I’m terrified he’ll abandon me now, and I love him so much.

Daniel

MENDOZA LOOKS AS SCARED AS any man can be when confronted by the terror that is a crying woman. He books it out of there like God himself is about to loose a lightning bolt on us. Me? I’ll take Regan snarky or sobbing. At least I have her. We’re both alive. My sister is safe, and we’re going home.

“I have to tell you,” I confess in low tones, trying to make her laugh. “I get the most inappropriate boners when you’re crying. I don’t really know what that’s all about, but I’m going with it.”

I’m guessing this is stress relief. Chicks cry for no reason at all. At age twelve I made my mom a janky homemade Valentine’s Day card that I threw together between my morning masturbation session and breakfast. She sobbed all over me when I gave it to her, and I had to pat her back awkwardly until my dad rescued me. He took me out to the barn and tried to explain a little about women. Or at least my mom.

“Be happy she’s crying,” he said. “That’s when you know they still feel something for you. The time when they look at you with dry eyes is when you’ve lost them.”

When her crying continues unabated, I pull her onto my lap and try to kiss the tears. I wasn’t lying about the hard-on. It sprung up almost immediately when her ass landed on my thighs. Maybe it was the proximity of her pussy to my dick. Or maybe it was because I was a dirty sonofabitch. Could be both.

I shifted her back a little so she didn’t feel the press of my erection against her ass while she sobbed. Then I hugged her to me, marveling that we’d made it. When her hiccups signal the end of the storm, I tip her head back and cover her mouth with my own, giving her the comfort that I don’t know how to put into words. After a half-hearted attempt to kiss me back, Regan wrenches her mouth away from me.

“I have to tell you something,” she whispers.

“Shoot, baby doll, can’t imagine you telling me anything that is more important than us kissing.” I joke, but a thread of fear winds its way up my spine because something is really bothering Regan.

“I don’t want us to be separated.” She scoots higher up on my lap until her ass crack is cradling my semi-hard. On contact it grows harder, but she pays it no attention which has me all sad and worried.

“We’re not going to be,” I assure her. “My cock would fall off if I had to spend more than a few hours away from you, so trust me, I’m sticking to you closer than flies on shit.”

At her crestfallen expression, I tamp down my urge to roll off one awful joke after another in hopes that one of them hits her funny bone. “Sugar tits, nothing you can say is going to upset me unless it’s that you’re leaving me—which I’d ignore and follow you around like a stray dog you fed once that expects you’ll feed it again.”

“Sugar tits?” She rears back and offense is written all over her face.

Finally a non-teary response. “I was trying for that’s not good instead of slap your face insulting. How’d I do?”

“Yeah, don’t ever call me sugar tits again.” And for a moment I think we’re on our way to happy town, but then her face crumples again.

Impatiently, I jostle her on my legs. “Regan, let’s go find Naomi and get the hell out of here. I’m ready to eat some barbecue and drink some Shiner Bock. You think they have Shiner Bock up there in Minneapolis? Because if they don’t, then you’re going to have to hold me while I cry.”

At the mention of Naomi’s name, the tears start up again and that thread of fear I felt before has transformed into a heavy cloak of dread. “Naomi’s okay, right?”

“I didn’t see what happened,” she sobs. “I was so worried about you, and the next thing I know both Naomi and that asshole Petrovich are gone. Mendoza says he looked everywhere, but between the gunfight outside the gate and then you at death’s doorstep and them crucifying Hudson, I lost track.” Her noisy sobs make some of her words kind of hard to understand, and for a moment I’m distracted by the sheer amount of salt water she’s leaking out of her body. She’s going to be dehydrated before long. Then her words sink in. That dirty fucking freak show has my sister. With a roar, I yell for Mendoza. I stand up but Regan still clings to me, so I swing her into my arms and stride for the door.

Mendoza meets me at the entrance of the sick room but won’t step in any farther.

“Sorry,” he raises his hands. “I suck with crying women. Pretty good at killing people and striking fear into the hearts of many. Not so good with the comforting thing.”

“Shit, man, where’s my sister?” I snap.

He shakes his head. “No idea. Like your girl said, it was chaotic, and I was more interested in killing Hudson’s men and capturing him than I was making sure that the Russian didn’t run off with your sister.”

With a snap of his fingers he calls the attention of a young kid draped in a crisscrossed ammunition belt. I roll my eyes, and Mendoza shrugs. “Kids,” he says. “What can you do?” The kid hands him a tray of food which Mendoza brings into the room. “Eat. I’ve got a cargo plane that will take you to Costa Rica. From there you should be able to get home. You got your papers?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“Sorry about your sister.” At the doorway, he pauses and says with not a little longing in his voice, “You got a good one. Hold her tight.”

So the king wants a queen to keep him company in bed. Interesting. I don’t give any more thought to Mendoza’s lack of romantic prospects because I’ve got other concerns to worry about. On the tray there’s a pitcher of water along with two bowls of hearty gumbo and a few cheese rolls. Regan is silent through this whole exchange, and her tears have tapered off.

Setting her on the bed, I pull the table in front of her.

“Pão de queijo.” I offer her a roll. “They’re cheese and bread. Trust me, this is one of the best things that has ever been made. Like Cristo Redentor himself must have delivered the recipe to the original settlers of Rio.”

She gives me a sad, watery smile and takes the cheese roll. Because these rolls are so damn good, even tragic Regan can’t stop her moan of pleasure. “Right?” I say, eating half of my own roll. “Crispy crust on the outside and fucking heavenly delight on the inside.” I wait until she’s swallowed down one whole roll before I hand her a glass of water. “Fighter, we are in this together. It’s not your fault that Vasily ran off with my sister. Plus, I know where he lives. Like, literally. So we’re going to eat up and then head off to Costa Rica.”

“I want to come with you,” she says, mouth halfway around another pão de queijo.

“Sure.” I lean over and give her a quick kiss. “I wouldn’t want to go back to Minneapolis and mess with payroll systems either.”

This finally gets a tiny grunt of a laugh from her. “You’re really not upset with me?”

“Christ, no.” I set down my food and stare at her in surprise. “Is that what the torrent of tears was all about? That I’d be mad because of Naomi?” She gives me a small nod. “Look, Naomi was not your responsibility. If anything, it’s on me because I got myself shot. Vasily’s not going to hurt her.” I hope not at least. My initial fear was that Naomi had gotten separated and was out wandering the streets of Rio, which would not be good. She’s not good with new places, bright lights, disorder, or crowds—which is kind of what Rio is.

“I feel terrible and thought you’d be done with me.”

Setting down the bowl of gumbo, I cup Regan’s face with one hand and push the table away with the other. “I’m not ever going to be done with you, fighter. What’d I tell you before? You’re going to have to kill me first before you can scrape me off.” I stop and then say, “It sounded a lot less creepy in my head.”

Laughing, she draws one finger along the ridge of my prominent erection. Thin linen pants do very little to hide what’s going on, particularly when I’m free balling it. “Your creepy thoughts make me feel safe.” Her voice takes on a teasing quality, and a damp spot appears close to the tip of her finger.