If I kiss Daniel, will it be like kissing men at the brothel? Will I want to vomit if his mouth touches mine? Or will it be . . . Daniel? The man with a pretty mouth who desperately wants me in his bed and won’t touch me because he knows I have Issues, with a capital I.
I lick my lips, thinking.
“What?” Daniel asks, and I realize he’s looking at me again.
I’m suddenly nervous. I step a little closer to him and put my hand to one of the buttons on his wrinkled shirt. “Can I . . . can I try something?”
“Shoot.” He’s watching me warily, but he doesn’t move away.
I stand up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his. He stiffens, and I part my lips, letting my tongue graze his mouth. I feel absolutely nothing. I might as well be kissing a stone for all that he participates, and after a moment, I pull away, frowning. “Why aren’t you kissing me back?”
“I’m trying to figure out your angle.”
For some reason, that hurts my feelings. I lower my heels and try not to feel stupid. “I wanted to kiss you and see if it was like kissing guys at the brothel. If it’d be different because it’s you. Or if everything’s totally ruined.”
He groans and closes his eyes, then presses his forehead to mine. His hand cups the back of my head. “You’re killing me, Regan. You know that, right?”
“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice.
“Shh. Nothin’ to be sorry about, darlin’. If you want a kiss, I’ll oblige you. You have some shit timing is all.” He glances at the closed door behind us, then shrugs and turns back to me. “A kiss. Nothing more, though. You’re not ready, and I can’t afford a distraction. All right?”
“That works. I just want to see . . .” I trail off without finishing the sentence because it can’t really end in a great way.
I just want to see if I’m broken.
I just want to see if I’m really fucked up in the head.
I just want to see if you taste good.
I just want to see if I’ll puke.
“Okay. No pouncing, though. You ready?” His hand touches my cheek. “Feel free to push me away at any time if you freak out.”
I nod.
Daniel leans in and his nose brushes mine as his face angles in. I start to close my eyes because every kiss is usually better that way, but I worry that if I close them, I’ll see the wrong faces. So I keep them open as his mouth carefully grazes mine. His lips move gently over mine, and then he’s sucking at my lower lip, kissing me with careful presses of his lips against my mouth.
He’s so tender that I’m surprised. I expected Daniel to be all talk and no finesse, but the man kissing me is infinitely gentle. His eyes are closed, as if kissing me right is the only thing that matters at the moment.
And...I’m not hating it. That’s good.
He continues to press soft kisses to my mouth, and I let him, exploring my feelings. I’m not grossed out and I don’t want to vomit. If anything, I wish he’d kiss me a little harder. Mike was never a big kisser; he only wanted to do it if it’d get him somewhere, and I’d accepted that. But Daniel . . . I suspect Daniel could kiss a girl for hours to watch how it affects her.
The thought sends a shiver through my body.
Daniel’s mouth continues to nuzzle mine. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” I breathe against his lips.
“You want tongue?”
Oh god. For some reason, I find it arousing that he’d ask me. Like it’s all totally my call. He’s only giving me what I ask for, and that makes him safe. So I breathe out a quiet, “Yes,” and wait for the kiss to change.
A moment later, Daniel’s mouth opens wider against mine and his tongue brushes against my closed lips, seeking entrance. I part and let him in, tensing as I wait for the invasive feeling to return, for the sickness and revulsion.
But his tongue only gently laps against my own, coaxing me. It’s as if he’s asking me if I want to play. And I realize that I do. I bury my fingers in the front of his shirt. And I kiss him back.
And . . . it’s pretty damn amazing.
Daniel’s tongue strokes against mine, soothingly at first, then with little flicks that seem to pulse all the way through my body. He kisses like he has all the time in the world to savor me, and I melt under him. This isn’t the hungry kiss of a man who’s throwing me a bone so he can get his dick sucked. This isn’t a man who wants to dominate me and show me who’s boss. This is a connoisseur, and he wants to show me how good he can make it. It’s kiss and invitation all at once.
