The Animal Under The Fur Page 12

  His lips pucker in distaste as he pulls away. “You really know how to kill a mood.”

  “I know how to kill lots of things.”

  “Right,” he says with an eye roll. “So where’s this stalker of ours?”

  Letting out my senses again, I scrunch my nose. “They’re gone.”

  Crap. How did I miss them leaving?

  “Hunh.” Carter lifts his coffee cup.

  “They were there though.” I glance around quickly. “I could feel it.”

  “Maybe they were just intrigued by a pretty girl sitting alone, and seeing me come out scared them away.”

  “Maybe,” I say, ignoring Carter calling me pretty.

  I can’t get distracted like that again.

  While I’m not certain if the person watching is from the Oculto, the energy they sent my way was definitely dangerous, and in a small, quiet town like this, there’s only a few possibilities of whom that danger could be.

  29

  Carter

  CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 2115 HOURS

  To find where we should dine tonight, I did the classic trick of retaining the right information by asking for the exact opposite. I feigned a worried, protective husband and asked what parts of the city we should stay away from, so as not to unknowingly stumble there with my new blushing bride.

  Now 3 and I head straight to the area of forewarning after leaving Jules and Akoni. They will be doing their own exploration before we regroup in the morning.

  The streets are less populated in the southeast part of town and darker closer to the outskirts, where a bit of the historical charm falls away. Simple whitewashed buildings with red painted bases fill our surroundings, giving off the vibe of housing the local villagers rather than the tourists, especially after a few ask if we’re lost.

  Holding 3’s hand again, which feels deceptively small and fragile considering it’s more lethal and constricting than a cobra, we come to a small square that appears to be this neighborhood’s local watering hole. There are a couple bars and restaurants lining its perimeter, and 3 and I catch eyes when we spot the name of one of the drinking establishments. Búho Oculto (Hidden Owl) reads the wooden carved sign above a bar that’s tucked into the corner of the open rotunda. The front is dimly lit save for a single gas lamp, and a few gentlemen stand outside talking to a man who sits on a stool smoking a cigarette and resembles an MMA fighter. It definitely looks like the type of joint disreputable individuals would inhabit, almost in a cliché way.

  We pick a tiny place to eat directly across from it, and our table has a perfect view of our headlining establishment, but to say our presence goes unnoticed would be the biggest lie of the century. Everyone seems to watch us as we sit down, stupid gringos encroaching on the locals’ haven. I sigh. So much for stealth. We’ll need to put on an Oscar-worthy honeymooners act now, and while that thought turns my stomach, I know 3 probably despises it even more, which makes it a little less intolerable.

  “It seems your information was correct,” 3 says quietly in German while perusing the list of food a waitress brought over.

  Smart girl. Even in small, secluded towns like this, English-speaking individuals can be found, and with the few prying eyes, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  “Da.” I nod my agreement.

  “We’ll need to figure out how to get in,” she continues in the foreign tongue.

  “Da.”

  “But we won’t be able to tonight.”

  “Da.”

  Her eyes narrow at me from above her menu. “Is that all you know?”

  “Nicht,” I reply.

  She presses her lips together, as if in discomfort, and I sit up straighter. “Oh my God. Are you about to smile?”

  She clears her throat and looks away. “Nicht.”

  She might hate smiling, but I certainly don’t, and I can’t help the one that forms. I’m about to push this further when our waitress walks up to take our order, breaking the moment.

  As the food arrives, 3 and I continue to talk quietly in German while furtively keeping tabs on the bar. Mostly men walk in and out with a few above-average women wrapped to their sides, most of which, I’m sure, are getting compensated. The patrons all seem to know each other and clap the gorilla bouncer on the shoulder before walking in.

  “I’ll have to go in alone tomorrow night,” 3 says, leaning back in her chair, her gaze sweeping over the door again.

  I tilt my head. “And why alone?”

  “Because if we both went, it would look suspicious compared to a single lost college chick exploring the town and stumbling in.”

  “What about a lost college guy?” I counter, not liking where her mind is going. This is our assignment, and I won’t be sidelined.

  “A girl is less threatening.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Plus, men are easier to seduce and appeal to their softer side.”

  I barely contain my recently sipped soda from coming out of my nose with my snort. “Really?” I splutter. “You think a man has an easier-tapped emotional side than a woman?”

  “When it comes to a pretty girl letting down her guard and appearing vulnerable, of course. Men like to conquer. Like to feel the predator. When they sense something weak, particularly in a female, they see an easy meal and little threat in allowing them to get close. Especially when their basic desire is always sex.”

  I study her impassive expression. “And where, exactly, are you pulling this psychobabble from?”

  “Evolutionary biology.”

  I laugh. “Right.”

  Her brows pinch in as she studies her plate, playing with her food as if suddenly upset about something.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what is it?”

  She peers at me from behind her lashes. “Well…I also know because I made it my life’s work to understand human nature.”

  I remain silent, unsure what to make of the way her features have gone all soft, no longer clenched with her internal frustration when in my presence.

