Trust Fall

before grazing across the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
With her hair tickling his ears and her chest caressing his, he pushed her skirt down to her thighs and tugged on the material, drawing her hips nearer.
She daintily suckled at the side of his neck, her lips drawing out his skin each time they let go.
Ashford’s fingers found a metal tab on the side of her skirt. He ran the zipper upward, and the black apparel fell away from her legs, adorning his stomach like a pro wrestler’s championship belt. He finessed the leather out from between their bodies and tossed the flat piece. Well, that makes things easier.
“Just as I know...” Devlin’s mouth skimmed over his, as she righted her head and brought the bedcovers up around her and her mate.
His fingers touching smooth skin above the lace band on her thigh-high stockings, he ogled her devilish grin. She’s so sexy.
“...you like it,” stretching out her long legs, she unfolded her body and pressed her boots against his outer calves, letting him support her while her hands disappeared underneath the covers, “when I...”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.

Chapter 5
The American
10:33 p.m. (local time)
villa mainero, Mexico
162 miles southwest of
brownsville, texas
While the people of Mexico may have done away with most traditional, smoke-filled cantinas, several holdouts still dotted the country’s landscape. Simple in appearance—aging staff, rickety stools pushed up to boot-scarred bars; small tables and chairs in dark corners—the rustic watering hole’s heyday of the 1940s and 50s had passed.
In the western half of the municipality of Mainero, however, stood one last cantina, a reminder for those who have ever watched old Mexican films or Westerns featuring heroes and bandits—revolvers strapped to their legs—downing shots of tequila, as mariachi bands played in the background.
Sitting alone in a back corner, dressed in khaki pants, a light-colored, short-sleeved shirt, and brown hiking boots, the white American male nursed a shot glass of clear liquid. Spinning the vessel between his fingers, he looked at the scene from behind black sunglasses.
He was out of place. Not so much because his skin color conflicted with the throng of dark-skinned men nearby. He stuck out, because even his simple clothing contrasted with the torn and dirty garments customers around him were wearing.
He scratched his chin and the two-week-old facial hair, which, for a man like him—blessed with dark, fast-growing hair—covered his face and neck. His eyes shifted toward the bar’s opening door, as he felt hot, moist air rushing into the sparsely populated space.
Two boisterous Mexican Nationals swaggered into the cantina and headed straight for the bar. They stopped to roughhouse with an old man who ended up spilling his drink on his pants. Laughing, they shoved the old-timer back and forth a few times until someone else caught their attention.
Wearing a short skirt and an off-the-shoulder top, one arm carrying a tray of glasses, a beautiful twenty-something woman emerged from behind the bar.
Book ending the woman, the ruffians made sexual advances, groping her while she attempted to pivot away from their assaults.
The American scanned the establishment; the other patrons studied their beverages, plucked complimentary botanas from bowls, or simply ignored the display. No one noticed. Or no one cared to intervene. He huffed under his breath. This ‘pat the old man’s head and cop a feel’ ritual must play out on a regular basis.
The woman escaped the two thug’s entrapment and served her guests their now half-filled refreshments.
The raucous men put bellies to the bar and beckoned the bartender.
After tipping back the shot glass, American peeled off his sunglasses, laid both items on the table—the bottom-heavy vessel landing with a bang—and rose to his full height, a five-eleven, one-seventy build of lean muscle mass.
Nobody turned his way.
He sauntered toward the bar, toward the hoodlums. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Neither man acknowledged him.
Pursing his lips, he stroked his chin. “Disculpe...caballeros.”
The men turned and leaned against the bar.
Withdrawing a roll of hundred-dollar bills from a pants pocket, American laid one on the counter and ordered two tequilas.
The troublemakers eyed the bankroll and gave each other a look, as the drinks were poured.
After pocketing his cash, American gently knifed his arms between the men, “Perdoneme,” and retrieved the shot glasses, one in each hand. Retreating, he eyed each man and lifted the tequilas a little higher. “Por favor, permitame que le compre una bebida—Please allow me to buy you a drink.”
The men reached for their reward.
American tossed the liquid in their faces, gripped the hard glasses tighter, and delivered a quick punch to each man’s face.
The men reeled backward, throwing out arms to steady themselves against the waist-high counter.
American threw several lefts and rights, breaking the hoodlums’ noses, cutting their cheeks, and bruising their eyes.
One by one, each bully slunk to the floor, listed sideways, and sagged against the stools.
After returning the shot glasses to the bar, American added another ‘Franklin’ to the first one and wiggled two fingers at the bartender. He strolled to his table, flapping hands and flexing fingers. He slipped his sunglasses back on and claimed his seat.
Twenty minutes later, two local police officers entered the cantina and approached the bar’s owner. They observed the two crumpled forms—now beginning to stir—between the stools. Words were exchanged among the officers and the owner.
Patrons joined the meeting. A beat later, they pointed fingers.
All heads turned toward the white American male, sitting alone in the back corner, nursing a shot glass of clear liquid.
The law enforcement officials came toward him, each with a hand on his service weapon.
American stood, the backs of his knees kicking out his chair. “Officers...”
The uniformed men gripped their guns tighter and lowered their stances.
“...you’re,” American puffed out his chest and expelled a rush of air, “right on time.” He stepped out from behind the table. “Let’s do this.”
Pistols cleared holsters.
American went to both knees and interlaced fingers on top of his short hair.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.


Chapter 6
Violating
2 may—7:36 a.m.
alexandria, virginia
Wearing blue jeans, black flats, and a white long-sleeved blouse, Devlin entered the kitchen area while securing her hair in a mid-rise