Ahead, Mendoza’s squatting at the base of a tree, examining something. I move to his side. “What is it?”
He looks up at me and scowls. “I thought I told you to stay put?”
“I thought I told you to whip your dick out earlier? Seems like neither of us is good at listening, huh?”
Rafe gives me another black look and then wipes mud off something that looks like my purse, except there’s a piece of tape on the bottom. I hug my chest, the sodden jacket sticking to my skin. My wrist hurts but I ignore it. “Should I point out the obvious? That looks like my purse.”
“Except for this part right here, yes,” he says, indicating the tape on the bottom. “The idea was to switch it with your bag and steal the information.”
I stare at the back of his head. “That is an incredibly dick move. My best friend’s life is at stake—”
“Hers isn’t the only one,” Rafe says abruptly. He shoves his stick at another bag, this one made out of black nylon—the kind you find in stores that involve the outdoors. I only know this because Rose did a shoot with Tumi once and the on-set manufacturer’s rep showed her how indestructible it was. He picks it up and starts rifling through it, completely ignoring me.
“So it’s my fucking friend for yours?” I bellow at him. When he doesn’t look back at me, I swat his ass with the end of my walking stick. “That is bullshit!”
He stands up now, eyes narrowed. “I’m not working with a lot of choices right now, Ava. I have to do what’s best for my men.”
“What about what’s best for me? Did you ever stop to think that if you stole that information, you’re totally screwing me over?”
“You weren’t part of the equation . . . before.” His voice drops.
“And now?” I choke out.
His gaze flicks to my mouth, and I know Mendoza’s thinking about our kiss earlier. About his hand sliding between my legs and getting me off. About his big cock grinding between my legs as he came.
My breath pants in quick, shallow gasps, and now I’m thinking of it, too, even though I’m enraged.
“Now things are . . . different,” he says, and turns away. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
For some reason, that softens my anger. I never wanted to be a mule, myself, but circumstances forced me to. Maybe he doesn’t want to dick me over, either. “Fair enough,” I say shakily. “We can argue about the bags when we get rescued.”
He looks back and flashes a grateful grin in my direction. “Deal.”
That grin makes me weak in the knees all over again. I feel like a stupid, giggly teenager that just got told by a cute boy that he likes her. Ugh. What is wrong with me?
A lot, my brain chimes in. Hot guy that hits all your buttons + big dick + virgin + Stockholm syndrome = Ava fascination. Right. Thanks, brain. Thanks for nothing. Maybe Rose isn’t the only one that has poor taste in men.
“Is that your bag?” I say after a moment. He nods. “So we’re going to be okay, right, it has everything we need to survive?”
“It did,” he agrees flatly. He flicks it open a moment later and displays the empty contents. “Someone got here before us.”
I stiffen, glancing around in the jungle. “Someone else is here with us?”
“Someone else survived, yes. And since Afonso was the last one near the bag, odds are it’s him. Or it could be anyone else. Or it could have been raided by natives.”
“Natives?” I ask. “There are natives living here in the jungle?” It seems like the most miserable place on Earth to me. Why anyone would want to live here in the bugs and the mud, I have no clue.
“Yes, and not all of them are friendly.”
“Well, shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Rafe stuffs his sleeve bag into the nylon sack and starts walking. “Which means we should keep moving.”
? ? ?
That afternoon, there’s a complete and utter downpour that saps my will to live. The jungle’s pretty shitty on a regular basis, but throw in a skin-drenching soaker and I’m ready to hang up my towel and call it a day. My wrist aches even more than before. The layers of clothing I wear aren’t staying dry, and they stick to my wet skin and make me prune up. Even the mud can’t stick to my skin, and after an hour or two of the constant downpour, I’m clean and fresh as a daisy. I’m also miserable as hell, and my teeth chatter despite the humidity.
I’m hungry, but we’re filling up on rainwater at least. Our bottle fills over and over again due to the drenching rainfall, and so we’re not thirsty. There are no bugs, which is a small blessing. Very small.
But by the time the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, the rain hasn’t let up a bit. I might be sniveling quietly out of sheer misery, but I’m still moving because Mendoza keeps powering through the jungle like a one-man crusade. If he’s tired, cold, hungry, or scared like me, he’s not showing it.
One of my flimsy shoes squelches in the mud and gets sucked off my foot. I stagger backward and move to retrieve it. As I do, Mendoza doesn’t stop. He just keeps plowing forward.