Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  A carnal smile takes over his mouth. He lets his gaze drift down to her chest, and then he says, “Oh, I’ll use something against you.”

  Darcy snorts. “You men are seriously obsessed with your dicks, you know that? How you walk around with those things, I’ll never know.”

  I pound my fist on the table. “For fuck’s sake—nothing is leaving this room!”

  Tabby’s smile grows satisfied. “Good. Because Victoria isn’t Polaroid.” She turns her gaze to me. “I am.”

  Connor does a double take that looks as if it might cause him a serious case of whiplash. “You? Edward Scissorhands Pixie Dust Fairy?”

  Oozing sarcasm, Tabby drawls, “The very same. How d’you like me now, bitch?”

  My jaw, once again, is on the table.

  Nodding, Darcy says, “I can totally see it. And now I’m getting more ice cream.” She rises from the table and ambles over the fridge.

  Connor says, “The Citibank hack? The Scientology job? The International Space Station?” His voice rises to a shout. “My fucking Origin system?”

  Tabby flutters her lashes, coy as a geisha. “Sucks to be you right now, doesn’t it, Mr. Machismo? I bet all five of your poor little brain cells are really scrambled! Outdone by a girl…the tragedy!”

  He curls his hands to fists and makes a sound like a bear rudely awakened from hibernation. Tabby laughs in delight.

  “B-but the Hello Kitty doll in Victoria’s luggage,” I protest, my already overloaded mind struggling with this new bit of information.

  “That was mine,” answers Tabby. “I packed it for her as a good luck charm.”

  “Then why…why would Victoria say she was you? That she was Polaroid? Why wouldn’t she have corrected me?”

  All the laughter fades from Tabby’s eyes. “Because she was protecting me, Parker. That’s what you do for the people you love.”

  That skewers me straight through the heart.

  Connor says darkly, “You mean for the person who was paying you to fuck with other people’s livelihoods.”

  Tabby snaps, “That’s just because you tried to fuck with ours!”

  “I only tried getting into her email account; you fried my entire system!”

  “It’s not my fault that you left your back door wide open, jarhead.”

  “If you think you’re insulting me by calling me a jarhead, woman, think again; I’m proud to be a Marine! I was in goddamn Special Ops!”

  Tabby retorts with a snotty, “Not smart enough for the Navy SEALs, hmm? Or does that apelike body of yours not float?”

  My mind is going too fast for me to pay much attention to Tabby and Connor and the bizarre hate-fuck vibe zinging back and forth between them. Because if Tabby is Polaroid, that means she’s the one with the incredible computer skills, not Victoria.

  Which means she knows her boss’s new identity.

  I jump to my feet. My chair skids back with a screech. Darcy, Tabby and Connor all stop what they’re doing and look at me.

  “You created the new passport and new papers for Victoria, didn’t you?”

  Tabby nods. “Yes.”

  Relief floods me, quickly followed by a potent dose of adrenaline that makes my hands shake. “So you know her new name.”

  Connor and Darcy connect the dots at once. Darcy whoops, Connor abandons his sexually charged glare-off with Tabby for a second to glance at me and mutter, “That’s great,” but Tabby shakes her head.

  “I already checked for any activity with the new identity. Victoria used the new driver’s license to rent a car in Newark. That’s the first and last time she used it.”

  “What about the passport?”

  “No hits on any train, airline or cruise ship manifests. Or anywhere else.”

  My heart pounds like a jackhammer. A wave of hope surges inside me. “So she’s still in the States.”

  “Not necessarily. She’s got more than enough cash to bribe a border crossing agent.”

  “Which leaves us with Canada and Mexico,” says Darcy excitedly.

  “Tabby, did Victoria return the rental car yet?”

  “Not since I last checked.”

  My heartbeat rockets into the stratosphere. “Let’s check again. Right now.”

  Tabby stands. “Computer’s in the office.”

  She doesn’t have to ask us to follow her; as soon as she takes a step, Connor, Darcy and I fall in line behind her like ducklings. She leads us to Victoria’s spacious office, and we crowd in behind her as she sits down behind the desk and fires up the computer.

