his mouth tenderly.
I expected a response of some kind, maybe a tender kiss back. What I got instead was a ferocious assault that overpowered my senses. He pressed his lips hard against mine, his tongue shoving its way into my mouth, forcing it wide open. His hand fisted my hair and held my head in place while he planted wet, violent kisses on my cheeks and eyes and everywhere else on my face. I felt his teeth on my ear, hard little nibbles that made me squeak.
His free hand roved over the small of my back and grabbed my ass possessively. I gasped at the strength of his hand as he squeezed first one cheek, then the other. He growled with pleasure as he ground up against my sex with the hard pole that tented his pants, making me moan in response.
For the next several minutes this was our only conversation: no words, only animal noises of need and gratification. I mewed like a kitten as he cupped my breast and squeezed it –at first gently and fiercely a moment later. I yelped when he pinched my hard, swollen nipples. I whimpered when he put his mouth to my neck, nibbling delicately here and there, as if sample my flesh before he selected a spot where he would dine in earnest. I screeched like a bird caught by a cat when he finally did bite and worry my skin between his teeth.
My core burned like the deep recesses of a volcano. My panties were sopping. I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. I yearned to impale myself on his stern, steely shaft. “Take me,” I whispered. “Oh, please take me and fuck me.”
He didn’t answer, but his roving hands suddenly stopped their movement. Instead, he put one arm around my shoulders and with the other slowly stroked my hair. That was fine for later but right then I didn’t want to be held or tenderly touched. I wanted to be seized and taken, pounded to jelly. If he wouldn’t climb on top of me, I’d stay where I was and ride him. I slipped out of his embrace and slid down to the fly of his jeans, fumbling with the zipper.
His answer to this was short and full of command.
“No.” He reached down and effortlessly flipped me off him and onto my side. I wanted to bawl. “Don’t say no,” I begged. “Please, please, fuck me! I can’t stand it!”
His tone was firm and final. “Not here. Not now.”
I wriggled free of his grasp and climbed back on top, one hand stroking his face, the other rubbing his erection. “No!” I shrieked, almost hysterically. “You want me! Take me! Now!”
I heard Juanito’s voice ask something in Spanish. Rock said something back in a reassuring tone. He put his hands on my waist and pulled me off. He turned on his side to face me. I stared silently into his piercing blue eyes, aroused and angry.
“I want you,” he said quietly, his voice firm as before but tempered with a touch of gentleness. “I have from the start. I want to make love to you, but when I do, I want to do it in a better space and at our own pace, not in a cramped truck sleeper. And not in a rush to be done before we get where we’re going. And not with an audience. I want it to be something for both of us to remember and treasure.” He paused. “Do you understand?”
I understood and I was touched – no, more than that, I was moved, filled with admiration and even a little awe at the man’s self-control. Women were the ones who said “slow down” and “not here,” not men, who seemed to be unable to check themselves when their goaty natures took over. He was right of course, but lying next to him, feeling the poke of his cock through his clothes and mine, oh, how I ached to have him now!
But he’d made clear that was not to be. He was right of course. So we lay next to each other for the rest of the trip, side by side but only our hands touching. Fortunately, ten excruciatingly long minutes later we reached our destination.
We climbed awkwardly out of the sleeper into the cab and then down from the truck. Juanito and Rock gripped each other on the shoulder and shook hands. The trucker nodded at me and said something to Rock that drew a short barking laugh. Then he climbed in his cab and a moment later was back on the road.
“What did he say just now?” I asked Rock.
Rock turned to me. “Told me you were very beautiful,” he said with a straight face.
“I bet,” I said in a passable imitation of Min’s tart tone, which made him laugh.
We watched the truck rumble out of sight. “How much did you pay him?” I asked.
“Not enough,” Rock replied. “Not nearly enough.”
I marveled at the people of this country. Would an American trucker have risked prison for somebody he’d met only hours before? Even for money? I thought it unlikely. On the other hand, in the US a cop was usually just that and not somebody moonlighting for a gang. I was looking forward to being back home, where life was less exciting but infinitely safer.
