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“I think,” I say, dropping the tone of my voice as I step in closer to him, “that I’ll need a drink before I ride that monster.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, and I know I have him on the hook.
“Depends on if you’re the adventurous type or not.”
“I’ve been known to let loose.”
“It’s in Mexico.”
I stop myself just shy of frowning.It’s not much of an adventure when all the details are explained beforehand, Chad.
“I don’t have a passport.”
His grin grows wider, a little more sinister. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. “You won’t need one.”
“I’m in,” I tell him. “But I hear Mexico is dangerous. Will you keep me safe?”
His eyes scan me from top to bottom. “Of course. I’m parked right over there. Let’s go.”
I step in behind him, tossing my phone in a trashcan on the street before thanking him for opening the door for me.
“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.