  “Do you want to know how I came into this field of work?” she asks.

  “Uh…sure.”

  Taking in a deep breath, as if to prepare herself, she says, “I was abandoned as a child.” Pausing for a moment, she lets the words hang in the night air as she watches an older woman walk by. “I was practically a baby when I was left on the streets.”

  I knew this from her file, but to hear this admittance in person, and from her own lips, makes the reality of her beginning life hit home. It’s also apparent from the thickness in her voice that she’s still very affected by it, which might prove she’s human after all.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she goes on. “My life wasn’t as bad as it could have been if different people had found me…or not found me at all. And while I tried to get past my beginnings, to move on, there was one thing that I couldn’t let go of. That I needed to find the answer to.”

  She goes quiet, worrying her bottom lip.

  I can’t help myself. I reach over and place my hand on top of hers. A silent reassurance that she can keep going, not wanting to talk in case it scares away this unexpected openness. I watch as her blue eyes shimmer with emotion, holding me still. The flame from the table’s candle sets her hair in a golden glow and smooths her already silky skin. I’m once again reminded of the angel I saw that first night at the gala. Unknowingly I find myself caressing her palm with my thumb.

  “I needed to know…” She stops, taking a swallow, and I gently squeeze her hand before she squeezes back. “I needed to know just how quickly you would prove my point.” Her mouth tips up at the side, a sneer of a cat that caught a mouse, and I watch, stunned, as all the delicate emotion she just poured out gets sucked away, vanishing without a trace.

  “You’re crazy,” I breathe, snatching my hand away like it’d been burned.

  3 calmly settles into her chair. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Like I said before, men are pretty simple cr
eatures.”

  I wrinkle my nose, suddenly feeling dirty, and not in the way I prefer. “I can’t believe you pulled the orphan card.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  I study her replaced mask of indifference, not even a hint of the emotion she let flow so freely present. Yet I can’t help wondering if there was any truth in her admission of her past or if she truly is as cold and heartless as I previously concluded her to be. A piece of me wants to believe she’s still nursing those wounds, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still nursing mine.

  We make it back to the hotel a little before midnight. Not much interesting happened outside Búho Oculto while we were there, so we called it quits for the night. Señora Flores smiles as we walk into Flor Tranquila, still set up in her colorful shawl behind the front counter and, so far, the only person we’ve seen at the hotel.

  Up in our room, 3 heads to the bathroom while I dig through my bag for my toothbrush. We’ve both been skirting around the subject of our sleeping arrangements since checking in, and if the long standoff regarding who would be driving is any indication of how successfully we compromise, this conversation won’t go well.

  Laying my jacket over a chair, I glance up as 3 steps back into the room in small gray jersey shorts and a white tee, her red hair resting over one shoulder in a messy braid. Even though her clothes are meant to be modest and frumpy, glancing at her exposed toned legs and the fact that she’s one hundred percent not wearing a bra has my stomach plummeting.

  Screw me.

  But seriously, I want her to screw me. Crap. This isn’t good. Why does she have to be psycho and gorgeous?

  Without uttering a word, I walk past her into the bathroom, her familiar scent of coconut following me the whole way.

  My hand curls into a fist.

  This really isn’t good.

  Just when I thought I had my bearings around her, she goes and puts on pajamas. I love women in pajamas. Even volatile, murderous, schizophrenic, hide-your-children-from-them women in pajamas. Pj’s remind me of beds and tangled sheets and what can happen between them.

  Quickly washing up—with cold water—I shut off the bathroom light and step out, finding 3 standing by the open balcony doors. She’s looking into the courtyard, the gray glow from the moon gently flowing over the curves of her body.

  Running a hand through my hair, I stand there, unsure what to do now that we’re here.

  “You can take the bed,” she says without turning around.

  I glance to the hard stone floor. “Neither of us will be sleeping on the ground.”

  She peers over her shoulder about to reply, but stops as her gaze flickers over my body. “Really?”

  “What?” I look down at myself.

  “Put a shirt on, Carter.”

  “It’s Benjamin,” I remind her, pulling back the duvet, “and this is how I sleep. You should feel lucky I made the effort to keep on my briefs. I usually go commando.”

  “Gross.”

  “On the contrary,” I say, slipping into the cool sheets. “God created us naked for a reason, because it feels fucking fantastic.”

  “Well, I’m definitely not getting in there with you like that.” She crosses her arms.

  “Why? You scared you won’t be able to resist such an Adonis?” I drape myself suggestively over the mattress, enjoying the way her small nose scrunches in disgust.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “But it’s so much fun.” I flash her a grin. “You should try it.”

  “I don’t need constant reassurance like you do.” She walks over and grabs a pillow.

  “You’re not sleeping on the ground.” I sit up as she pulls a blanket from one of the chairs in the room.

  “Watch me.” She begins to set up a sad floor nest.

  “You’re going to wake up with a stiff neck, and then what use will you be?”

  She pauses from fluffing her pillow.

