I head off to work, making sure to keep the sound of Mendoza’s whistling near as he cuts branches and palm fronds. I move slowly, tossing the water bottle into the brush each time to flush out anything. Whenever my bruised hand brushes a leaf, I get a throbbing pain.
Occasionally I hear something slither away, but all I find is mud and bugs and leaves. As for firewood, I find a few sticks here and there, but everything is soaked. I keep my bad arm pressed against my chest and cradle the pitiful amount of wood against it there, along with my club. It might be firewood tonight if this keeps up.
I’m nearing the edge of how far out I dare go; Mendoza is barely audible in the distance. The brush is thicker here, but there’s a break in the tree canopy overhead, which is a good sign. I toss my water bottle—and it thunks against something.
I freeze in place, waiting for a pissed-off jaguar to come roaring out of the ferns. When nothing does, I step forward, my curiosity getting the better of me. A hint of navy blue appears, and then it becomes a square, boxy form of some kind that is out of place in the wild jungle. I see a brown loafer sticking into the air, and I stare at the entire thing for a moment before I realize that I’ve found one of the missing passengers, still strapped into his chair. He’s not facing me, but the portion of him I can see is entirely too short, which means a lot of him . . . compacted when it hit the ground. The bit of skin I can see between ankle and sock is swelling, bloated, and purple. As I watch, a fly lands on it.
A strangled cry escapes my throat.
Two seconds later, Mendoza is there, his hand on my shoulder. “Ava? What is it?”
I turn and bury my face against his chest.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to process this. I know I’m being childish, but I don’t want to be strong right now. So I push my head against his neck and let him wrap his arms around me, stroking my back.
Soothing me.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply of Mendoza’s scent. He smells like sweat and mud and rain. It’s a good scent, though, and I take deep lungfuls of it.
He makes a soft noise in his throat, comforting me, and his hand slides down my back again, even as rain starts to pour down once more. A normal guy would probably want to get out of the rain, or tease me for being a baby at finding a dead guy.
Mendoza just holds me like there’s no place he’d rather be.
And as I’m pressed against him, ignoring the throb in my bad arm, I feel something pressing against my lower belly that’s not a hand. Mendoza’s aroused at my wet body pushing against his. Okay, that’s probably my fault. I’m fine with that.
But it reminds me just how freaking big his equipment is. It’s not something I should be noticing in a life-or-death situation. It’s not. But when a guy’s got something like a Maglite stuffed down his pants?
You sort of freaking notice, no matter the situation.
Actually, Maglite might not be big enough. More like wine bottle. Jesus.
A guy with an inappropriate boner? It happens. I can get past it. A guy with an inappropriate boner that’s bigger than any log I’ve been able to find in the rainforest? A lot less okay. Actually a little frightening.
Mendoza trails his hand down my back again. “You all right, Ava?”
I must be tensing up. I pull away. “Yeah, I’m good. It . . . just startled me.” And I’m not talking about the dead body.
“Is it the pilot?”
I make a choked sound, focusing on the dead body again. “The pilot? Um, I didn’t check.”
He pats my shoulder and releases me. “I’ll check. Don’t look.”
As he moves away, I busy myself with picking up the wood I discarded as I pushed my body against his. My puffy wrist is sending a distress signal all the way up my arm, and it’s going to have to be looked at soon, but there’s time for that later. Right now fire—and okay, getting away from the dead guy—is a priority.
“Pilot,” Mendoza says after a minute. “If it makes you feel better, he was dead before he hit the ground. Head’s cracked open. He probably lost consciousness and never woke up.”
Strangely enough, that does make me feel a bit better. I swallow hard. “Does he have anything on him we can use?”
“You want his jacket?”
“Oh God. I really don’t.” Just the thought makes me nauseous again.
“You might get cold tonight.”
“Then we’ll just snuggle,” I say desperately. I really, really don’t want to take a jacket off a dead guy and wear it. That’s inviting all sorts of horrible karma, and I can’t even handle all the bad karma I’ve got already. “All right?”