The Animal Under The Fur

by E. J. Mellow

  I heard shifting on a bed. “It’s almost midnight. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “It’s just…” Her yawning cut her off. “It’s just you never call to tell me this sort of thing.”

  “Yeesh, and I guess I won’t again.”

  “Oh stop,” she chided. “You’re always so dramatic. I’m glad you called. How’s Mexico? Have you exploded in the bathroom from drinking the water yet?”

  I smiled and leaned my head against the lip of the tub. “Not yet, but that definitely gives me an idea for Carter.”

  “Oh God.” Ceci laughed. “The poor guy. Is it that bad already?”

  “It never stopped being bad.”

  She snorted. “Again, dramatic.”

  I picked at a piece of dirt on the floor, suddenly growing uncomfortable with how much this—chatting casually—had already made me feel better.

  “Right, well…” I cleared my throat. “I just wanted to let you know my plane didn’t crash or anything. I should go.”

  “Excuse me? No How are you doing, Ceci? Tell me about your day, Ceci,” she scoffed. “Talk about self-involved.”

  My lips pressed down a smile. “How was your day, Ceci?”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you now. You’ll just have to call me again and ask without being reminded.”

  “Ceci—”

  “Nope. I’ve already paid a fortune for this long-distance phone call. I should go.”

  “I called you.”

  “Yes, well, my cell plan double charges. It’s horrible like that.”

  “Right, then by all means, let’s hang up quickly.”

  “You first.”

  “Nope, I will not play that disgusting phone game with you.”

  “Can’t get mad at me for trying.” She laughed before yawning again. “Okay, you really should go. We all know how you need your beauty sleep.”

  “Are you calling me ugly?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “Remind me again whose house you’re staying at for free?”

  “The most beautiful, gorgeous person I know.”

  “And don’t forget it. Good night, Ceci.”

  “Good night, lovey. Oh, and Nash?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sneak a little in his coffee.”

  “What?”

  “The tap water.”

  Even though we were a country away, I know we shared crooked grins as we hung up.

  The morning market snaps back into focus when Carter slips his hand into mine and gives me a small smile. “Peso for your thoughts?”

  “I was thinking about toilets.”

  One brow lifts. “Man, you’re weird.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “As only a weirdo would.”

  Biting my lower lip, I keep back a grin as we walk on. Something I’ve had to do more than once lately, and whether from talking to Ceci or us actually giving this truce thing a go, the tenseness I felt yesterday when holding hands isn’t as great today. Though my gut still twists a weird vibration of unease anytime his strong fingers play between mine, which I’m convinced is from the spectacle of it all.

  PDA might as well stand for public display of assholes in my book.

  “Let’s go look at that cart over there.” Carter points to a merchant selling local pottery, and I catch sight of the other half of our team.

  As we walk over to “bump” into Jules and Akoni, my turquoise dress flutters up from a sudden breeze, and I mutter a curse as I clutch it to keep from exposing my lady bits.

  “You look like Marilyn Monroe.” Carter chuckles, and I try yanking my hand free, but he holds tight. “Which means I just compared you to America’s most iconic babe. That’s a compliment, not an insult.”

  “And yet it still sounded like you were making fun of me.” My eyes remain narrowed.

  “That’s because you have a very warped perception of the world, my dove. Funhouse-mirror warped.” And before I can comment on the use of his newest nickname, he tugs us forward to talk with Jules and Akoni.

  After exchanging pleasantries, we get breakfast together under the facade of uniting as Americans in a foreign town.

  “You’re definitely going to need to do something about your hair,” Akoni mumbles through a mouthful of rice and beans after I finish explaining what I have planned for tonight. “Redheads are few and far between in these parts. You’ll be too recognizable.”

  “Exactly why I don’t think she should go in alone.” Carter takes a couple bites from Jules’s plate. He quickly devoured his own breakfast, and when he attempted to pick from mine, I almost stabbed him with my fork.

