“I can understand that. But why pick such a profession? Isn’t that kind of like ‘out of the fire, into the frying pan’?”
“Yes and no. My asshole dad who’d pressed me to be a lawyer had started asking me to work for the Avilars. I kept resisting, but he kept threatening me with vague scenarios, what might occur to me if I didn’t help them launder money. So when I ran, I decided to work for his rivals, the Joneses. Rebelling against your father, don’t you know. I went down to Nogales, got the lay of the land, educated myself about their doings. I ran a few Avilars off the road and…did away with them in the desert. Then I emailed Jones the coordinates of where to find their truck of tomato cans packed in with pounds of coke.”
“Sounds like your interview went well.”
“Yes.” I lifted some strands of hair from her eyes. “But you know what, Pippa? I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m getting out of the narco biz. It’s true, Jones ordered me to hit you. But once I heard your story, there was no way I could bring myself to. Just no way. I wanted to hang around you, to get to know more of your story, because people can’t dislike anyone whose story they know.”
“Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness.” She was reading my back. “That’s you, all right, Fox. What will you do if you stop being a sicario?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. The director at the raptor rescue said his assistant was moving to Peru or some such shit. Was thinking of applying.” The idea of “applying” for a new job was so foreign to me. I hadn’t applied for anything since I’d worked at a Harley dealership in law school.
Pippa uttered the question that was really at the bottom of it all. “And how will you, uh, quit the Joneses?” Her fingers lay dormant on my shoulder. She’d scooted close so her incredibly soft tits pressed against my back.
I clasped my hands between my knees. “I don’t know yet. I’m still figuring that one out.” I sighed deeply. “Would you like to take a nap?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PIPPA
I was on top of a ladder when Tracy started asking me about sex.
I was painting the ceiling of the lobby of Smoky Mountain High. Tracy and Maddie were painting the walls, at least above the fake wood paneling we’d decided to keep. Since the motel had been built in 1953 we decided to maintain that midcentury retro feel, even though Fox was oddly against it. “I can’t stand that tacky atomic vibe,” he’d said when I had showed off the inn. Why would someone be so strongly against an architectural style? I figured maybe he’d grown up in a midcentury house in New Mexico.
“So have you balled Fox yet?” Tracy asked casually.
“Balled?” said Maddie. “Who says ‘balled’ anymore? Sounds like an old Marvin Gaye song.”
“Well I didn’t want to say ‘fucked’,” said Tracy hotly.
“Why not?” said Maddie. “Call a spade a spade.”
Tracy sighed. “Okay. So have you fucked Fox Isherwood yet?”
It was my turn to sigh. Plus, paint fumes were making me lightheaded. “No, I haven’t. I think we’re savoring everything. Besides, the atmosphere of Lytton’s guest bedroom isn’t too conducive to romance.”
Maddie said, “Wait until you have one of these rooms finished. That’ll be a cause for celebration.”
That was a good idea. Lytton had given us separate rooms in his expansive home, and I sort of liked keeping the mystery for now. I was in love with Fox Isherwood—as I’d decided to call him in my mind, and forget that Travis McShane guy—but of course I hadn’t told him yet. There was plenty of time to get to that if we were going to last as a couple. And more and more, it was looking like we would.
Fox plugging that enforcer who’d been after us sent Ortelio Jones—and me—a clear sign of his intentions. I was just waiting for the blowback from that. Wouldn’t Jones just send another, and another? The next one might not be so patient, and would bury me from a distance so I never knew what hit me.