I don’t flirt well in fact, I’ve trained myself to be an anti-flirter. Pretending to be drunk and flirting with the girls who immediately hit on me was much, much harder. Walking into the New Mexico bar had been natural, like a soldier in hostile territory. The best was the vintage Harley shovelhead motorcycle that had been confiscated from a Spawn member in New York.
The worst was the itchy blue contacts to hide my violet eyes. We even thought about a tattoo, but my skin won’t take them anymore, and a fake one might be too much of a giveaway. My hair and beard were grown out, my jeans, tee, and leather jacket artfully weathered and worn. A lot of prep work had gone into getting me here. Heavy sisal rope bound my hands and feet, digging into my skin, the fibers needling the insides of my wrists. The bed of the beat-up old truck was full of filth to choose from. The blood on my cheek was drying and becoming sticky, so I carefully moved my head to rub some dirt and rust into it.
I also heard the individual engines of the six motorcycles that escorted us, the heartbeats of their riders, and the fact that the pickup needed a valve job. It sounded much different from the Eastern coyotes I was used to.
A single lonely coyote howled in the desert night.
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