And then he sets me down and grabs a few wet paper towels to clean me up. “Thank you,” I whisper, as he holds my shorts open so I can step back into them. He even pulls up the zipper and buttons them up. And then, when we are good and ready, he unlocks the door and opens it up. We get angry stares from the little Mexican guy, a thumbs-up from some teenager, and a look of disgust from an older couple.
“Sometimes,” James says, stopping in front of the old people, “you gotta grab that moment, ya know? I just never know which ones will be the life-changers, so I treat them all the same. We had a fight. And then we made up. Life is good again. So”—he does a little bow to the smirking old lady, who is charmed by his honesty—“my apologies.”
He holds my hand, swings it, actually, until we reach the Hummer, and then he opens my door for me and goes around to jump in his side.
“Well,” Sasha says. She’s lying down on the seat of the Hummer stuffing her mouth with multi-colored candy worms, sweating like crazy because it’s hot as hell in here. “If you try and explain what took you so long, I will plug my ears and sing la-la-la. So just don’t.”
“Finally,” James says as he starts the Hummer and puts it in gear. “I have a way to render the Smurf speechless.”
And me too, I think to myself as I stare at the desert going by. Me too.
Because slow and honest will get me every time.
Chapter Eighteen - James
I like the thought of the desert when the blood is practically dripping off my hands after a kill, but experiencing it outside of an air-conditioned house, that’s another thing altogether. And the 1992 Hummer is not known for its awesome air-conditioning power.
We might be in hell.
But the desert is a hell I can relate to. It’s a hell I belong in. It’s a hell that calls me over, invites me in, and offers me sanctuary from my sins. The desert heat is a penance I joyfully accept on the off-chance that suffering in the heat is enough to dry the blood on my hands.
I hate the f**king heat.
I hate the f**king desert.
But when you deal in death, you must atone in all ways possible. And my motto is, Things can always get worse.
Hell could be worse than the Sonoran Desert in the summer. Hell could be the Sonoran Desert in the summer with ninety percent humidity.
“Um,” Harper says, as we stare at the shack Merc calls ‘the Sonoran safe house’ from the tepid comfort of the climate-controlled Hummer. “I don’t think it has air-conditioning.”
“It barely has walls,” Sasha adds. “I’m not going in there. I bet there are more rattlesnakes inside than there are outside.”
She’s probably right about that. “Come on, you two are exaggerating. It’s fine.” Fucking Merc. That ass**le never comes through for me. Ever. Who has a shithole for a safe house? Mine are stocked with anything you could need on the run. I got guns, I got a vehicle, I have first-aid kits in every bathroom. I have dry goods in the pantry and—
“Let’s get a hotel,” Harper offers with a wave of hope in her voice. “I’m sure Palm Springs has nice hotels. It’s a resort town, isn’t it?” She makes a face as she looks around.
Right. I’m getting the feeling she hates the desert too.
I turn the engine off and the air-conditioning stops. The three of us begin to sweat simultaneously. All of a sudden we can’t get out of the Hummer fast enough. “Come on, let’s just rest a little bit and then we’ll see how we feel once the sun goes down. We should at least stay the night, then start again in the morning.”
“It’s lunchtime, James,” Sasha says with an irritated clip as she smacks the back door closed. “Sunset is practically tomorrow.”
I take Harper’s hand and ignore the Smurf. She can go wherever she wants. I’m not her keeper. We make for the front door as Sasha checks for snakes and Harper drags her feet behind me as I tug on her. Merc’s place looks like it was built by mud-hut dwellers in ancient times. The kid was wrong, walls are the only thing it has going for it. Thick—I’m talking like three feet thick—adobe mud walls. I know this because the front door is recessed back about that same depth.
I grab the handle, then pull back from the sting of burning metal on my palm. Fucking desert. I use my t-shirt to twist the handle and find it unlocked so the door swings inward.
A rush of cool air smacks us in the face and all three of us say, “Ahhhh,” in surprise.
“It does have air-conditioning,” Sasha says.
We all move forward into the house and then I close the door. “No, I think it’s just naturally cool in here because of the adobe walls.” We’re standing in a small foyer in front of a flight of steps leading down to a sunken room. Up here on the terrace is another room off to the side. It’s got bars on three sides.
“It’s a jail,” Harper says, looking up at the cell as she walks down the stairs to the living area.
“An old jail, from like the cowboys and Indians days,” Sasha adds. “I bet Jesse James stayed here. Or some other famous outlaw.” She laughs and looks at me. “Like you, James.”
“Like you, Smurf.”
“Merc belongs in a jail,” Sasha says as she follows Harper. “If that ass**le has a style, this is it. Retro poky. But it’s better in here than outside. I guess we can stay. These couches look comfortable.”
She’s right, the couches do look comfortable, and the coolness makes everyone love it instantly. It’s a helluva lot nicer on the inside than it is on the outside. I have my gun ready in case there’s someone here, but I know where Merc is, and it’s not anywhere near Palm Springs, so it’s just a formality.