“Geez. You need to work on your pillow talk, babe.” There’s a shine to his mouth that I can’t resist rubbing off with my thumb. And then I taste it, just to see his eyes flare.
Because I’m a flirt like that.
I turn around and Bennito leans in the doorway, eating a bag of some of the chips I bought for Rafe. “You two gonna suck face all afternoon or we gonna get this show on the road?”
I draw in a breath and manage a smile for both of them. “I guess we might as well do this.” I wish I sounded more confident. Hell, I wish I was more confident. The gloves are loose fitting, thank goodness, and don’t hurt at all.
“I’ll be right outside, Ava,” Rafe says in a low, urgent voice when I head for the door. “If you get into trouble, just shout my name.”
I nod and slip out the back door of the bungalow. I take the long route around, back to the main lodge, and from there, I go to the cleaning supplies room that we bribed someone to show us. I have the key (more bribery) and get one of the carts and push it down the walkway toward the bungalows. My breath feels short and raspy, and I’m about ten seconds away from a panic attack. I should be thinking about what to say when they answer the door, but all I can think about is Rafe’s mouth. Rafe’s kisses.
Rafe saying, Let’s just get through today.
Because I know that’s a total bullshit answer. That’s a don’t ask me for commitment right now, baby statement, and it’s freaking me out. I feel like yesterday, the answer would have been different, and it hurts. I know he’s aching over Garcia’s death, but how can he blow me off right now? Was what I asked for—hope for the future between us—such a bad thing?
Am I such a bad person that I’m good for a fuck and nothing else?
Even though I’m worrying and turning over Rafe’s words in my mind, the moment I pull in front of Duval’s little bungalow, I see Rose in the window, wearing a bikini. And I remember why I’m here. Why I crashed through the Amazon and have fought so damn hard to survive despite everything against me.
I’m going to save my best friend.
So I put on my old lady reading glasses and roll my cart forward and knock on the door.
“?Quién es?” Someone calls through the door. Who’s there?
Oh fuck. My mind goes blank and I scramble through a bunch of high school Spanish, looking for the right word for “housekeeping.” I eventually settle upon “?Limpieza?” and I have no idea if it’s right or not.
My tremulous question must have seemed innocent enough, because the door opens, and there’s Duval with a phone at his ear. He nods at me to come in, and then stalks away. Over his shoulder, he calls something at me in Spanish and I catch the word cocina. Kitchen. Right. I nod and wheel my cart toward the small kitchen at the back of the bungalow. My heart’s hammering a mile a minute, but I get out sponges and towels like this is no big deal.
As I walk into the kitchen, Fouquet saunters away with a sandwich, dripping crumbs on the floor. He doesn’t even look in my direction. I’m truly invisible, which is almost hilarious. Too bad my heart’s beating way too fast for me to appreciate this.
The kitchen’s an absolute fucking disaster. I should have guessed, since Rose is my roomie back home and she’s a major slob. There’s a blender on the counter and it’s coated with the remnants of mixed drinks. Dishes are piled high in the sink, and there’s spilled crap all over the counters, along with empty tumblers, napkins, and bottles and bottles of liquor. It’s like they’ve been partying.
The sight of it fills me with helpless rage. While Rafe and I were trying to survive, they were sitting in this cozy bungalow, eating tons of food and mixed drinks and plotting how to take us out? Dicks. I worry about Rose. Is she going along with things because that will keep them from hurting her? It’s possible, but I eye the blender, an inch of what looks like strawberry daiquiri at the bottom. That’s her favorite mixed drink.
Surely she’s not partying with these assholes. Not while I’m being forced to mule to save her life? Not while I’ve been shot at, had my wrist sprained, been downed in a plane, harassed, slapped around, and kidnapped by the other team?
No, she had to be playing it cool. My friend wouldn’t do that to me. She wouldn’t.