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Finn

I’m sitting inside my local watering hole, my home away from home, belly up to the bar and drinking away my troubles. Minding my own damn business while I kill time instead of what I’m itching to do—kill my target. A woman slips onto the barstool next to me. She smells like everything innocent in the world, roses and sunshine and baby powder, but the forced smile on her lips says anything but.

She’s out of her element in this grungy dive bar, far off the beaten path in a downright lawless part of Mexico City. A pretty, foreigngringa, out late at night in a smoky bar full of red-blooded men. A recipe for disaster.

I have to say I’m intrigued. And a wee bit perplexed to set eyes on her vaguely-familiar face. I place her in Acapulco. The young woman wearing an old-fashioned bathing suit, on the beach across from the warehouse I’d been assigned to watch.

Now what could this pretty minx be doing so far away from the coast and inside my particular watering hole at this hour if she’s not here for me? Dead right this isn’t a coincidence. No feckin’ way. Her subtle glances over the past hour prove it, as does her rejection and subsequent pissing off of one local Don Juan after another. She’s stirred up enough tension inside this place you can slice it with a knife.

As luck would have it, I’m carrying two on me: a small switchblade in my back pocket and a long, six-inch blade in the sheath fixed to my calf. Never leave home without them.

I’d like to say I don’t have time for her brand of trouble. Yet with nothing but time on my hands, I find myself looking forward to her next move.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she addresses me, her tone throaty and deep, her voice firm and without a hint of shyness.

With slow, meandering purpose, I push my barstool away from the bar, pivot my big body her way, and stretch my long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. I rake my eyes over her casually, like I’m taking careful inventory of her person. And what an inventory it is.

Her long hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders. It’s a rich, rusty color, deep enough to be labeled auburn, though not the kind of color that comes in a bottle. Her eyebrows are the same shade and are arched high as she awaits my answer. Her skin is fair, milk white like fresh cream. Either she wears fifty plus sunblock or she’s careful when outside in the relentless Mexican sun.Not the sort to be found on any beach.

I lift my eyes, quick as all hell, and meet her startled gaze. Just as quickly, she composes herself. But not before I spy the determined purpose in her lovely, pale blues.

“I’m not thirsty,” I say.

She sits up a bit straighter on her stool as her attention drifts to the empty beer bottles lined up like soldiers on the bar in front of me.

I shrug my shoulders and offer her a lazy smile.

She turns away to hide her scowl, then waves the bartender over. He, thankfully, speaks English.

“One Dos Equis. One whiskey, neat. Black label, please.”

That does the trick.

“Make that two whiskeys, Pedro. Like the lady says, make ’em neat. And Irish.”

“I like mine Scotch.”

“Shame,” I reply. “I was beginning to like you.”

“You say that to every stranger?”

“Only the pretty ones.” I pause, then flatly lay things out, carefully studying her reaction as I do so. “And you’ve decided to remedy that, isn’t that right? This getting-to-know-you business?”

To her credit, she doesn’t react as anticipated. No, instead of rearing backward like I rubbed coarse whiskers across her delicate flesh, she gifts me with widened, oh, so innocent eyes.

I feckin’ love it, and the challenge she presents. The way a bloke who rates a one feels when the opportunity tosnoga ten unexpectedly presents itself.

It’d be an uphill battle wooing her over to my way of thinking. Kissing. Licking. Fucking. Lots of fucking. Hours spent fucking. Lazy, dirty fucking where I take time to explore. The works.

Despite her buttoned up appearance, her conservative white blouse with its dainty, pearl-trimmed collar and matching cuffs, which makes a man want to pluck each tiny white orb off with his teeth, her ballsy actions imply a confidence that can only translate into trouble. And my life is dodgy enough without her mucking things up.’

Yet I’ve got to give her credit. Kudos to her for blustering through my bullshite. Because, as appearances stand, I’m no Ryan feckin’ Gosling. Though, I’ve drunk enough tonight to feel like I’m inLa La Land.

A ride like her interested in a chancer like me? No way. I’m dressed like a vigilante vagrant, in scuffed, black leather cowboy boots, faded, ripped jeans, a bright, traditional Mexican poncho, and, hidden beneath it, a ratty old Van Halen T-shirt. My dark blond hair needs a good trim. With six months of untamed growth concealing the lower part of my face, grown intentionally to enhance the don’t-fuck-with-me vibe I’ve bloody perfected, I’ve come to the conclusion this woman must be bolloxed for approaching me.

This is no simple case of girl-propositions-stud-in-pub scenario, where they drink, eye-fuck one another, then leave hand in hand.What does she want with me? And how far is she willing to go to get it?

She thrusts her hand out at me. “My name’s Samantha,” she lies.