I’m responding with lust, my own tongue meeting his, and I make a soft little noise in my throat that comes from sheer bliss. I hadn’t realized until now how much I really, really like kissing and how much I’ve missed the intimacy of it. I’ve even closed my eyes to savor the caresses of Daniel’s mouth, and I didn’t even realize it. I feel like this is what I have always needed.
And it makes me confused. Shouldn’t I be totally fucked up right now? Throwing up at Daniel’s touch? But he’s not touching me like everyone else. He’s making love to me with his mouth.
I pull away, dazed, and notice that his eyes are narrowed with desire, his lids heavy. How have I never noticed before that Daniel is so sexy? So masculine? This must be Stockholm syndrome; I’m falling for Daniel because he’s the only constant in my world.
That must be it.
I lick my lips—tasting him—and say, “We can’t separate. Every time people separate in a horror movie, the girl always has a horrible death.”
He looks surprised at my words, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Name one movie where that happens.”
I begin to tick them off on my fingers. “Cabin in the Woods, The Descent, Tremors—”
“Okay, okay.”
“Ghostbusters—”
He shoots me a look. “No one died in Ghostbusters.”
“Scooby Doo—”
Daniel throws his hands up. “All right. You can come with me.” He eyes my hair. “We need a baseball cap to stuff your hair in. Maybe we won’t seem as out of place if no one can tell from a distance you’re a woman.”
I smile. “Quit trying to get rid of me, all right?”
“I’m trying to save your life. Excuse me for being cautious,” he says, and there’s a teasing note in his voice.
“I’d rather die next to you in a gun fight than be sent back to the brothel,” I answer. And I’m a hundred percent honest about that. I’m not going back. Ever.
Daniel gives me a sobering look then shakes his head. “You know, you have Daisy fooled.”
This strikes me as an odd thing to say. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” His mouth quirks up on one side, and he begins to tuck knives into my flak vest and adjusts it again. “She told me you were sweet and agreeable and wouldn’t give me any trouble.”
I can’t help it; I giggle at how rueful he sounds. Maybe I was sweet and agreeable before, but I’m not now. I’m tired of the world crapping on me, and I’m going to stand up for myself. “I guess she didn’t know me very well.”
“Guess not,” he says with amusement. “Maybe we should get to know each other better if we’re going to be glued to each other’s sides for the next week.” And his gaze slides back to my mouth, as if he’s considering all the ways he’d like to get to know me better.
And for some reason, that makes me feel good. “Well for starters, I like horror movies. And I don’t like to be left behind.”
Daniel laughs. “Darlin’, I already knew that.”
Fourteen
Daniel
RECALIBRATION OF PLANS THEN. IT is obvious that Regan wouldn’t stay with Pereya even if he were willing to keep her. Pereya finds some jeans and boots but no hat. Once outside the house, I take Regan’s hand. “Stick close to me,” I order unnecessarily. Her grip on my hand would have broken my fingers if I was any weaker or she was stronger. I make a mental note that we should eat before we get papers.
“There’s
a protein bar in the front pocket,” I tell her. “Eat.” She definitely does not have enough food in her belly. After this, I need to take her to get a good meal.
“Are you ordering me around because you’re mad?” she asks but digs in and finds the protein bar. She breaks it in two and hands me half. While she nibbles on one end¸ I shove my entire part into my mouth and swallow before I respond. Regan’s a liability, but her fear is overcoming any good sense. And after what happened inside Pereya’s war room, I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s slowing me down. But I do want her to take some basic precautions. Tugging on her hand, I turn her so she can see I’m serious—but for a moment I’m lost looking down into those deep green eyes, more mysterious and beautiful than the waters of Rio. I’m so goddamn exhausted, mentally and emotionally and physically. I’d like to dive into those waters and not come up for days. It’s this endless, wearying hunt for my sister and the fear that one day I’m going to find her in a body bag. It’s knowing that scum out there like Freeze and Gomes and others seem to be winning.