  “I already plan on wearing the wig I used in South Africa and thought about putting those brown contacts in,” I say to Akoni, ignoring Carter.

  He nods. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

  “Bad idea,” Carter chimes in again.

  “Good idea.” I glare at him. “It’s not like any of them are an actual threat to me.”

  “One against a bar full of thugs?” Carter raises his brows. “Even you couldn’t take them all on at once.”

  “Care to put a wager on that?” I sit back while crossing my arms.

  “Children, please,” Jules interrupts, shoving away a strand of blond hair that escaped her ponytail. “Let’s not get sidetracked with your pissing contest. Ben, Stephanie is right.” She smartly addresses us by our cover names. “If you went in together, it would call too much attention. Let Stephanie play the weak lost duckling to get information. We can wait close by in case she needs help.”

  “I won’t need help.”

  “Of course.” Jules flashes me a placating grin. “I’m saying in the slight, probably-will-never-happen possibility that you do.”

  I nod, satisfied.

  “Okay.” Akoni wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Then we’re in agreement.”

  “I don’t remember agreeing to anything,” Carter grinds out.

  “Listen, Ben.” I place my hand on his. “I’ll be fine, and you’ll be close by. You need to remember this is what I do for a living.”

  He stares at where I’m touching before sliding his hand away. “Considering it’s what we both do for a living, it’s a little hard to forget.”

  “Yes, but who does it best?”

  Carter bulks, about to respond, when Jules raises her coffee. “To the three seconds you both lasted without reengaging in your pissing contest.”

  “To three seconds.” Akoni smiles, clinking his mug with hers.

  “You better enjoy those drinks now,” Carter says, his voice oily slick. “You never know where our piss might land next.”

  And that’s when it happens, another first—I laugh genuinely while on a job.

  32

  3

  BUHO OCULTO

  CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 2030 HOURS

  The gorilla-sized doorman eyes me as I walk up, lingering on my exposed legs and staying even longer on my cleavage. I’m wearing cutoff jean shorts and a gray V-neck T-shirt. A casual outfit that will do just fine in gaining the attention of the men here while also screaming American college chick on holiday.

  With my dark-brown wavy wig clipped in place and my blue eyes hidden behind brown contacts, I slip him a friendly smile. “¡Buenas noches!”

  He merely nods in response and indicates I can go in, but not before letting his amused sympathy show as I pass.

  When I step through the door, away from the eyes but not ears of Jules, Akoni, and Carter, who are set up on a nearby roof, I’m pleasantly surprised by what I find. From the outside the bar appears to be run down, a classic dive, but inside it’s none of those things. Sections are dark, but tastefully dim rather than from a broken bulb. Low-burning Victorian lamps are patterned along the raw exposed rock walls, and sleek wooden tables stagger the space. It’s a weird mix of old and new, the layout reminding me of a western-styled saloon, with a first floor that opens up to a second th
at has a wraparound balcony. Five doors run along the perimeter of the top, and by the women who stand up there with overdosed perfume and slinky clothes, along with the subtle sounds of moaning coming from some rooms, I don’t have to guess as to what they’re used for. But even with this sleaze factor, Búho Oculto is well maintained, especially for a place that appears to mainly serve a rough-looking group of middle-aged men. I count a total of twenty-three spread throughout the bar, and I scratch the side of my ear in quick Morse code to let Akoni know.

  “Twenty-three,” his voice filters through. “Copy that.”

  Slowly walking to the bar that sits in the back, I smile naively at the patrons as I pass. Everyone noticed my entrance, but only a few stare me down hungrily. The others shake their heads at my apparent stupidity and turn back to their drinks.

  Three men sit at the bar, one with a female companion, and they watch, curiously, as I saddle up next to them.

  “I’ll have whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say to the bartender in Spanish.

  He peers at me while wiping his hands on a dishrag. “We only do bottles,” he responds gruffly.

