Like his penis.
Okay, I really need to get his dick out of my head. Focus, Ava. Focus. “So what do we do now?” I ask Mendoza, and then slap at my cheek, where a bug lands. Then I scratch my arm, because I’m covered in bug bites. I’m trying not to notice them but I feel bitten and itchy all over.
They seem to like my paler, softer skin to Mendoza’s bronzed tan. Bastard. I swat at another.
He approaches me as I slap the bugs, and then he holds his hand out. “Give me your arm.”
I do, curious, and he examines my wrist and upraised welts. I’ve clawed at the bites all night and a few of them look pretty rough. “You haven’t broken anything. We could wrap it up, just to keep you from hitting things, but the swelling should go down. As for the bites . . . you’re going to tear yourself up, Ava,” he says. “We should mud up.”
“Mud . . . up?” I laugh. “What, because we’re not dirty enough?”
“To cover our exposed skin. Keep us from getting bitten even more.”
I don’t like the thought of voluntarily getting even filthier, but just then another bug lands on me. I swat it away. “Let’s do it.”
“Come on,” he tells me. “Let’s head for the river.”
We pack up our small amount of things. Mendoza’s got our tiny bundle of firewood wrapped in the pilot’s old jacket and he’s used one sleeve with a knot at the end to hold our supplies. In it goes the extra clothing, the water bottle, and some halfway-wet wood. I hope it dries up tonight enough for a fire. I don’t think I can take another night in the cold, wet rainforest.
The other sleeve he’s cut and torn into strips that he uses to create a sling for my arm. He lets me decide when to use it. When we walk, I find it helps to cut down on the jarring.
I let Mendoza take the lead and I fall in behind him. He’s all peppy and full of energy this morning, and I am definitely . . . not. It was the worst night of sleep I’ve ever had. First, I was cold and sore. Then, Mendoza pulled me against him, and that fixed the cold thing. But every time I moved a muscle, he snapped at me. I spent most of the night afraid to move, his enormous dick pressed against my side. Snuggling for warmth should have been more pleasant than it was.
And then, of course, there was the rain and the bugs and by the time dawn rolled around, I wanted to cry from sheer exhaustion.
I don’t, of course. I’m stuck here and I have to save Rose. Crying won’t get me out of the jungle or stop the bugs from biting. So I’ll just have to suck it up and keep going.
Rafe moves through the bushes, using a long pole to swat and skim at the ground, trying to flush out anything that bites. It makes moving slow, but safe. It also gives me a lot of time to study his back. And his backside. When his legs move, I can see a heavy bulge resting on one side of his pants leg, telling me that I need to change my initial speculation from “club” to “baseball bat.”
God, I am such a pervert for creeping on a dude that’s trying to save my ass. I’m not a size queen, but I’m morbidly fascinated by a guy with such enormous equipment. I mean, if I had the world’s biggest tits, I guess I’d expect him to stare at those, right? Or ask questions? I think it’s only reasonable.
I still feel like a jerk for thinking about it, though, so I try to think of something else. Anything. And my mind goes to Rose. My sweet, gullible friend with such a trusting nature and such shitty taste in men. I picture her pretty face, and the way she was tied up in those photos on Duval’s phone, and now I want to cry. I clear my throat and blink back tears. “So, hey, Rafe?”
“Yeah?” he says, pushing aside a big leaf so I can walk under it.
“You think Rose is still alive?”
“I don’t know,” he says bluntly. “They might kill her, or they might keep her alive if she has use to them.”
I wince. “Thanks for softening the blow.”
He glances back at me and then grimaces. “Sorry. The truth is always best, even if it stings. False expectations only lead to dashed hopes.”
Well, he’s got a point there. I go back to ogling his butt (because really, it’s a nice one) and nearly run into his back when he stops abruptly.
“Caiman,” he tells me. “Don’t move.”
Caiman? I squeak and hide behind him, since he’s the one with the knife. “Like a crocodile caiman?”
“Two different things,” he says in a calm, low voice, eyes scanning the distance. “Just stay still.”