Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Doorhandle is broken on the inside,” he says, and that sense of danger hits me once again.
“No problem,” I tell him as I climb inside.
Most women would follow the instinct that tells them something is off about this guy, but this is the shit I live for.
The drive to the border isn’t long, but I’m antsy as he parks the truck. I honestly thought he’d use the adventure excuse to get me into his truck before finding something, but I realize shortly after we each pay a guy to help get across the border without having to go through customs, that this guy is just a low-rent thrill seeker.
The adventure for him isn’t what waits in Mexico. It’s simply breaking the rules to get into a different country.
He’s smiling ear to ear as the guy points to another truck. “The fun is in Tamaulipas. They take you.”
We walk in that direction as the guy I just met takes my hand. We haven’t exchanged names. He doesn’t give a shit who I am any more than I care about him.
I can tell by the way he watches me that he wants to take something that doesn’t belong to him, that there are thoughts swarming through his head about being capable of something like that, but he just doesn’t have the balls.
Two guys waiting outside a van smile as we approach. Of course the ride to Tamaulipas costs more money that wasn’t covered by our safe crossing into Mexico, but we gladly pay. The further from Texas I get, the closer to danger.
We ride in the backseat of the van in silence as the driver and his friend chat about mundane shit. It’s clear the guy beside me doesn’t speak much, if any, Spanish, but I became fluent in the language after joining the FBI.
The drive is long, close to three hours or longer. I have to guess because I threw my phone in the trash.
By the time we make our way into the city, the sun is setting.
“I didn’t get your name,” my companion says, looking like he’s seconds away from falling asleep beside me. “I’m Ryder.”
I highly doubt that’s his real name, and if it is, his parents are assholes.
“Lola,” I tell him, my agitation growing by the second.
The guy in the passenger seat looks over his shoulder at us, asking in Spanish where we’d like to go.
I look at Ryder, making him think I have no clue what’s being said.
“A bar,” Ryder answers.
Maybe he understands more than he lets on.
The passenger nods, relaying to the driver what we’re looking for.
Three hours in a van with three strange men and I get fucking nothing. It feels like a waste of time, but I do know that we’re currently driving through a city that is very much an epicenter for crimes against people. If I can’t find my adventure with Ryder, then I know it won’t take long for me to find it elsewhere.
Just the thrill of going out on my own, knowing I can’t call Alan any longer when I get in trouble, makes my blood pump harder, my heart race faster.
Maybe this adventure will be my last. The idea of it makes me smile.
Ryder takes it as me being pleased with him as the van rolls to a stop near the sidewalk. The sun has gone down, and that means the smarter, more diligent civilians of Tamaulipas are safely tucked away at home. The people remaining are the ones looking for trouble. This is my kind of place.
As we step inside, the bar isn’t too crowded, but it does take a while for the bartender to give us an ounce of his time. I glare at the man when he looks me up and down, his gaze locking on my chest before finding my eyes. Nice doesn’t always get the job done. Sometimes you have to be mean, push a little, to get the desired results.
This bartender knows things, knows people and their business. I want to be on his radar.
Ryder? He’s a fucking chump, but from the whispers going on around me, he may not be as safe as he’s convinced himself he is. According to one man, he’s in the way of getting me on my back. His friend agrees, but neither of them make any moves to rid me of Ryder.
With as much of an American accent as I can manage, I call the bartender an asshole in Spanish when he finally slides my drink over to me. The guy chuckles, shaking his head as he walks away.
I get nothing from him but bad service.
I’m not going to find what I need in this place, but at the same time, I also feel a little guilty at leaving Ryder to the wolves. American women are considered a profit around here, easily exchanged for goods or services. The feistier they are, the more money they bring. American men are looked at like the police, useless and in the way. They spell trouble and are sometimes taken care of quicker than the women. You chase ants with a magnifying glass. The game is torture. Snakes have their heads cut off because they pose the real danger.