  Tabby types in concentrated silence for a moment while we watch behind her shoulder as she hacks into Hertz’s mainframe.

  Connor mutters, “Those bozos need to hire me.” Beneath the irritation, a grudging respect resonates in his voice.

  “Here!” Tabby points to the screen. “She turned the car in yesterday in Texas!”

  I lean over the desk and stare at the computer screen. “What city?”

  “Brownsville.”

  I know it well. It’s a town about two hundred miles south of Laredo.

  And, like Laredo, it’s situated right on the US border with Mexico.

  “Mexico,” I whisper, my blood rising.

  “It’s a big fuckin’ country, brother,” says Connor, folding his arms over his chest.

  A smile spreads over my face. “Yeah. But it’s a start.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  ~ Victoria ~

  Six months later

  “Carlos!” I holler at the ceiling, mopping at my forehead with a handkerchief that’s already soaked with my sweat. “¿Dónde está ese pinche ventilador?”

  Where is the fucking fan?

  You’d think he’d answer me after the first two blistering screams I sent his way, but my friend and coworker Carlos puts the dick in unpredictable.

  At present, he could be enjoying a siesta facedown on his desk, having sex in his office with one of the boozy barmaids from the cantina across the street, or composing another terrible ballad on his guitar to woo said barmaids. There’s only about a five percent chance he’s actually doing the work he’s been hired to do, which is help people with very little money and even less English apply for work visas in the States.

  Which means that in this dumpy law firm of three people—me, Carlos, and the proprietor, one very shady Ignacio Maximiliano Colón, who only shows up on Mondays for two hours before lunch to sign paperwork—I’m the only one doing any work.

  I drop my armload of manila file folders on my desk and heave a sigh, gazing around the office. I suppose I’m looking for a stray fan to pop out from behind the dented file cabinets, or maybe hoping for a random breeze to filter through the sweltering room from the open windows near the front door, but no luck. It’s just as stifling as it was in here before I went into the other room to pull these case files.

  Late summer in Mexico City. I might as well be standing on the surface of the sun.

  I lift my chin and glare at the ceiling. “Carlooos!”

  A voice behind me says in Spanish, “Calm down, Anacita, I’m standing right here.”

  I whirl around.

  He is standing right there, leaning casually against the doorway smoking a cigarette, as if he’s been there all along. He’s tall, young, and good-looking in a shaggy, unkempt sort of way. Rumpled clothes, a three-day beard and black hair desperately in need of a trim do nothing to distract from his long-lashed eyes, the color of topaz, or the muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt, or his easy, suggestive smile.

  You get the picture: Carlos is hot. But he’s also ten years younger than me, and a certified man-whore, and I happen to be pining hard for someone else whose name I don’t permit myself to say. Or think. Or moan in the middle of the night when I’ve got my hand between my legs.

  Carlos flashes his smile and says in his slow, sexy way, “Though I do love hearing you scream my name.”

  I press my lips together so I don’t smile. Though I refuse to give
him one iota of encouragement, I have to admit it’s nice being flirted with. Especially considering this God-awful bleached hair of mine, which makes me look ridiculous. I had hoped it would give me a Gwen Stefani/Marilyn Monroe vibe, but all it did was make me look cheap.

  Which, I suppose, is still better than looking like the late Victoria Price.

  Not that anyone’s looking for her anymore, in Mexico City or anywhere else. I followed the news avidly for months. Apparently Tabby paid someone to write a fake medical report and pose as my doctor, because the police said they’d corroborated my cancer diagnosis with my personal physician, and the case had been officially closed.

  God bless Tabby. I really miss that beautiful bitch.

  I left her everything in my will, so it makes me feel a little better that she’ll be a rich woman soon. With an official case determination by the police, the court can declare me dead in absentia, and Tabby will inherit my assets. She’s been instructed what to distribute to my mother, and anonymously to Eva, but a substantial chunk of cash and my home will be hers.