  I giggle at my slipup. “Oh, then I’ll have…” I glance to my neighbor. “Whatever he’s having.”

  “Tequila.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  The thick-bearded bartender scrutinizes me for a moment more before placing a glass down and pouring my drink.

  “Gracias.” I take a fake a sip.

  While I’d like nothing more than to indulge in this nation’s liquor, I need all my senses tonight.

  “Ay, culona.” The man next to me leans in. “What gives us the pleasure of you visiting this fine establishment?”

  I turn to my neighbor. Age approximately forty-three, height five nine, brown hair, brown eyes—the left showing early signs of glaucoma. Breath indicates three tequilas and a beer in the past two hours. Works outdoors, from the drastic skin contrast where his shirt’s unbuttoned, showing a paler complexion underneath. Plus his earthy scent is a dead giveaway. No wedding ring or mark from taking it off while working. Overall possible threat: minimal.

  I smile. “I’m on tour through the country and am set up here for a few days. Mi abuela would talk about Cuetzalan and its beauty growing up, so I wanted to finally see it.” I chitter away as the men close by listen.

  “Your grandmother from here?” my new friend asks.

  “Not Cuetzalan specifically, but Peubla. She said she would visit here often though. But between you and I”—I lean in conspiratorially—“I think she was harboring a secret romance.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” He chuckles. “If your abuela was anything like you…” His gaze lands on my cleavage for the third time. “I’m sure she had her fair share of admirers.”

  I sit back with a cluck of my tongue. “You’re a smooth one, aren’t you? I’ll have to keep my eye on you.”

  He puffs out his chest, pleased that his Don Juan behavior amuses me.

  “Your boyfriend meeting you here?” he asks, quick to get to the point.

  “Oh, I have no boyfriend.”

  His brows rise. “I don’t believe it.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but stop short, bombarded with a tingling along my spine.

  I sense the same heightened chill I got the first day in the square—the watcher…they’re here. Peering over my left shoulder, I take in a large man sitting in a booth in one of the purposefully dim alcoves. He brings a cigarette to his lips, and when he inhales, the red embers glow bright, momentarily illuminating his features against the dark. He’s the youngest guy here, probably late twenties, and has the facial ruggedness of one used to a hard life. He’s tan with pronounced cheekbones covered in rough stubble. His thick black hair is a bit long for my taste, inching over the tops of his ears and forehead, but other than that he’s quite attractive, in a street rat sort of way. The one thing that contradicts his unrefined appearance is his outfit. It’s nice, really nice. Black slacks and a black buttoned-down shirt that fits perfectly around his wide shoulders. While his clothes are tailored to his size, I still sense his discomfort in them, like he’s wearing another person’s skin.

  He watches me watching him and eventually inclines his head, inviting me to join his table, where he sits alone.

  “Ah, I see Ramie’s caught your eye,” my companion says beside me. “All hope is lost for me then.” Taking a sip of his tequila, he nods toward the booth. “If Ramie requests for you to sit with him, cielito mío, you sit with him.”

  “Um, Okay,” I say meekly before grabbing my drink and sliding off my stool.

  The room grows tense as I make my way forward, a field of insects grown warily silent, and while outwardly I feign a bit of fright, walking toward the lion in his den, internally I’m yelling Jackpot.

  33

  3

  BúHO OCULTO

  CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 2045 HOURS

  Taking a seat across from Ramie, I smile nervously. “Hi.”

  He leans casually against the corner of the booth, one leg propped on the bench as he holds a cigarette, his other hand lazily wrapped around his beer on the table.

  “What’s your name?” he asks in Spanish, his voice deep and soothing, the stillness at the bottom of the ocean. I let it roll through me, cataloguing his lack of accent that would place him in a region and watch as he studies my appearance before flicking his gaze back to mine. His eyes are endlessly black, and his lashes are almost femininely thick.

