Forever Innocent

I’d make this happen. I would force it. With a growl, I grasped Rosa’s hand and pulled her toward me. She tumbled into my lap with a light laugh.

I pulled her into a kiss, plumbing her mouth with my tongue. She met me with practiced ease, and as soon as I sensed her working to please me rather than responding on her own, I jerked away again. Bloody hell. She’d been fine before.

“Very bad day,” she said, smoothing down my hair. “Let me fix.” She reached between my legs and squeezed.

It wasn’t going to work. Not today. I lifted her off my lap and set her on the sofa. The window beckoned and I stood beside it, looking out on the streets. People walked down below, making deals, passing cash for women or drugs or wagers. I didn’t used to know any of this. If none of the crap had happened four years ago, I still wouldn’t know. I’d be out of school, teaching kids like we’d planned. Finn would be wandering around, a year away from kindergarten, and WHY THE HELL WAS THIS ON MY MIND AGAIN?

“Something’s different, Gavinito.”

I shrugged. “Old life came back.”

“Like the day we met?”

“Something like that.”

“The reason why you get cut so young?”

I whirled around, tugging out several bills — money I couldn’t really afford to be wasting — and left them on the table. “I have to go.”

Rosa nodded, picking up her shirt. “I see you again soon, when day not so bad?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

She worked the series of locks on her door and pressed against the doorframe. She seemed to know I wouldn’t be back. “Adios, Gavinito.”

“Good-bye, Rosa.”

I rushed down the stairs, anxious to be out of there. I shouldn’t be messing with Corabelle for the same damn reasons. It’s not like her learning about the vasectomy four years later would make it any easier. She’d want kids eventually, and I’d screwed her over.

But then, what if she didn’t? What if she felt like I did? Maybe this would be the right thing.

I had to talk to her. I had to know what she wanted, where she was going. And if there was any place for me. I’d make one. I’d make her see.

My anxiety rose as I headed for the trash room. Of all the times I’d been in Tijuana and hadn’t cared what happened to me or what could go wrong, this night I just knew the bike would be stolen or I’d get thrown in an alley. Murphy’s Law, my dad used to say when something went south. “Shit that can go wrong, will go wrong. Right when you need it not to.”

I was relieved as hell to see the Harley sitting where I left it. I rolled it out and opened the outer door more cautiously than usual, watching to make sure I wasn’t interrupting a deal. I normally rode through with swagger that made people leave me alone, but right now I felt like a nervous tourist trying to get the hell back home.

The corridor was empty so I walked the bike down to the street. I’d go to the coffee shop, live there if I had to, until I saw Corabelle again. I didn’t think for a minute that that pink-haired chick would give Corabelle my number, not after she ran off with the other guy.

When I popped out on the street, a pair of men just a few feet away looked up. Damn it, I’d been distracted. You couldn’t do that in Zona Norte.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of them said, some college kid from stateside, and he took off running.

Shit.

The other man, short and thick and blasting machismo in a leather jacket, strode up to me, smoothing his long sideburns with his fingers. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Just moving on.” I threw my leg over the Harley, but I misjudged his intention. Sideburns rushed me, arms around my chest, and dragged me off the bike.

“You lost me a fine customer.” He delivered a sharp kick to my gut, and sparks flew behind my eyes. He ran his hand along the chrome. “Nice ride.”

When he started to lift it from the ground, I swung my boot around to knock him off his feet. By the time he recovered, I was up again and ready to finish this out. No way was someone going to screw me over this late in the game.

Sideburns seemed to relish the thought of a fight, and I caught the glint of a set of brass knuckles. That was good, I thought. He felt he needed an edge, which meant he wasn’t a street fighter.

He lunged first, and my fist connected with his jaw in a crunch of bone. I had no time to think about the pain, because he was back, delivering several sharp blows to my ribs.

He could hit me there all day. I whipped around, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him into the street. He stumbled off the curb, shook himself, and charged again.

I’d had enough of this bullshit, so I let him get close enough to take a poorly aimed shot at my chest, then I aimed low and hard, a forward punch into his gut followed by two in a row to his face. He blew backward, falling into the wall.

He raised his hands in the air and stumbled toward the curb like he was leaving. He seemed calm, too calm, and that’s when I knew he was packing.

This was no good. A sorry-ass punk like him would take a potshot at me when I rode away. I had to shut him down.

“Hey!” I shouted.

When he turned back around, I ran at him with a growl, knocking him into a car. Four rapid punches to his face kept him still long enough that I could reach around and feel for the gun stuck in the back of his waistband, under the coat. I jerked it out, knowing I’d have to ditch it somewhere before I got to the border.