Cut Throat. Шарон Сала

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СКАЧАТЬ when Presley had contacted him for a ride into Mexico, he’d had no idea why Presley was on the run, nor had it mattered. His focus had been on the money he was going to get for the job. But if he’d known Presley had been carrying this, he would have killed him outright, taken the money and saved himself a world of pain. He would also never have met up with that damned long-legged woman who’d been after Presley. She’d been like a bulldog. Every time they thought they’d lost her, she would reappear. He had no idea what her thing was with Presley, or what had happened to any of them after the explosion. For all he knew, the man who’d been shooting at him had burned up in the explosion, along with Presley and the woman. He certainly hoped so. He couldn’t remember seeing any other vehicles when he’d come to and taken himself to the doctor, but it didn’t mean one hadn’t been there. He’d been so far gone that he could have driven past his own mother and not known it.

      Then he’d found the money in Presley’s luggage, and he’d begun to look at his misery and pain in a different light. There was enough here for him to retire, which was exactly what he intended to do.

      For the last couple of days he’d been heading west, with no particular location in mind. It wasn’t until yesterday evening that he’d realized he wasn’t far from Agua Caliente, a tiny little village in the middle of nowhere. He’d been there before, years earlier, and had hooked up with a woman named Paloma Garcia. He didn’t know if she was still there, but he was going to find out. He needed a place to rest up, and her hospitality would be just what the doctor ordered.

      Today was Paloma Garcia’s birthday. She had been born in her little house thirty-two years ago today. It was no surprise to anyone in Agua Caliente that she was no better off now than her parents had been when they were alive. No one there was.

      She had no means of income other than the colorful serapes she wove and sold to her uncle, who periodically took them to Mazatlan during tourist season for resale.

      She woke with no sense of anticipation as to what this day would bring other than that she was officially a year older and still unmarried. The man she’d been seeing had left town over a month ago for the border. She had no idea whether he’d made it into the United States or not. All she knew was that he was gone and she was, once again, alone. Her reputation in the little town had been colored by her careless lifestyle with too many men, and while she refused to consider herself a puta, most of the residents looked upon her as one.

      She wet a cloth to wash the sleep from her face, then gave herself a sponge bath, bathing from the metal washbasin on a small table beneath her bedroom window. She dressed with no special care, choosing an old but comfortable red dress with colorful embroidery around the neck and sleeves. Her long black hair was her best feature. She enjoyed the heavy weight of it between her fingers as she made a braid, then tossed it over her shoulder. Her movements were slow and thoughtful as she walked through the tiny adobe house to the kitchen. With no electricity and no utilities, her cooking was done over a small fire that she built on the floor in the corner of the room. As she put some coffee on to boil, she laid a couple of tortillas she’d made yesterday onto a flat stone by the fire to reheat, then filled them with some leftover beans. She dipped the bean tortilla into a mole sauce between bites, and ate while considering what she would do today.

      Her uncle had just picked up a dozen of her serapes last week, so there was no urgent rush to begin another. As she ate, she peered through a crack in the wooden shutters she had yet to open, judging the time by the height of the sun in the sky, and decided it was just after eight in the morning.

      Today was not only her birthday but market day. Maybe she would treat herself to something special—maybe a melon—or maybe not. She didn’t feel much like celebrating.

      As she was finishing her meal, a knock sounded on her door. Frowning, she took a last sip of coffee before getting up to answer it. The second knock hit the door even as she was opening it.

      When she saw the man standing on her doorstep, her eyes widened in disbelief.

      He smiled.

      She gasped, then fainted.

      Solomon was pissed. This was not the reception he’d imagined from Paloma. He picked her up, kicked the door shut behind him, then carried her to her bed. As he carried her through the three tiny rooms, he realized nothing had changed.

      A small chalk statue of the Virgin Mary still sat in a dirty alcove someone had long ago chipped out of the thick adobe walls. The walls themselves were patched in a dozen places and badly in need of whitewash. There were two chairs and a tiny wooden table in the kitchen, two chairs and a wooden bench in the front room and, in her bedroom, a single bed and some pegs in the walls where her clothes were hanging.

      She owned one pair of shoes, which she was wearing. When Solomon laid her down on her bed, both shoes fell off. His nose curled in distaste as he saw how dirty the bottoms of her feet were. It seemed as if the years had not been kind to Paloma. The woman he’d known would never have let herself go in this way.

      There was a wet cloth wadded up in the bottom of a metal basin. He picked it up and then laid it across her forehead.

      Within moments, she began to rouse.

      “What…? Who…?” She sat up, then gasped.

      “Don’t go all wacky on me again, woman. I’ve come too far and I’m too hungry to play nursemaid again. Besides…I’m the one in need of help here.”

      Paloma’s heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear herself think. She recognized the voice and the face—at least part of it. They belonged to a man she’d hoped never to see again, yet here he was, looking more than ever like the demon he was.

      “Solomon…is that you?”

      “Yes, it’s me,” he snapped.

      “What has happened to you?”

      He didn’t like being reminded that his face looked like something from a horror movie.

      “I had a little accident,” he said, then cupped himself suggestively and added, “but it didn’t affect what matters most. It’s been a long time since I’ve had me some ass. Do me first, then I want something to eat.”

      Paloma swallowed nervously. The last thing she wanted was to put her mouth anywhere on this man’s body, but denying him wasn’t wise. Not if she wanted to keep herself in one piece.

      She took the wet cloth from her forehead and laid it aside as she reached for his belt buckle.

      “Remember how I like it?” Solomon said, as she unzipped his pants and then reached for him.

      “Yes, Solomon, I remember,” Paloma said, and then nervously licked her lips before taking him into her mouth.

      The faint scent of urine wafted up to her nostrils. She struggled not to vomit as he grabbed her by the back of the head and pushed himself down her throat.

      She choked.

      He slapped the back of her head to remind her to tend to business, then let go of every thought but how good her wet, warm mouth felt on his hard dick.

      It wasn’t the way Paloma had planned on spending her birthday, but she made a quick mental adjustment and concentrated on the task at hand. It was decisions like this that had kept her alive this far, and since she planned on having many more birthdays, she saw no reason to fight back.

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