Once we were in the forest, the temperature spiked. We were all sweating in seconds as the overhanging trees and dense vegetation seemed to hold the heat in. We came across a narrow dirt path and took that for a few minutes, all of us silent, thinking and wary.
The smell of horse shit assaulted my nose, as did a beam of sun that suddenly broke through the trees and illuminated the spot in front of us. There was a clearing with a small paddock and a shanty. Six bony looking horses stood there listlessly swatting flies with their tails.
“Hola?” Javier called out. We waited, hearing a commotion in the shanty and the door flew open. An old Mexican man with long grey hair half tucked up under a baseball cap came out, a book in his hands. He looked as bony as the horses in his care.
Javier spoke rapid fire Spanish to him, too fast for me to pick up. From what I gathered this was to be our transportation for a while. I eyed the horses nervously. I personally loved horses and had always been comfortable on one, but heading through the Mexican jungle in who the fuck knows where with a cartel was something different.
Finally the man nodded and clapped his hands together enthusiastically before heading back to his shanty.
Javier jerked a thumb in his direction. “That’s Burt Reynolds.”
“Burt Reynolds?”
He shrugged gracefully. “That’s what he calls himself. Doesn’t speak English, so don’t bother trying. He’s taking us to Montepio. Only way in or out of here is by horseback.”
“Or boat,” I mused and watched as Burt Reynolds came back out of the shanty with a bunch of bridles and packs. He moved spritely for an old, withered-looking man and in no time the horses were ready. He gestured for us to come over and started yammering in Spanish to me about a small buckskin mare.
“Her name is Churro,” Javier leaned in to me. “Try not to eat her.”
I grimaced at his bad joke and introduced myself to the horse by letting her smell my hand. She was entirely disinterested.
There was no saddle, just straps and packs wrapped around the withers and chest, where my duffel bag was now secured.
“If I’d known I’d be getting on a horse today, I would have worn jeans,” I said under my breath.
Burt Reynolds came over to me, giving me the signal for a leg up, complete with a toothy grin. I shook my head, having no interest in giving the man a peep show, no matter how badly he looked like he needed it.
Suddenly Javier’s hands were around my waist, his long fingers nearly meeting in the middle. “Here, I’ll help you.” Before I could protest he was lifting me up somehow, my legs akimbo. I pulled up the hem of my dress just in time, grateful that it was wide and flowing and stretched across the back of the horse.
Burt was on the other side of the horse, trying to help me settle in and he started squawking about something. The word “tattoo.” Javier’s head looked up sharply, his eyes flaring, mine going straight to the leg on Burt’s side. The skirt was hiked up to my knee exposing my cherry blossoms, so bright and daring in the tropical sunlight.
Javier zipped over and looked at my leg. It seemed that Burt was quite pleased with the tattoo, but Javier wasn’t.
He ran his finger down one of my scars, following a twisting stem. “What is this?”
“A tattoo, obviously. Even Burt knew what it was.” I wish I could say I felt some kind of relief in Javier finally seeing it but I didn’t. I felt nervous and I didn’t know why.
“When did you do this? It’s still raised!” His voice was hoarse. He kept looking at the tattoo, feeling it.
“When I was in Vegas. Camden did it,” I told him. My eyes shot to Burt to see what he was making of all of this. He was watching the both of us, smile locked, until he met my eyes. Then he went off to busy himself with Raul and Peter who were bringing their horses over to the fence post in order to mount them.
Javier didn’t seem to be able to take in that information. He looked confused, lost, off-guard. This was so rare to see and yet I felt no pride in making him that way. I just wanted to forget about it.
“Why did you do this?” he asked, swallowing hard. “Your leg was fine before.”
“It wasn’t,” I said, feeling irritated now. “And now I’m proud of it.”
“This is the first I’ve seen it. Why aren’t you wearing shorts now, instead of jeans when it’s a hundred degrees outside?”
I hated that question – I’d dealt with it my whole life. I gathered the reins in my hands and lightly clucked to Churro, Javier being pushed out of the way by the horse’s shoulder. “I think we have more important things to discuss than a damn tattoo.”
Javier reached up and grabbed the reins, yanking the horse’s head back.
Burt Reynolds cried out, admonishing him but Javier didn’t care. He glared at me until I could feel the heat, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the leather.
“You let that boy mark you?” he sneered.
Oh, of course this was a jealousy thing.