But then there’s Regan. She’s evidence that things can go to hell and something good can still survive. It’s my job, then, to not fuck this up. I need—no, want—to keep her safe.
“I’m not mad at you. Don’t got time for that. What I am is worried. You need to follow my instructions at all times. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to eat, you eat something. If I say stick with me, that means there’s no more than a paper’s width between us. Our getting out of here depends on you listening. Got it?”
She nods, and a glimpse of the agreeable, sweet self that she referred to earlier peeks out. The whole situation is a clusterfuck, and I’m not even talking about taking Regan deeper into the slums. It’s my stupid attraction to her and her need to see if she can wrangle some response out of me. I’m torn between wanting to tell her that if I were any more attracted to her that I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk and not traumatizing her even more with my attention.
“Ouch,” I hear Regan say, and I realize that this time I’ve squeezed her fingers too tight.
“Sorry.” Letting her hand fall, I pick up the pace. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.
The streets are narrow and curved here on Monkey Hill. There was no city planner to lay out roadways in strict geometric patterns. Instead, the people of the favelas have built this neighborhood by placing red brick and rusted corrugated metal shacks on top of each other like a child stacking empty SPAM cans into a tower.
This high up you can see the Maracanã Stadium, where they are gearing up to host the World Cup and where Olympic Soccer will be played in two years, at the base of the hill. Its gleaming new walls shine like a great false white hope.
Rio has tried to clean out the slums, raining down a barrage of bullets like a shield. The drug lords retreat but don’t die. There’s still an acrid smell that lingers here in the streets, the smell of spent bullets, burnt flesh, and grief. Down in Ipanema or Leblon, everyone has a smile for you. Up here, walking out your door is an act of courage. Smiling at a stranger signals your willingness to be shot down for being stupid.
Three quarters of the way up, the community square becomes visible. At one time the large square compounds housed a daycare, swimming pool, and soccer field for the people on Monkey Hill. The drug lords won’t allow the pool to be filled for no good reason. I’d think they’d like to bring people here to drown. The soccer field is devoid of grass except around the edges. Instead, it’s one giant oval of dirt. This is where true footballers were once born. One thing that everyone up here agrees upon is that those that are Pelé-blessed shall pass through untouched. Drug lord or slum dweller, they all love their soccer gods. Edson Arantes do Nascimento and Manuel Francisco dos Santos, better known as Pelé and Garrincha, are more revered than the Virgin Mary.
A quick perusal of the field reveals no one. I lead Regan over to the brick half wall that’s been tagged and retagged by small time gangs trying to show their muscle to the ADA, the main gang that runs Monkey Hill. “Lean against the wall,” I tell her, but I don’t sit beside her. Instead I stay crouched, sweeping the grounds in a systemic pattern, ready for action. I’ve palmed my Ruger almost reflexively.
“Should I be holding my gun?” Regan asks.
“Your gun?” My attention is momentarily distracted as I swing toward her. Her blonde hair has lost its luster and her face has dirt on it, some on the forehead and some around the edges of her cheek. She’s dirty, kind of smelly, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more appealing my entire life. It’s then that I realize my desire to leave Regan behind had little to do with the danger she presents to my body. I wanted to leave her with Pereya not because I’m really concerned that I couldn’t protect her, but that the more time I spend with her, the less I want to let her go.
She pats the holster on the vest that holds the gun we took off our midnight visitor. “Yeah, I’ve decided this one is mine.”
“Not yet, Annie Oakley, let’s save that for when we’re in real trouble. Right now the most I’ve got to be worried about is missing my informant.” I return to my visual sweep.
“How will you know who it is? Are they wearing a red flower in their buttonhole?”
Smothering a laugh, I say, “I’ll know.” No one but snitches and patrols are up this early. “Pereya gave me the tip and described the informant. Five feet seven inches. Slim.” Probably going to try to shank us after delivering the tip. I don’t tell the last part to Regan.
