Page 22 of Devious Eyes
“Plural?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Her leg trails back out of the door slowly, head following smoothly as if she’s some kind of gymnast. Everything’s so subtle with her, fluid, like she walks on air. She’s flexible, too. I mean, how does she get into those positions? Whores creak and groan, as if they’re forcing themselves into whatever fucked up display I can think of to get me off. It’s always so mechanical with them. Some twisted thought enters my head and I make them do shit, my warped sense of appropriate in Cane life enjoying their torment. But that’s not what’s happening here. Here is fun. Pleasure. The feel of her under my hands is becoming like liquid silk, loose, as relaxed as we’re both hoping for.
I listen to the sound of her heels clipping the floor, wondering what other shapes I can get her into later, then look down at myself. Fuck, I’m hard, and more than amused that my mind’s clear within five seconds flat of focusing on her rather than anything else.
Shame it’s not my reality.
* * *
“So, you think the blue?” she says, holding up a top she’s found at a small market. I nod, not giving one fuck about the colour of the top. As far as I’m concerned, she looks best in nothing at all, make up included.
After a water taxi to the mainland, we grabbed an open top Jeep and made our way up into the hills. Sightseeing, she calls it. Attractive as it is, it’s yet another canopy of trees spread out in front of me. I’ve seen enough of them in Mexico to last me a lifetime, all of it hindered by drug cartels hauling Cane money around. But watching her enjoy herself is relaxing nonetheless. She wanders everywhere, fingers trailing over objects as she talks to the traders. I pull out my smokes and walk away towards the Jeep, ass resting on the hood, so I can watch her some more as she negotiates over price. I don’t know why she’s bothering; it’s not like she can’t afford it. She’s here after all.
The sudden thought has me wondering what she does for work. I haven’t asked, nor have I cared until now, but who the hell is she really? No one gets here without a substantial amount of cash. And the clothes she has are all designer labels, regardless of the innocuous baggage she has at her villa. I noticed it the other day when she was sleeping. One small black bag, well-travelled, and completely at odds with everything else lining the guts of the wardrobe. Christ, I don’t even know where she lives. My real life lingers in my mind again, all the scepticisms and concerns rallying me back to Cane before I can stop them. And that laptop being open has pissed me off. I didn’t open it, and I always close it if I do. She must have been snooping.
She wanders back to me after a while with an armful of goods that she dumps into the back of the Jeep. I narrow my eyes, intrigue making me do shit I should not be doing.
“Where do you actually live?”
“What?” she questions, coming around in front of me, a smile on her face as she slides her arms up to my neck and fingers my hair.
“Country? And what work are you in?”
“I thought we weren’t doing that.”
“I want to know.” I do. For whatever reason, I’m pissed at not knowing now.
“I don’t like you smoking. Doesn’t mean you’ll stop, does it?” My hand drops the smoke, foot stubbing it out as I take hold of her hands and pull them away from me.
“Better? Now, give me some answers.” I take a few steps back, expanding the distance because of whatever fucking emotion is irritating me. “And did you try to use my laptop this morning? It’s not how it should be.”
She tilts her head at the move and frowns, some part of her annoyed that I’m asking and the other infuriated with me for daring to push her away.
“It hasn’t bothered you before,” she says, hands on hips. “And no, I damn well didn’t. You’re out of your mind if you think I’d do something like that. Has the sun got to your head?” I keep staring, intent on some answers to prove I’m not losing my mind, but her sharp answer does seem sincere. Still, I want to know where she’s from. “Where do you live, Nate?”
“Not relevant.”
“But where I do is?” She crosses her arms, anger making her cuter by the second.
“Yeah. It is.” She glares for so damn long I almost drop my returning stare.
“Screw that.” She turns and gathers her sarong up, ass sliding into the Jeep before I can stop her. “That’s not what this is, Nate. We agreed.”
The engine starts, so I keep leaning on the hood and look away from her, fully intending to stand here until she gets back out and answers my damn questions. She can mutter in Spanish as much as she wants, I’m not moving. I grab another smoke, and not caring at all how long this takes, I light it with a long pull. That’s another good thing about holidays—no time constraints.
I’m suddenly shunted forward, my body knocked off kilter as she drives a foot forward straight into the back of me—hard. I spin on her, barely stopping every instinct I have from grabbing her out of the damn thing.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Get out of the way or get in,” she snaps, white knuckles on the steering wheel. “Your choice, Nate.”
“Did you just drive the damn Jeep into me?”
“Yep. I’ll do it again, too, if you keep up with that attitude. Stupido.”
She revs, the Jeep springing forward an inch or so more. My brow raises as I watch her lithe frame filling my vision, dust lingering in the air and a cunning engrained in her features that has me questioning all kinds of shit now it’s started between us.
