Last Breath

Twelve

Daniel

WHEN I WAKE UP FOUR HOURS later, I have a raging boner and an armful of warm woman. Regan has once again rolled over and plastered herself all over me. It’d be nice if it’s because she wants me, but her subconscious is probably screaming for her to hold on tight to the buoy in the water. I’ve got something to hold onto, sweetheart, my sleepy, subconscious self mumbles. Just like earlier, I slide out from under her, but this time she stirs and grips me harder, her knee sliding up my legs to rest under my balls, which are straining toward her flesh. A little rub, Danny boy, they beg.

I can’t give my package the good slap that it needs, and I’m a little afraid that if I even come close to touching it, my wood won’t go down until I find some place to jack off. Lusting after this girl is thirty kinds of wrong. If she had any idea about the thoughts that ran around in my monkey brain, she’d bash me across the face with the chair leg. And I’d let her.

Because I can’t stop thinking about how her plush lips form a perfect “O” when she’s thinking—or how her legs seem to be endless acres of smooth flesh. When we walked up the steep path to Pereya’s, my gaze wandered to her ass, the firm globes pressing against the fabric of the knit skirt as she climbed. I finally took the lead because I wasn’t going to be able to walk if I kept looking at her.

The puzzle of Mr. Freeze concerns me. He obviously wants Regan back, and Gomes was a greedy fuck for letting her out of his sight. Even for twenty-five grand. Sick people get fixated on things sometimes with no good explanation for it. In her late stages of Alzheimer’s, my Grandma would only drink out of a certain plastic cup. She’d throw a fit if someone offered her some other container. Apparently Regan was that plastic cup to Gomes’ rich patron.

Thinking about Regan being mistreated by Gomes and his pals is as deflating as a pin in a balloon, but I’m grateful. The last thing I need is for Regan to encounter the rod in my pants and then look at me for the rest of our time together like I’m one breath away from throwing her down. The last of my erection wanes away, and I’m left feeling awkward and anxious. Twin emotions I haven’t experienced since I was fourteen and about to take Marybeth’s virginity in the back of my Ford pickup. Even then I was more excited than anything.

I pull back her fingers that are wrapped around my waist, and she whimpers in her sleep. “Hey, sweetheart,” I say. This only causes her to snuggle closer, putting her nose and soft cheek in that angle between my shoulder and neck, fitting perfectly, as if I was made for her. And that erection I thought I’d killed off comes raging back. From a fucking nose rub. I swear to God, the minute I am done here, I’m going to find a willing woman at a bar in Dallas, and we are going to fuck until I’m so raw my dick is red for a week.

Needing her off of me, I use the nickname she hates the most and inject as much asshole into it as I can. “Baby doll, I’m all for a morning fondle, but I prefer the hand to the knee.” Then I lightly slap her butt for emphasis. She jumps off me like a cat doused in water.

“What was that all about?” she asks, brushing hair out of her eyes with one hand and rubbing the spot on her ass where I slapped her with the other.

My hand tingles from the contact with her butt. It wants to make contact again. I want to make contact with every part of her. Turning around I bend over to gather the blankets, using the housekeeping as an excuse to hide my erection. “Just waking you up, baby doll, and letting you know that I’m all up for a romp around the floor here, but I hope you don’t mind being on top. Ever since Afghanistan my knees are for shit.”

My back’s to her so I can’t see her face, but I assume she’s seething. At least she’s awake.

“Why do you say stuff like that?” she asks in a quiet voice which, shit, is not what I was going for. Now I’m feeling bad on top of crappy.

Holding the thin pillows and bedding in front of me, I face her. There’s a look of speculation in her eyes as if she’s trying to decode me. “I was concerned you might jack my manly bits into my throat, so I wanted to make sure we had a clean separation.”

“Nice.” Her nose—the one that fits perfectly into my neck—wrinkles up. I’m rank. Maybe I should’ve let her sniff me more because that would be enough to send any girl into a fit. I’ve got dirt, blood, and who knows what other bodily fluids from two dead men on my clothes, and I haven’t showered in…I count back. Three fucking days.

If I was with my team, we would’ve joked about the smell, saying that if you aren’t riper than a rotten peach then you haven’t been outside the wire long enough. I’ve gotten soft in the years since I’ve been out. Sleeping in a “Ranger grave” is common enough during deployment that blankets and pillows should be a luxury, but the services of a paid assassin pay pretty well and I’ve gotten used to feather beds and down comforters, not to mention hot showers.

I lay the bundle onto the wooden table and then stare down at Regan. My tired mouth speaks before my filter can catch up, “You are really fucking beautiful, you know?”

I’m grateful but surprised when she shakes her head and laughs disbelievingly. “You know my boyfriend Mike said I looked like a colt. All legs, no torso.”

“Shit-for-brains-Mike? The one who couldn’t give you an orgasm? You actually listen to what he says?”