Dawn was near. The sky was paling and the stars winking out. I put the scarf over my hair, which didn’t hide it but made it less conspicuous, and we walked across the parking lot to the café. Rock opened the door for me and I was greeted by the aroma of coffee and bacon. Waitresses scurried about with steaming trays of eggs and tacos. The room was loud with conversation and crowded with truckers grabbing an early breakfast. Diners were sharing tables and Rock displayed an easy affability that soon had us seated with three men in bill caps. They politely tipped their caps to me, though the leering look in their eyes was anything but polite. I was getting used to that.
“What do you want?” Rock asked me.
“Two eggs over easy and whatever comes with that.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Cream, no sugar.”
Half an hour later, we were full of food not as inspired as our meal at Cocina China de García but hot and agreeably greasy. I mopped my plate with a piece of toast while Rock chatted with our companions. None of them could give us a lift but they directed Rock to someone at another table, a thin man with long black hair plaited in a braid. Rock strolled over and since there was no free chair, squatted beside the other. They talked a little and at one point the trucker turned to glance at me. A minute later Rock returned to our table.
“Got us a ride,” he told me. He gave a big, grateful grin to our fellow diners. “Gracias, amigos!” They waved their hands in dismissal. “De nada.” Anything for a friend.
Once again I marveled at the difference between the taciturn man who rescued me and the jovial good old boy who so easily inserted himself into a roomful of strangers.
“So he’ll take us to Cosalo?” I asked.
“Not so loud,” he said quietly. “Tell you later. Finish up. Jorge’s leaving in just a few minutes.” I took a final bite of toast and drained my coffee. Rock put a tip on the table and we said goodbye to our fellow diners who again tipped their hats to me as they openly ogled my breasts. Rock paid the cashier and we went outside to wait for Jorge in the orange light of a breaking dawn.
“I told them we were looking for a ride to Morales,” said Rock. “That’s a town about twenty miles beyond Cosalo.”
“You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them but I’d just as soon they don’t know where we’re really bound. Ten minutes after we leave, maybe two cops will come in for a bite talking about the redheaded American girl. These aren’t the kind of guys that go out of their way to help the law but you never know. Twenty to one it’s a needless precaution but you take enough chances and sooner or later that twenty-to-one shot happens.”
He suddenly dug in his pocket. “Got a call.” He pulled out his phone. “Hola, Tío! Cómo estás, viejo?” He stepped off the café porch for better reception just as Jorge emerged from the diner. He wore a straw Stetson hat wi
th a small feather tucked in the band, a playful touch at odds with a face that seemed set in a perpetual frown of gloom. Rock saw him and waved. I assumed Rock didn’t want Jorge hearing whatever instructions he was giving Tío Luis. I had no Spanish but flirting was a universal language. I gave him a big smile. “Hola, señor!” I said brightly. “Are you going to drive us?” I mimed holding a steering wheel.
He was a man clearly not used to smiling, but he made an effort for a pretty girl and showed some teeth. “Sí, voy a llevarte.”
“In your truck?” I said. An inane question but I was grasping for small talk.
“Qué?" he said, puzzled.
“You know, TRUCKKK,” I repeated. I again mimed steering and made engine noises. “Rrrrr… rrrrr!”
I could see he was wondering if I might be retarded. “Sí, en mi camión,” he said, speaking slowly and carefully.
“Camee-un?” I said, deliberately botching the pronunciation. “Truck? Rrrrr… rrrrr.”
He corrected me. “Cah-mee-own.”
“Cah-MEE-own?”
“No, cah-mee-OWN.”
“Cah-mee-OWN,” I repeated.
“Sí, perfecto.”
I suspected I was far from perfect but he probably wanted a way out of this conversation with a girl of dubious intelligence. Happily for both of us, Rock joined us, heartily shaking Jorge’s hand and introducing me. Jorge tipped his hat impatiently and got down to business. “Vamos a tener el dinero.” Rock pulled out his wallet. Money changed hands and we proceeded to Jorge’s vehicle, not a mammoth like Juanito’s but a smaller delivery van.
There was no sleeper, which relieved me and no doubt Rock as well. I sat between him and Jorge. The trip was uneventful, the two men chatting for most of the ride. Two hours later, Jorge let us out at a corner in downtown Cosalo, a busy, medium-sized town. I looked around but saw no car repair shop. “Where’s your friend’s garage?”
DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,) Page 6