As I suspected, he’s not from around here and doesn’t understand the danger he walks around at any given moment.
Probably another Gringo fucking tourist trying to get lucky with local pussy. They love to go back and brag to their friends about how many of us they managed to fuck.
And as I peer a little closer at him, I guess that he’s around Tati’s age.
“Frank,” he says, holding a hand out toward me. I look down for a moment, taking in the curves of his fingers, the lines that were clearly created by being a motherfucker like me, and the myriad of tattoos that try to hide his secrets. A habit that has served me well in the past, regardless of how odd people treat me afterward.
“Sofi,” I finally reply, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.
“And what brings you to a place like this?” he asks as he leans back and rests his elbows on the bar top.
“Same thing as you, I would imagine,” I retort with an eye roll.
“I figured, but I didn’t want to assume,” he states with a chuckle.
I shrug.
Nothing this Gringo has to say to me will take me out of the mood I was in when I walked in here. I’m much too busy looking for a meal to enjoy, and I won’t leave until I find one.
I go back to sipping my beer and looking at the women so desperate for a man’s attention that when he nudges me with his elbow, I jump slightly.
“What about that one?” he asks me, nodding in the direction of a petite young woman riddled with more tattoos than I have.
Her hair is neatly pulled back into two small topknots. The red on her lips make the plumpness of them stand out, and the way she sways her hips when she walks tells me she’d be willing to sell herself to anyone in the room.
“What about her?” I inquire after I tear my eyes away from her.
“Looks like she could be a wild fuck,” he remarks as a grin begins to spread over his lips.
I take a deep breath and look at my new, unwelcome friend from head to toe.
His black hair is cut shaggily, the light blue pools of ice blue that he’s returning my curious look through are wide. They betray the innocence he’s attempting to portray because I can see the demons swimming in them. The pale complexion of his skin, marred by so many bright, elaborate designs … this man doesn’t belong in Navolato. Hell, I don’t think he even belongs on this fucking planet.
He’s playing with monsters that are much too strong for him to withstand, as evident by the way he keeps rubbing the bridge of his nose, and that tells me one thing.
He’d make one hell of a customer for Papa or maybe even a runner.
Or…
“So, have her,” I say to him as I suck my teeth. I reach into my bra and pull out a wad of bills. Licking my thumb, I count out one hundred pesos and toss it on the bar top next to his elbow.
With a laugh, he takes the money and gets to his feet, “I have a better idea. And I’ll get us a better price. Wait here.”
Us?
I blanch at his choice of words.
What the fuck does he mean us?
I haven’t known him for more than ten minutes, have done my best to get rid of him by giving him the money to purchase the girl he has his eyes on, and he thinks that there will be more?
I take another swig of my beer. Turning in my stool, I place the empty bottle down, waving the bartender over.
“Want another?” he asks me, and I shake my head.
I place twenty pesos on the bar top and roll my neck on my shoulders. “Stay here. Watch that Gringo and tell me every move he makes,” I tell him in a low, threatening tone.
He nods because he’s afraid of me like most men are, though sometimes I think it’s more that they’re scared of what Papa can have done to them instead.
The shock for these penedejos usually comes when they realize that I’m El Señor’s best kept and deadliest secret outside of the narco-traffickers world.
I lower my eyes to my hands and begin to pick at my nail bed. It’s a nervous tick I’ve always had since childhood. It’s not that the Gringo makes me nervous; it's more wondering what Papa would think of