  If I somehow find out she installs Hello Kitty wallpaper in my gorgeous penthouse, I’ll kill her.

  “Carlos, please tell me you brought me that fan I asked you for three hours ago,” I say, hands on hips.

  Carlos looks around, down at his feet, behind him, and then back at me. He says innocently, “Do you see a fan in my hands, Anacita?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Carlos.”

  The way I say his name makes his smile widen. He pushes away from the wall and strolls toward me. “Don’t be angry. I brought you something better than a fan: me.”

  It might sound cheesy, but trust me—he pulls it off. If I wasn’t still hung up on a certain unmentionable someone, I’d be tempted to take the nubile young Carlos for a spin.

  My poor sex drive. It’s as frustrated as an alcoholic in Salt Lake City.

  “Keep it in your pants, Rico Suave. It’s too hot to do anything but sweat.” When I see the gleam in his eye, I scold, “Not that I’m saying things will be different when the weather cools down!”

  He tsks, shaking his head. “Oh, my silly Anacita. You know what’s between us is too powerful to resist forever. Why not just give in and let it happen?”

  I roll my eyes. Carlos may be hot, but he’s definitely not original; I overheard him using exactly that line on a girl in the cantina just last week.

  I don’t hold it against him, though. If anyone knows how much bullshit people sling in their quest for connection, it’s me.

  Another wave of heat hits me. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. “You know what, Carlos? It’s too hot in here to work. It’s almost noon anyway; let’s go get some lunch.”

  He pouts, pretending to be hurt. “Ah, but if I cannot have you, my love, then I cannot eat. I cannot live!” He heaves a dramatic sigh and presses a hand over his heart. “In fact, this might be my last moment on earth.”

  “I’m buying.”

  Carlos takes a final drag on his cigarette, stubs it out in an overflowing ashtray on the nearest desk, blows out a big plume of smoke, and grins. “In that case, I think I’ll survive at least until this afternoon.”

  I knew that would distract him. The only thing Carlos likes better than an easy lay is a free meal.

  We lock the office door and cross the street to the small, dark cantina, which smells like piss and cigarettes but is blissfully cold. So is the beer, which I never imagined myself drinking in my former life but have come to appreciate. Carlos and I grab two seats at the long wooden bar and order cervezas and ceviche from a waiter with a sad moustache and a lisp.

  If Darcy could see me now—drinking beer, going out in public with no makeup on, wearing flip-flops and a cheap floral print sundress bought from a vendor on the street—she’d probably faint.

  Strike that. She would faint. Promptly.

  The thought brings a smile to my face and sends a pang of ennui through my heart.

  I miss her, too.

  But this is my life now. I rent a cute casita in the country. I go to work five days a week. (I tried not working, but nearly went mad with boredom within a few weeks.) I spend weekends reading and gardening and living in the moment, because it’s too painful to allow myself to think of the past.

  Overall, I’m content. It’s not exactly the same thing as being happy, but, as my mother used to say, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve trained myself to look on the bright side: I’m young and healthy; I have enough money that I never have to worry about going broke; and, in a smaller but more perhaps profound way, I’m still empowering the powerless.

  I even own a cat, of all things. He’s a fat, lazy orange tabby with the bearing of an emperor and the attitude of a spoiled child. I adore him. I named him Perdón, the Spanish word for forgiveness, because after all these years I’ve finally realized that the only thing more damaging to your soul than hanging on to a grudge is…nothing.

  Hate will devour you. Anger, no matter how righteous it feels, is a straight, short path to hell. Only forgiveness will set you free. Only forgiveness can heal your scars. Forgiveness not only for those who’ve wronged you but also for yourself.

  Life is hard enough without making lovers of our demons.

  The waiter brings our beers and ceviche with a plastic basket of tortilla chips still warm from the oven. Carlos orders the daily lunch special for two—camarones with rice—and we dig into the cold, delicious ceviche.

  We eat in companionable silence until, through a mouthful, Carlos quietly remarks, “Don’t look now, but that guy at the corner table in the cowboy hat is staring at you.”

