“Godzilla?” I try to muster a smirk but from her confused look, it probably appears like I need to take a shit. “You have an imagination.”
She wanted to play some game like “Never Have I Ever” in the jungle? I could top her stories on the first try. I’ve never sucked spider venom out of my own leg. Drink. I’ve never tracked a murderous Chinese thief into Saint Petersburg and killed him. Drink. I’ve never killed a Columbian drug dealer inside his fortified compound. That one was particularly sweet. Drain the cup.
“Oookay,” she says, and it’s evident she doesn’t believe me. “Look I’m not afraid you’re going to rape me. After all, you say you’ve been watching me, so I presume you’ve had plenty of opportunities and just aren’t into that. Which is good. Very good.”
She pauses and it’s clearly my turn to talk now.
“Right. I’m not into that. The rape thing,” I clarify.
“Good to know.”
I shift slightly away but her body follows mine, and despite the awkwardness of the conversation and her obvious distaste for what’s in my pants, I get hard . . . again. I rub the back of my head against the tree as if the sharp bark can pierce my thick skull.
I’m in the fucking jungle. My eye may be permanently damaged. I have to get one hand model and myself out of this place before Duval and his little army descend on us and decide to kill us in the middle of the Amazon rainforest.
I should be focused on getting what sleep I can so that tomorrow I can find enough supplies to help us make it to a village, which may be ten miles downstream or a hundred. Instead I keep thinking about how soft her fucking hands are and how, despite the fact that it’s 2,000 percent humidity and we both sweated like dogs earlier, she still smells good—womanly and delicate, which isn’t possible.
My nonstop erections around her defy explanation, too. Sure, I’ve gotten hard before but not from just looking at a woman. Not since I was a perpetually horny teenager and even the local department store circular could raise a half chub. But since then I’ve spent a lot of time putting sex and women out of my mind. There’s little point when I can’t do anything about it.
My dear sainted mother dubbed me a killer before I could spell the words. I was the result of the most vile experience a woman could suffer. I ate my twin sister in the womb. Nearly killed my mom on my way out of the birth canal. My giant dick was the evidence of my cursed existence.
I should never have been born, she hissed at me repeatedly.
She’s probably right but not much she could do about it when abortion went against her religion. So I lived, but not a day went by without her reminder that I was a monster created by the devil. I existed only to hurt women, and the very evidence of that hung between my legs. From before I could form words, I knew that my own body was a weapon fashioned to harm, maim, and kill.
I tried. Fuck I tried to make my mother happy. I tried to ignore what was happening in my pants. I tried and failed and proved her right. I existed to hurt women. So I stayed far away from them.
And that’s where I’ve gone wrong, I conclude. I spend too much time with Garcia and the men. That’s the only rational conclusion. Somewhere along the line, I started avoiding women and now the first isolated exposure to one is sending me reeling. If I were home, I could remedy this by taking myself in hand—literally—but I know better than to stand outside of our shelter in the pitch black of night with my dick in hand jerking it while a dozen predators lie in wait.
She shifts again and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from moaning out loud.
“So who are these friends that call you Rafe?” she asks.
“Aren’t you tired? Because I’m bushed.” I make a big show of stretching my arms, almost knocking some of the leaves off our shelter.
Maybe if she sleeps then I can sleep. I was in the military. We were taught to sleep anywhere in any conditions no matter how hot or cold or how many enemy artillery shells were flying over our heads. I can sleep through this torture, too.
“I’m kind of cold.” She burrows even closer and I swear to fucking God her hand brushed against Godzilla. He roars to life and the blood flow that rushes into my groin is so swift I nearly pass out.
I jump up before I do something insane like grab her hand and press it even tighter against me. “I’m going to find you a blanket.”
She grabs my leg. “You said that we shouldn’t go out in the dark—that it’s too dangerous. It’s pitch black out there. You can’t leave.”
She was right but I had to do something. “I’m going to take a piss.”
“Can I at least have your knife?” Hurt and fear war for supremacy in her voice.
I rub a hand down the side of my face. My five-o’clock shadow is going to be a full-on beard if we don’t get out of here soon. “Sure.” I pull off my belt and reattach the knife to the buckle. “Don’t kill me when I get back.”
“Don’t act like a predator,” she retorts.