Regan’s face falls. “I should’ve never told you that. You think I’m a weirdo.”

Leaning against the table, I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re the weirdo because he can’t give you an orgasm?” I don’t even tell her about the other stuff I know, like how he’d sleep through her masturbating right next to him. And how he hasn’t called, not even once, to find out where she is. Nick told me that he’d considered shooting Mike because he was taking up space in the universe that could have been given over to someone who actually gave a shit.

“No, because I told you all the stuff and…” she waves towards my crotch, “other stuff.”

I don’t need for her to notice my other stuff because it’s swelling in hopes that she pays real close attention to it. I need to get her out of sight and out of mind before I start telling her that I’m not going to be a tool that she uses to get off. What I’d like to say is that the next time my touches are going to be personal and when she gets wet, it’ll be because of my up close attentions.

Worried that she’s a distraction to me, I cast around for a place to stash her. In Morro Dos Macacos everyone is armed—from the residents to the police force that regularly marches through trying to clean up the slums so that Rio is respectable for the world stage. Regan could easily get hit by a stray bullet, which to my way of thinking would render this whole escapade worth about a Benjamin ripped in half. Meaning, less than nothing.

Mentally I check off the things we have to do. First, we need identification and passports for Regan or she is never leaving Rio. Second, we need to get to the airport and send Regan home. Third, I need to find the hacker. Fourth, I need to find my sister, and then the Hays siblings get on their own plane and return to their ranch and never, ever leave it again. But before all that I need to hustle up to the hill and meet my informant, the one that Pereya found that might have information about Naomi.

Running an agitated hand through my hair, I order her, “Stay here. Be right back.”

Upstairs, I find Pereya sleeping like an innocent next to his wife. My knife hand itches, and I place my palm against my ankle so I can feel the outline of the sheath against my hand. Pereya has sold me ammunition and given me a place to stay. I don’t need to threaten him with a knife across the throat. Not yet at least.

I give him a few alternating taps on the side of his face, and when I see his eyes pop open I cover his mouth. When the warm saliva and tongue hits my palm, I wonder why I don’t wear gloves more often. Resisting the urge to pull my hand away, I whisper in his ear, “Need one more thing from you before I leave.”

Pereya nods and I release him, swiping my hand across the fabric of my pants. A wet wipe will be in order as soon as Pereya gives up a source. “I need to know of a good paper maker.”

“Lots of them in the favela, but none that are good. You’ll have to go to Ipanema. See a mermao by the name of Luiz Soto. He can hook you up.” Pereya holds out his hand, and I slip him another hundred. It’s an expensive tip.

“So about the girl,” I begin to say, but he holds up his hands.

“No way.” He makes a shooing gesture with his fingers. “She needs to go. Take her down to Copa. No trouble there. There’s os homi by the Rio.”

“Pereya, I can’t leave Regan at the Rio by herself even if there is a police station next door. Let me leave her here.” I pull out more bills and start flicking through the stack. “How much?”

“How much for what?” Regan says behind me. I turn and the expression on her face saying I’ve betrayed her.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” I say, but my words are belied by my fat wad of cash. I feel more exposed here than if I were a john on a street corner with my pants around my ankles and the police headlights shining on the glossy wet of my dick that was polished by the mouth of the street vendor. Officer, I was not soliciting. I was taking a piss and my dick fell into this young lady’s mouth. All a misunderstanding.

The stricken look on her face says that I’ve struck a blow deep, harder than the guy I capped in the apartment we’d left. Cursing, I take her arm and drag her down the stairs, pretending to gain a little privacy. Pitching my voice low so that I can at least make it difficult for Pereya to hear our business, I tell her my plan. “We need to get papers, and out there,” I gesture over my shoulder toward the street, “you’re more likely to be endangered than here in Pereya’s home. People leave him alone on both sides because he’s got quality product. So he’s like the armory in Switzerland. You come in, take out what you need, and leave. It’s safer here than anywhere. You’re safe with his arsenal.”

She doesn’t hear one word I’ve said. “You’re leaving me behind,” she repeats.

“I’m not. I’m taking a detour, and then I’ll be back.”

“All those things you said earlier, they were to pacify me, right? Tell the little victim what she wants to hear.”

“No,” I protest. I realize I’ve fucked up on so many different levels that it will take a land mine specialist to get me out of this mess.

“Take her down to Ipanema. It’s safe there,” Pereya not so helpfully offers from the top of the stairs.

At this, Regan presses her lips together and looks at me militantly.

“I’ve got a tip. A lead on something important. But it’s in a real dangerous place, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

She’s not buying it. There’s no way I’m leaving her with Pereya. I can see it all over her face. With a sigh, I give in. I pack all the ammunition that I’ve bought from Pereya and drape my tactical vest around Regan’s shoulders. Maybe if everyone sees she’s armed, they’ll think twice about pointing a gun in our direction. Maybe.