  I snort. “He’s probably never seen a woman inhale a pound of chopped fish in under thirty seconds. Which reminds me, we need more chips. Where’s that lispy waiter?”

  Carlos wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, takes a long swig of his beer, and then politely belches. “I’m serious, Ana. He hasn’t stopped staring at you since we walked in. Look.” He sends a surreptitious glance to my right, and then motions for the waiter.

  Trying to be casual, I glance in the direction Carlos indicated.

  There is a guy in a cowboy hat sitting at the table in the corner, but he’s definitely not looking at me. In fact, he appears to be asleep. He’s got his boots propped up on a chair, his long legs crossed at the ankle. His hands are folded across his stomach. His big white cowboy hat is tipped low over his face, obscuring his eyes and nose. His moustache is even droopier than our waiter’s.

  I turn my attention back to the bowl of ceviche. “The guy’s taking a nap, Carlos, not checking me out. Are you this jealous with your girlfriends?”

  “I know when a man is looking at a woman, Ana, and he’s looking at you, no matter how hard he’s trying to seem like he’s not.”

  Well, if he is, he’s probably just wondering who dropped a bucket of bleach on my head.

  Leaving that thought unspoken, I finish off my beer. Then I match Carlos’s belch with one of my own.

  He lifts a brow. “Now you’re just trying to seduce me.”

  “Yep. I’m a real lady. I’ve got class coming out of my ass.”

  Carlos laughs and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Ah, you see, Ana—this is why I adore you!”

  I laugh along with him. “You have very low standards, my friend.”

  He shrugs. “Life is too short to look for perfection.”

  Truer words were never spoken. I squeeze his hand, and then toss his arm off my shoulders so he doesn’t try to reach down farther and cop a feel.

  By the time we finish lunch, I’m ready for a nap. Drinking in the daytime always makes me sleepy. Between the alcohol and the heat, I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open. Since it’s Friday, I know Mr. Colón won’t be coming into the office, and the thought of dealing with the oppressive heat in there has me depressed.

  “Carlos, if I bug out early, would you cover for me if anyone drops in?”

  He sends me a sideways smir
k. “Of course. Because then you’d owe me one, Anacita.”

  “Yes. But ‘one’ as in a general favor, not sex.”

  “Sex can be a favor,” he says reasonably. “I once had sex with a girl who was repaying me for fixing a flat tire on her car.”

  “Wow. That’s a steep price to fix a flat.”

  Carlos smiles. “I think she flattened the tire herself.”

  “Of course you do.” I dig a few bills from my purse and toss them on the counter. “And now I’m leaving.”

  I blow Carlos a kiss and walk away. He calls out behind me, “One day, Anacita, you will have sex with me, and then you’ll see the true face of God!”

  I’ve already seen the true face of God during sex, Carlos. And honey, it ain’t yours.

  I wave over my shoulder without looking back, and then step through the door of the cantina into the searing heat of the street.

  * * *

  Six hours later, I’m finally driving up the long dirt road to my house.

  I’d forgotten about my appointment with Mr. Hernandez, who was waiting outside the office with his wife when I emerged from the cantina. Then another client showed up, that one unscheduled. By the time I finished with the meetings and all the paperwork, the sun hung low over the distant mountains, and the heat had loosened its chokehold on the city. I stopped to pick up some vegetables and a fat piece of tilapia for dinner from my favorite local market, and made the drive out of the clogged city to the rural borough I live in. It’s a sleepy town with fewer than five thousand residents, no theater, hotels or shopping malls, and the lowest crime rate of all the sixteen districts in the greater Mexico City area.

  There’s also no Internet access, so I don’t own a computer.

  In the beginning that drove me crazy, but I quickly realized it was one fewer way I could be tracked. Even though I rent the house with cash, paid cash for my car, am paid cash under the table by Mr. Colón, don’t own a single credit card, and for all intents and purposes am dead under the laws of the United States, a part of me is still expecting the police to show up unannounced at my door with extradition papers.