Page 58 of The Delivery

person.

It’s funny how perfection can completely change its definition. How

perfect can become the man whose arms are holding you up. How perfect, perfectly describes this man whose entire life has been ravaged by imperfections.

My body flushes with heat in response to his desire.

Lana? The one they call Doc. The social worker? Well, that lady can go fuck herself. There is no one here to judge us. It’s just him and me, pressed up against a rest stop bathroom, lost on a long highway, on an involuntary road trip to Mexico.

Mozey has his hands against the wall as he greedily consumes my mouth. When he moves his hand down to touch my body, the bright smears of paint leave stains on my shirt. I love that his touch leaves a mark on me. I want to be marked by him, taken and possessed. I pull him in tighter to focus on really kissing him for the very first time.

After ten minutes of kissing we get back into the car. My lips are swollen and they hurt in the very best possible way. I drive this time so Mozey can rest. I’m not sure how this changes things. All I can think is that it will lead to sex. Maybe even tonight if we get a hotel room. I can’t stop thinking about it and glancing over at his crotch. I’m like a junior high school boy, fixated with his body, especially with his penis. My brain is on a repeat loop fantasy of touching and undressing him. And some little part of me feels like a child molester. Like we just finished a therapy session and I still want to fuck him. Get him to let his guard down and open up then go in for the kill. I should write the fucking manual on effective social work with juvenile delinquents.

I make a mental note to reach out to Gunnar Anderson when we stop for the night. He still works in the system, and he could do a run on Brisa’s first name at least. It probably won’t yield much, but it’s better than nothing. From what Mozey has told me it sounds as if she was taken to be raised by that woman and not just kidnapped randomly with some unknown motive. I’m sure they changed her name, if they even ever knew what it was. Gunnar could run age and ethnicity but that would put us in the thousands. Thousands of lost youth, and that’s only LA county. Brisa could be anywhere.

She could be anybody.

I reach my hand out and touch Mozey’s arm. He’s asleep. He’s probably emotionally exhausted. I want to do two things simultaneously. One, I want to start on forever with him, consummate our relationship and then spend the rest of my life with him. And two, tell him it’s over—that we’re completely done. It was a mistake to take it as far as it’s gone. Tell him I’m sorry, drop him off in Mexico City and then just fucking run.

CHAPTER 27

Driving into Mexico City at night is like arriving at a vast sea of lights. Once you get past the volcanoes, there is nothing but sprawl that goes on for as far as the eye can see. On the ground it’s a bustle of taxis and small passenger buses with slick, sure-footed drivers screeching on brakes at every single stoplight. Everyone is either rushing or immobile, stuck in perpetual traffic.

The good news is Dale’s Marriot rewards card goes through at the downtown hotel located right by the Angel of Independence. This is a city so large that it has it’s own heartbeat. I consider getting separate rooms but fail when Mozey grabs my hand while the front desk runs the card. I want to be close to him. I don’t want to just deliver him. I want to stay with this package.

The hotel is nice, very cosmopolitan. It’s much fancier than Paradise; there are red velvet pillows on the cushions in the lobby. I’ve got a cold sweat gathering between my breasts and along my upper lip. Once we have sex, I don’t think there’s any turning back. I want to say something, but I’m too weak to protest. Mozey is charging on ahead and dragging me by the wrist. But when we get to the room, he doesn’t attack me. He puts all of our stuff in drawers and tells me I can shower first while he orders room service. I take a long, hot shower, erasing the trip.

We’re almost back to where Mozey started, and it must be emotional for him. I should stop thinking about myself and have some compassion for his situation. When I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my head, Mozey is studying the guidebook and pamphlets he picked up at the reception. He’s ordered us hamburgers and French fries and a bottle of wine.

I dip my fry in ketchup and smile at Mozey’s industrious note taking from the tour guides.

“Are we doing some sightseeing?”

“There’s so much to see here, Lana. Prepare to be busy,” he says as he bites into a burger.

“I love that you are interested in this stuff. It really comes through in your art. Did you learn about Mexico on your own or from school? Was your mom into it?”

“This stuff is my history, Lana. It’s not like I have a whole lot going for me. I’ve always been autodidactic.”

“I totally get your motive. You don’t have to explain. I’m just trying to compliment you. I envy it. I wish I were more Russian. I couldn’t be more American,” I say as I dip another fry in ketchup and pop it in my mouth.

Mozey showers while I watch TV. He comes out in a towel again, probably with the intention of driving me crazy. I just sent an email to Gunnar and another to Janey who still works in the system. I think some of his guilt and pain would be absolved if we could find Brisa. I hope she’s alive. I don’t even want to imagine the alternative.

Mozey stands and stares at me, sitting in the chair. I look down at my night shirt and pajama bottoms with the fry frozen mid-way to my mouth. He sighs out loud, and l look up at his face. He runs his hands through his wet hair and sprays drops every which way. He’s looking at me like he’s hungry, so I inch the plate with the rest of my burger towards him and shrug, my mouth full of food.

“I’m not hungry for that, Lana. I’m hungry for you.”

I look down again to make sure he could really be talking about me. This look that I’ve got going on, wet hair—no make-up, glasses, red face— is the definition of not sexy.

“I really. Really. Really want to fuck you.” He licks his lips and runs his hands through his hair. I love how his mouth is so wide. It makes him look lupine, like he could devour me in a bite.

“Would it be pretend or would it be real?” I ask him, licking ketchup from my pinky. I’m rubbing vinegar into the wound on purpose. His genius plan of pretending hurts my feelings, maybe even more than I first noticed.

He lets out a sigh because I’ve ruined the mood.

“It would help me out if you pretended to be my girl when we go to see my family. I’m probably the only hope of success they have—so yes, I would like you to pretend for me. Other than that, you can do what you want. If you don’t want to be with me, Lana, I can hardly blame you. But if you want to get physical with no strings attached… that’s something I would definitely be into.”

I push my forefinger into my lip, considering his claim. I can no longer tell who’s rejecting who or if we’re even asking for the same thing. No strings attached sounds like casual sex.

---