Her arms wrap around my waist, and my cock hardens as I gas the bike and we coast down the path the late David chased us down. We wheel around the house/dirt mound and I pray no one is waiting for us on the road.
They're not. Our path is a barren, cracked ribbon of asphalt, faded pale from the sun and lined with desert scrub.
I drive fast: ninety. Behind me, Merri feels like everything I didn’t know I wanted, and I wonder what it will feel like to lose someone I never had.
I was right about the drive. Slightly more than five hours later, we’re nearing the end of our sprint to safety, on the outskirts of sprawling, dirty, sophisticated, dangerous Ciudad Juarez. Up until about thirty minutes ago, we’d seen almost no one.
We make a quick stop at a gas station and after we study the map for a few minutes, I walk Merri to the ladies’ room, counting down the seconds until we’re back on the bike. Before I pull back onto the road, she squeezes my waist.
“We’re almost there, Evan!”
I nod, glad she can’t see that I’m not smiling.
I’m a selfish ass.
As we work our way through almost an hour of thick mid-city traffic, I’m tense with wanting to get her somewhere safe, but a part of me is also glad for every minute spent without her knowing who I really am.
You need to get over it. Forget about her. The sooner the better.
I know that’s the logical thing to do, but logic means nothing to me. I can’t think straight when I’m near Merri. That she’s the one girl I can’t have: that’s a curse I fucking earned. I tell myself I’ll have to tough it out, and when I feel the hollowness inside my chest, I just ignore that shit. Nothing else I can do, right?
There are a couple ports of entry into El Paso, and we’re headed toward the one Meredith thinks will be the least busy. It’s a tiny bridge near some farm land, and by the time we reach it, my heart’s pounding hard enough to make me sweat despite my lack of bike helmet.
Merri’s grip tightens on my waist, and she presses her cheek against my back. I inhale deeply, trying to save the moment onto my hard drive. I have the sinking feeling I might need it later. For the next five minutes as we wait on a transfer truck to pass, my neck aches and my arm feels strange, but I know it’s just from stress. Nothing weird going on here. I’ve got the appropriate papers, plus our passports. As soon as we get through the checkpoint, Merri will be home free.
I try to find happiness in that.
When the wooden bridge spits us out at a rickety plywood wall topped with barbed wire and outfitted with a rusted metal tower, my stomach clenches so hard I think I might be sick.
Merri's hands stroke my back. She's feeling grateful, I realize. She lets out a little whoop, and as a black van is waved through the gate, I’m washed in cold sweat, kind of like the feeling you have when you're in opiate withdrawal.
We roll closer—close enough so I can see two dark-haired border patrol guards with automatic rifles—and I tell myself again that I'm just being paranoid. Feeling nervous because I had to ditch my gun at the last bathroom stop before the chekpoint. Anticipating what's going to come next, with Merri.
I swallow hard as we get close enough that I can see the tallest guard’s eyes. They go right past me, seeking Merri's face behind the helmet. Sweat breaks out on my chest, and I have the overwhelming urge to gas it right past him.
I slow down, though. Automatic rifles make big holes in bare skin, and Merri is behind me.
I slow down, and both guards lunge at us. Before I can even stop the bike, the larger one's hand is locked around my left arm. The shorter one shoves his gun into my face.
Merri
MY ARMS AROUND Evan's waist go numb as the barrel of the semi-automatic is shoved into his face. Before I can scream or even flinch, the larger guard points his own gun right at my nose.
“Get off the motorcycle!” he screams in Spanish. He waves the gun, his torso bobbing up and down as his face twists furiously. “You are coming with us!”
I blink at him. Logically, I understand why this is happening, but some part of my mind—the innocent part, the part that still has dreams and wants—is stunned to stillness. This just can't be real.
“GET OFF THE BIKE!”
I shut my eyes as the cold, hard muzzle digs into my forehead.
I know I should go with these men. I should spare Evan. We're still in Mexico, and even in a big city like Ciudad Juarez, the Cientos Cartel has sway. Enough sway to install two cartel lieutenants at a rural border patrol post. But my fingers won't let go of Evan's shirt.