Personally, I like a guy who doesn't have a lot to say. Bolsters your confidence he won't come back with something stupid when you make the mistake of telling him everything.
All my hot little Mexican prison guard said when I won my release with a hand of poker was, "
Adios, señorita suerte." Goodbye, lady luck. I'd picked up a few words of Spanish during
my time inside, all of them relating to food, respecting my personal space and games of chance. Really, what else is there for men and women to talk about?
I had never wanted to put a bullet in him, anyway. For one thing,
a toothbrush gun provided by your backstabbing FBI handler isn't the sexiest piece of weaponry. Also, his wife, Lupita, was pregnant -- and she looked like she should have been in about the eighth grade. Not once did I ever hear them speak to one another, and yet I never saw a man more in love -- accounting, I suppose, for why he never made a move on me. Home is where the hard-on is, and even if it killed me, that's where I was headed.
It was a long, stealth ride in a borrowed government Jeep through the Sonoran Desert under the cover of night. At sun-up, he stopped abruptly at the side of a dusty highway and gestured for me to get out. When he turned around to take a quick pee, Lupita slipped me my passport. She also pressed a damp wad of seventeen bucks U.S. in my hand, which she had earned selling discount garden statuary at a shop outside of Rosarita Beach.
"Some day I'll come back and bring you a diamond," I whispered. "If I'm lying, I'm dying." That must have sounded like a real load of bunk, if she understood me at all -- but if you read the recent
People Magazine cover story you know I made good on my word and then some. In fact, my people are talking to Selena Gomez's people at this very moment about the role of Lupita in the Lifetime Movie of the Week. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm in pretty decent shape, being a former aspiring bikini model, but it's way different working your lower calves walking a lone desert road than it is on the treadmill at Crunch. I don't know how many miles I clocked between sun-up and sundown, at which point I realized I'd been headed the wrong direction and turned around. I froze in front a coiled rattlesnake, ready to pounce. To my mind, there are only two reasons for snakes to even exist, shoes and purses. Wait, belts, make that three.
I sprang back, digging feverishly through my handy spy bag for that loaded toothbrush -- and heard a loud BOOM! The rattler lay limp, a pocketbook waiting to happen. I wheeled around, to see who'd fired, then saw the smoking hole in the corner of my own bag. The bad news is, only hours into my journey, I'd used my only bullet. The good news is, I discovered a busy honkytonk on the misty horizon -- like something out of a cowboy movie only with fewer horses and more fat couples squeezed onto the same Harley. With no way to tell whether these were good guys or bad ones -- or worse, yet, a risky mix -- I slung my kill over a shoulder and took my chances.
Wait, that's a lie -- do I look like the bride of Crocodile Dundee? I just kicked the thing to make sure it was dead and apologized for the way things went down, then said a little prayer. "May God bless you on your journey home, and I'm sorry I shot you by accident."
I was getting just a little tired of saying that last thing. Wondering if the captain was still alive -- and not at all sure our paths would ever meet again -- I tied my hair in a pretty knot and plumped up my boobs. My only hope now was somebody behind that flashing neon "Open" sign had reliable transportation, a weakness for dangerous blondes, and some really poor judgement.
I had never wanted to put a bullet in him, anyway. For one thing, a toothbrush gun provided by your backstabbing FBI handler isn't the sexiest piece of weaponry. Also, his wife, Lupita, was pregnant -- and she looked like she should have been in about the eighth grade. Not once did I ever hear them speak to one another, and yet I never saw a man more in love -- accounting, I suppose, for why he never made a move on me. Home is where the hard-on is, and even if it killed me, that's where I was headed.
"Some day I'll come back and bring you a diamond," I whispered. "If I'm lying, I'm dying." That must have sounded like a real load of bunk, if she understood me at all -- but if you read the recent People Magazine cover story you know I made good on my word and then some. In fact, my people are talking to Selena Gomez's people at this very moment about the role of Lupita in the Lifetime Movie of the Week. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I sprang back, digging feverishly through my handy spy bag for that loaded toothbrush -- and heard a loud BOOM! The rattler lay limp, a pocketbook waiting to happen. I wheeled around, to see who'd fired, then saw the smoking hole in the corner of my own bag. The bad news is, only hours into my journey, I'd used my only bullet. The good news is, I discovered a busy honkytonk on the misty horizon -- like something out of a cowboy movie only with fewer horses and more fat couples squeezed onto the same Harley. With no way to tell whether these were good guys or bad ones -- or worse, yet, a risky mix -- I slung my kill over a shoulder and took my chances.
