Without turning around to look at Merri, I carry the water into the hall, outside the laundry room, where I've got the Mach all patched up and ready to go. It took me a little under an hour to cover the two holes in the rear tire with the stuff in the patch kit I keep inside my bag. It’s not 100 percent trustworthy, but it should hold. I've got our passports tucked into the small, flat zip pouch I've got strapped under my shirt. Merri’s carrying my bike bag, and I guess I'll have to turn around and grab that from her.
I ignore the stench coming under the door of the laundry room and turn around and point myself toward Merri. My legs close the distance between us with long, greedy strides, as my mind counts down our time together.
From where we are, just outside Camargo, we can probably make it to Ciudad Juarez in five hours, give or take, if I drive like lightning.
There, she will find out who I am. If she doesn't get a glance at my passport, she'll notice the name on hers: Meredith Carlson.
Maybe I shouldn't have used Carlson for her surname, but my father is the patron saint of drug control in California, and this means he’s funded a lot of upgrades for border patrol and scheduled a bunch of campaign stumps along the border, which means most of them know his name. After my last Mexican adventure, a lot of people know me, too: Cross Carlson, black sheep. If we run into trouble, I'm going to juice my name for all it's worth.
Merri is leaning against the counter with my big, heavy bag slung over her shoulder. I've got a great view of her profile: small, straight nose; smooth lips that always look pink and are maybe a size too big for her face (I think this is one of the reasons I'm always wanting to kiss her); full, squeezable cheeks; slightly pointy chin; soft, elegant throat. My gaze races down her body and I jerk it up before her eyes notice mine.
She presses those pink lips into a tight smile. “Ready?”
“Yep.” I take the bag from her and sling it over my back, walking in front of her so my wandering eyes don't get me into trouble.
From behind me, she says, “Evan.”
“Yeah?” I look over my shoulder to find her frowning deeply.
“Do you know...if I'm wanted by anyone in Georgia? The stuff I said my ex, Sean, might have tried to blame on me?” She catches her lower lip between her flawless, white teeth, and I want to punch the bastard in the nose.
“No, you're not. You're not wanted for anything. I ran your name before I left.”
She nods. “Okay. Cool.” But her lighthearted tone of voice doesn't go with her body language. She looks weighed down. Nervous.
I wonder if she feels fucked with, because of what happened last night. I wish I'd had more self-control.
Or less...
Heat washes over me, just the thought of last night making me hard again. I look from the bike to her. “Let's get out of here.”
She nods.
I strap the bag to the back of the bike and take the black and grey helmet off the seat. “Here. This is yours, remember?” She takes it from me and cradles it to her chest, giving me a sad look.
“What?”
“I just...kind of think you need it more than me.”
Because of my neck. I shake my head. “It's yours.”
“Thank you, Evan.”
After strapping the thing onto her head, Merri pushes the visor up and presses her back to the wall, getting in front of me and the bike. She opens a little metal flap on the wall where the door is and says, “Did you notice this? The camera?”
“Nah, I just chanced it.”
“Well, there's nobody out there that I can see.” She pauses for a second while she takes in a few different views on the screen below the metal flap, then looks back at me. “I'm going to press this button and make the door open. You push the bike out and I'll press it again so it closes, then hurry out and get on behind you. I don't want to linger.”
“Me either.”
“After we get going, we’re going to take back roads for a little while and then get on a main road. I forgot the name of it but I’ll know it when I see it. Just pay attention when I tap you and we should be okay.”
When she presses a button on the wall, I've got my left arm in its support and I'm pushing the Mach awkwardly, the way I always do now. I high-tail it outside, where the dusty ground is mud and the sky is a sheet of melancholy gray.
I start the bike up, then get on, nearly falling over as I do; with my arm already in its strap, I'm not very mobile. But I manage, somehow, and then Merri climbs on behind me. She calls over the hum of the motor which direction to veer in. I nod.