“How come they don’t fill the pool?” she asks.
“A sign of control. Filling the pool would be an act of defiance and a mark that the ADAs are losing their hold over the people here.”
“ADAs?”
“Amigos de Amigos. Each favela has its own gang overlord. Monkey Hill is run by the ADA. They move guns and drugs, not really into women, though.”
Regan snorts. “Wow, so pious of them.”
“Everyone has their hard limits.” I shrug.
“Why don’t the people revolt? You said everyone was armed here.”
“The gangs provide structure and some sense of stability. The cops are crooked, so a gang with a lot of power and the right kind of leader can provide a better life for these people than the government. If your daughter is raped, the gang will enact justice on your behalf. Monkey Hill is one of the better places. The real danger to the people who live here is from the rival gangs who are pressing in on either side. Turf wars kill more people here than anything.”
“Sounds like you approve of the gangs,” she says.
“I was in the Army before this, and I can tell you I killed a lot more people under the blessing of the U.S. government than I have on my own. I guess there’s something about the ability to protect the people you care about without rules or regulations that I appreciate. On the other side, there’s a favela called Tears of God, and it’s been run for the last few years by a shadowy figure by the name of the Knife's Hand. There, the pools are filled and the soccer field is a deep green. They’re experimenting with local crops and shoring up the existing structures and tearing down dangerous ones. The residents of the favela wear a medallion hammered out of local granite. They say that if you harm a member of the TG favela, you and your family and everyone else will be killed in retribution."
“That's harsh.”
I think of what I'd like to do to the people who took my sister, the ones that have hurt Regan, and shake my head. Those fantasies might scare her off more than my sexual ones. "Maybe, but I’ve not heard of one turf war there, and the people don’t walk around armed to the teeth, and the police aren’t running through there with a tornado of bullets and hand grenades.”
A lone figure appears on the opposite end of the soccer field, and I’m up and moving before Regan can respond. She’s listened to me, though, because I can hear her footsteps close behind mine. And her hand rests lightly on the back of my shirt, not so tight that she’d hold me back or restrict my movement
s, but enough so that we aren’t separated. I suspect her other hand rests on the butt of her gun.
The informant spots me and turns to walk down toward what looks like an old, abandoned grocery. The letters are mostly rubbed out, but at least of one of the windows declare that there once were frutas e legumes inside. When we duck into the building, it’s empty of even the metal shelves. Those are probably in several of the homes nearby serving as storage. The tile floors are chipped and there are dark stains, blood.
My informant walks toward a doorway in the back, and I hug close to the exterior wall. We don’t trust each other, but we’re strangers forced to do business. The killing won’t start until after the transaction has taken place. The snitch is wearing a hoodie and baggy jeans, the universal attire of a teenage hoodlum, no matter the country. Except for maybe East Asia. Those guys tend toward skinnier jeans.
“Here.” The informant’s gloved hand holds out a micro SD card. The hand is shaking slightly, revealing the informant’s nervousness. Nervous people tend to shoot first and then wonder about the correct avenue of action later. Everything about the informant screams novice, and I wonder if Regan and I are supposed to be an initiation kill. The gloves on the hands are too big, which will prevent the smooth extraction of a gun. The baggy pants look perilously close to falling down and the hood is concealing his view. I move slightly to the left so that the fabric partially blocks his periphery.
Taking the SD card, I pull out an unactivated smartphone and slip in the card. Pulling up an app, I hand Regan the phone. “Read it. Out loud.”
The informant protests. “Give me the rock.”
“No.” I shake my head. I hate—fucking hate—working with amateurs. “Look, woman, we’re going to check your information, and then I’ll give you the exchange.”
Her head jerks up and the hood falls back, revealing a very beautiful Brazilian. High cheekbones, delicate nose, and dirty blonde hair frame it all. “How . . . ” she trails off.
Last Breath Page 12