  “You know I’m right, 3.” I go on. “If there was a couch in here, I’d be the first one on it, but there’s nothing but hard stone and wooden chairs. We both need to be in the best shape for this assignment. Neither one of us should risk that because we’re too stubborn to share a bed. Plus, it’s not like either of us are going to make a move.”

  I watch as she internally struggles to keep from agreeing.

  “First, it’s Stephanie,” she says as she stands, throwing my own reprimand back at me. “And fine, we’ll both sleep in the bed.” She walks over and gets in. “But if I find you draped over me with your morning wood poking into my side, I’ll turn you into a eunuch without a hesitation.”

  “Got it. No morning wood poking you in the side.” I snuggle into the sheets and close my eyes. “I’ll make sure it’s poking you in the back or butt instead.”

  A pillow whips so hard against my face that if I were a lesser man, I’d have squeaked, but instead I merely gather it under my head and say, “Sweet dreams to you too, Wife.” And though a slow smile lingers on my lips as I drift off to sleep, I still curl a thankful hand around Minnie tucked under my pillow, hoping I don’t have to use it.

  30

  Nashville

  I can’t fall asleep.

  I’ve been faking it for an hour while Carter is dead to the world beside me. I’ve never slept in the same bed as someone my entire life. Not at the orphanage, not with Ceci, and especially not a man. Even with Christopher Waters I’ve always left right when we were done, and he never asked me to stay. Mainly because he knew I wouldn’t.

  Yet it’s not the unfamiliarity that’s keeping me up. It’s the noise. Carter doesn’t snore, thankfully, but he’s still incredibly loud. His light breathing sounds more like giant puffs of air from a steamship, his slow heartbeat claps of thunder in my head, and the sounds his stomach makes—don’t even get me started. How do people sleep next to one another with all this racket?

  I shift onto my back and stare at the ceiling, thinking about how much my life has changed since Hong Kong. I’ve done a lot of firsts lately. Agreeing to an assignment with another K-Op, allowing someone else to drive when I could have, holding someone’s hand and being kind of okay with it, and let’s not forget my Mother Theresa’s worth of patience. It’s a miracle I haven’t maimed anyone yet, especially considering how close Carter’s gun is under his pillow.

  You know… I can hear Ceci’s voice in this moment. Cactuses actually taste quite sweet under all those prickles.

  I let out a sigh, glancing at Carter spread out on his stomach. It’s not lost on me that all these firsts have been with him, and taking in his unconscious form, I allow myself to linger on his body. Slivers of moonlight streaming through the balcony doors highlight his back muscles and play across his solid arms that hook around his pillow. I know from earlier that his stomach is nothing but definition and abs, and as emotionally hollow as I often come across, I’m not completely inhuman and can appreciate a nice body when I see one.

  I just have better control over my desires than most, something I was trained to master since I was a child. The intense simulations and exercises I went through allowed me the proper restraint needed to manage my quickly violent tendencies. A side effect of this just happens to be losing a bit of my other emotions, including empathy toward others, but it’s a loss I’m willing to sacrifice. I’ve witnessed the irreversible consequences of A+ humans losing control, and I refuse to let that happen to me.

  People who know about us can often be envious of our abilities, but what they don’t know is how much of a burden it can be. To constantly keep tabs on the bubble of energy that simmers under the surface is almost excruciating, hence needing to let it out every so often. There have definitely been moments when I’ve wished to be like everyone else, that I could experience the peacefulness of a park without being bombarded by the swirling, chaotic sounds of birds, insects, leaves rustling, and every person’s conversation or bodily noise. Their breathing, their heartbeats, their chewing, the chains on t
heir bikes clanking as they ride by, the thousands of notes blaring from their earbuds, the dogs they walk panting and barking. If I didn’t work for two decades to learn how to block it all out, I would surely have gone crazy, like others have.

  That’s something regular humans take for granted, being blessed with a quiet life.

  Because my life…has always been brutally loud.

  31

  3

  CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 0920 HOURS

  The population of the town must double on market day, for as we make our way through the stalls of goods, waiting to “run into” Jules and Akoni, I have to take a moment to adjust to the overstimulus of activity.

  People barter enthusiastically over produce, while venders hold up colorful woven tapestries or pottery to the passing buyers. Clutching my purse strap, I peruse the various goods on display, all shining with life under the morning sun, and look for something to pick up for Ceci. She loves this kind of stuff—trinkets.

  Carter walks beside me, his face relaxed under his sunglasses, his scruff a little thicker today as his constant easy grin plays along his lips. He stops at a leather-goods booth to look at wallets, and I watch him speak Spanish to the owner. With his back turned, my gaze runs over his tall form that’s dressed in a seafoam-green T-shirt and dark jeans.

  After another hour of staring up at nothing last night, I slipped out of bed to quickly call Ceci. On my shorter assignments, I don’t usually reach out until I’m on my way home, but something about this mission left me craving her calming voice. I tried not to think about why this was as I called her in the bathroom.

  “Nash?” Her groggy voice answered. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I tucked my knees under my chin as I leaned against the tub’s side, sitting on the cool tile floor. “I wanted to let you know I got to Mexico safely.”