Mishelle Carter woke up from a semi-drugged state, instantly. That ability was a hard-earned blessing from nights partying and day-afters filled with every perceived danger known to man and womankind.

She took stock. Hot and sweaty, check. Not unusual. She was in Panama.

Her arm being bowlined to an unfamiliar bedpost was pretty strange, though.

She shook it just for good measure.

Yeah, that hurt.

Opening up her senses a little, she realized she couldn’t have been out long. Her bursting bladder was a sure sign it’d been about half an hour at the most. Cheap beer from backyard bars were known for a quick buzz and a long pee. Whatever her bladder indicated, it’d been long enough for someone to deposit her on this lumpy mattress. And from the sounds of things, to take her to the extreme outskirts of what the locals called a town.

She lifted her foot, pushing aside the mosquito net around the bed and looked out of the open veranda door on the other side of the room. The ocean crept up on the black sand not too far away.

Shellie had been in bad spots before, but this was really bad.

The door creaked open and she immediately went slack.

A half a second later a familiar deep voice broke the silence.

“I know you’re awake.”

Giving up the element of the obvious, she opened her eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Pick-Up Man,” she said immediately recognizing the guy who’d sat next to her at the bar earlier. “If you’re trying to harvest my organs, you should’ve come after them before I found out about mezcal.”

The man sat on the side of the bed. Shellie tensed her stomach muscles to stop from rolling right onto his lap.

“I’m Aaron. I need your help.”

“And I needed to be on my flight back home. Looks like we’re both outta luck.”

“Just a few hours of your time this afternoon and I’ll give you back your passport and get you on the first plane out of here.”

“You stole my passport?” She lunged at him, but he remained rigidly still and didn’t even so much as blink. She leaned back in angry resignation. “You don’t look like the type to mistake me for a hooker, so what’s all this about?”

A shadow crossed over his handsome features. And he was handsome, Shellie realized, reluctantly. Large, deep-set dark brown eyes regarded her steadily and lips that looked like they were made for kissing pressed into a firm line.

Well, she wouldn’t be kissing those bad boys, she chided herself, as his words reached her ears.

“Roberto Varela is having a party and -”

“Nope.” She said. “Not going anywhere near that dude.”

“I’m not sure you have much of a choice.” He tried to sound threatening, but to her, he seemed more Terminator 3 than Terminator 1.

“I’ve been in this town exactly 22 days and that guy was the only one we had to bribe to use this little speck of beach as a filming location.”

“Get me into the party. That’s all.”

“Famous last words,” she muttered. “Listen, he’s a bad dude. No go.”

Aaron leaned his big body down and looked her straight in the eye. He was so close, she almost felt the sweep of his long, thick eyelashes brushing against her soul.

“I will keep you safe.”

Now those quiet words did more than brush her soul. They touched her in a place that was still very raw.

“Promises.” She tried to scoff, but the word came out broken.

“Truth.”

That ring of honesty woke her up like she’d been dropped in the Anacostia River during a Nor’easter.

“Listen you drugger, kidnapper, extortionist, you let me the fuck up out this house and I promise not to shoot you when the time comes.”

So what if shooting people wasn’t really her thing. She doubted he knew that.

“Aaron,”’ a tall man barked from the doorway.

Her captor pulled his eyes away from Shellie and looked over his shoulder.

“It’s time.”

Without another word, Aaron squatted down and reached under the bed before standing up like the good soldier he undoubtedly used to be. Shellie kept her eyes trained on him and his efficient, yet fluid movements, mentally preparing for whatever was about to happen.

He dumped the contents of a knapsack on the bed. Her passport. A stack of bills that would not only get her back home, but living in the lap of luxury for a while. And a gun.

He raised his coco eyes to hers in silent question.

Really, what needed to be said at this point?

“I’m going to need to pee first.”

Twenty minutes later, Shellie slammed closed the door of an open-air Jeep and tapped out the entire beat to Nas’s Hate Me Now while Aaron meandered over from his side of the car. She knew what he was doing. Scoping the place out all casual-like. But Shellie doubted he needed the subterfuge. He could’ve gaped at the hacienda like it was Barack Obama’s Martha’s Vineyard home and it wouldn’t have been unusual. The house was beautiful, the land around it was beautiful, even the jovial party goers that milled about, drinking wine and seco in intricately decorated glasses were beautiful. It was easy to stare.

Shellie didn’t need the beauty. She wanted out of the country and all of the mistakes she’d fallen into over the past two years. She wanted home. Whatever that was at this point.

Looking around, it wasn’t the beauty that made her stare. It was something else entirely.

“All these people look….”

“European?” Aaron offered, gruffly, gripping her waist with a strong, warm hand that said she wasn’t going anywhere. “His brother is in town.”

She jumped a little from the shock of being touched and being touched in such a familiar way by a complete stranger and blackmailer.

She stiffened and was about to step away when Roberto Carlos Varela stopped in front of them.

“Ah, if it’s not the beautiful Mishelle Carter.” He smiled at her with teeth and swarminess. “I was surprised when I got your text today. I didn’t think you’d want to party with me after the last time we spoke.”

“Oh, you mean the last time you-“

“Mr. Varela, I’m Aaron Moyers.” The toy soldier at her left spoke up and bowed solicitously before eagerly offering Rodrigo his hand. “Thank you for the opportunity to meet.”

Shellie almost barfed from Aaron’s newly affected fanboy tone.

“So you are the new D’Andre Dare?”  Rodrigo looked intrigued. “Senorita Shellie here helped the last boyfriend become, how do they say? An intranet sensation. And she is doing the same for you, yes? And all in my little town. Very good.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to speaking with you some time this evening.”

Mr. Smooth Move nodded.

Yet another shock ran through Shellie. What the fuck? She looked over at Aaron while Rodrigo made a too polite exit to schmooze some other guests.

“What is happening right now?” Why didn’t she have a gun or a knife or reliable internet connection? She could really do some damage. “You told him you were my boyfriend? You told him –”

Aaron Moyers leaned down in the middle of her rant, cupped her face and put his not-to-be-kissed lips to her still moving ones. The outside world stopped. No more guests. No more music. No more anything. Inside, though, everything shook. His kiss rooted itself in her lower belly and spread fire through every cell and every atom of her existence.

He nibbled on her lips until she opened them fully and then slipped his tongue into her mouth in a way that it hadn’t been invaded in over a year. Just when she let out a sigh that she hadn’t known she’d been keeping and leaned into him, he pulled back. Rough, callous hands still on her face, he looked down at her with a calculating intensity that didn’t sync with the riot that was going on inside of her.

“Thank you for the introduction.” He said, his voice back to angry boy gravel. “Take the Jeep and go. Your passport and the money are in the glove compartment.”

-The End-