5 Dias

Take a drive with the Southpaw, Chingón and el Jefé

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Without seeing it, he knows the hand is shattered. Beneath the skin, it's a spiderweb of broken glass.

¡Pinche avispas!

Who knows if that hand will ever again hold a cerveza, a mujer, a fistful of cash.

Right, the money.

Maybe that could fix it. Except he didn't have the money. Not yet.

He remembered watching the brightly lit embers float away at the campsite, carried away by the ocean breeze. Scorching days working the horses and cleaning stables were traded for an afternoon swim, supper and a spot to sleep.

The ranch was hers but not the horses, beautiful and expensive. They were part of a different story, one she rarely mentioned–a gift that came with strings attached.

He caught her looking at him sometimes, her smile warming as she grew fond of his company. And sometimes, a shared bed in her house, long after dark, only when she invited him. Her signal: an open window he could see from his camp. As promised, he'd vanish before dawn, returning to the dying embers of his fire. But he grew accustomed to her scent, her warmth.

That wasn’t part of the plan but it sure as hell was now.

He knew to expect the man, the one with the snakeskin boots–el Jefé.