  I quickly try taking down his profile, but besides what I gathered earlier from a distance and now seeing a few scars on his neck and jaw—indicating his regular brawling—he’s proving hard to read. Which is weird. No one is hard for me to read. His heartbeat is steady, his breathing relaxed, and other than the sweet, pungent smell of tobacco from his cigarette, he doesn’t even have a scent I can detect.

  Everything goes on alert.

  “Abilia,” I reply.

  “Abilia.” He rolls the name around on his tongue. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Thanks.” I induce a blush. “And I take it you’re Ramie?”

  He nods, sipping his beer.

  Oy, this guy is laying on the dark and mysterious rather thick.

  “So your grandmother grew up in Puebla?” he asks, keeping his gaze locked to mine. A normal person would squirm under such a look, so I shift in my seat.

  “You heard that?”

  The side of his mouth tips up. “When someone like you walks into a place like this, you pay attention.”

  I laugh nervously. “Oh.” Glancing around, I note the other patrons furtively watching us. Ramie is obviously someone important, and by the collective raised pulses in the room, possibly dangerous.

  Just my type.

  “Yes, she grew up there, but has lived with my family since I was born.”

  “And by your accent, I’d say your home is the US.”

  Important, dangerous, and keen.

  “Is it that bad?” I grow smaller, embarrassed.

  “No. I’d say it’s rather perfect.”

  “Perfect?”

  “And cute,” he adds, flashing me a crooked smile.

  I tuck my short brown hair behind my ear. “So, uh, do you live around here?”

  “I live close by.”

  “In town?”

  He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Sometimes.”

  I laugh lightly. “You don’t like questions, do you?”

  “What man does?”

  Oh, good Lord.

  “Well, this will be a very short and rather awkward conversation if that’s the case.” I grin, leaning against the leather-back seat. It’s time to move this thing along.

  “I’m sure we can find other ways to pass the time that’s agreeable for both of us,” he says, tapping ash onto the table, and I resist pointing out there’s an ashtray to his left.

  “And what ways would those be?” I raise a brow.

  A slow smile spreads acro
ss his lips, showcasing very white teeth. “I’d rather show you than tell you.”

  I think back to my conversation with Carter, about men being simple creatures, and almost laugh at how quickly I’m, once again, proven right. “How very forward of you, Ramie.” I flirt. “But my abuela taught me to keep away from men like you.”

  His eyes light with amusement. “And what sort of man am I?”

  “I’d think it was obvious.” I play with the rim of my glass as I steal a glance at him from under my lashes. “The cuddly kind.”

  His bark of his laughter fills the room, and I sense everyone flinch before relaxing with the sound, finally returning to their own conversations.

  “I can’t fight your abuela on that point.” He keeps grinning over his beer, and the expression changes his features to rather breathtaking, like a setting sun right before it slips below the horizon. I catch a glimpse of a younger Ramie before whatever life he’s now a part of took over. “Cuddly men are usually the most dangerous.”

  “So you’re dangerous then?”

  He rakes his eyes up my body, not in the assessing manner he did earlier, but now with a bit of heated intrigue. “Mostly.”

  I bite my bottom lip, a little too hard, when I hear a familiar male voice outside the bar. My surroundings get doused in a chill before erupting in flames, realizing what’s about to happen.

  That son of a—

  The door swings open, and in walks Carter Smith, an arm around a local chica. He’s wearing black jeans, a white buttoned-down shirt with a navy Yankee baseball cap, and—I. Kid. You. Not.—a mustache. The dark-haired girl giggles at something he whispers in her ear before his gaze sweeps the room, only colliding with mine for a second before continuing on. As he settles into a table along the far wall, his companion slides onto his lap, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck while her deep-purple dress rides up her thigh.

  “Something wrong?” Ramie asks, glancing from me to the new additions to the bar.

  “No.” I smile before sipping my drink. “Just thought that girl looked familiar for a second, but I was wrong.”