CHAPTER 24

We drive south through the Mexican state of Sonora along the sea of Cortez.

There's been mostly silence between us, a few uncomfortable stares and some incredible fish tacos with mango salsa from an unassuming stand.

Mozey drank a Negra Modelo, and I'm addicted to what's called Tamarindo.

I don't know what the hell it is, but it tastes both sweet and tart, a little torture mixed with heaven.

The scenery is breathtaking both inside and outside of the car.

He is fidgety.

He is quiet.

He is so fucking hot.

This man lives out of a backpack and back and forth between a couple of pairs of jeans.

He acquires and discards t-shirts, paint-staining them are the hazards of his trade.

I'm in love with smelling him and just sitting this close.

I'll drive him all the way to Tierra del Fuego just to get enough.

Have you ever wanted something so much that you could burst at the seams? The very thought of his kiss from last night makes sweat magically appear on my brow.

I clear my throat like a crazy person—five times in a row.

Sometimes he beats out drum rhythms from whatever he's listening to in his ears.

Once with a pen and once with his fingers.

Whenever his brow creases, he grabs for his art pad and furiously scratches out something.

I am memorizing everything, recording it in case it's ever taken away.

It frazzles me to imagine spreading my legs for him, letting him take all of me.

Letting the fuse burn all the way to the round, black, ticking timebomb.

Mozey between my legs would mean everything.

All I can think about is his cock, the groans he made, his gorgeous and disciplined, wideopened mouth.

He rustles the map that I told him we wouldn't need.

I guess he's old fashioned.

He plots the drive with a pencil like my mother always did on our shitty summer trips to the KOA campground.

He's toked his inhaler twice in a row, taking hits so deep into his lungs I begin to wonder if he catches a buzz.

I shoot him a dirty look over my steering arm.

His shit-eating grin is enormous.

As big as the boner I imagine in his pants.

He bursts the grin, and it pops as he exhales.

He's laughing and shaking the cartridge like a fiend.

"Lana, quit trying so hard to be a grumpy bitch."

"Quit acting like a twelve-year-old.

You already make me feel all kinds of old."

"Do you want to try to make it to Culiacan? I think we could do it—no problem.

I've got some Redbull if you want one."

"How far is it?" I ask, pressing random buttons on the GPS like I'm factoring the driving time and I know what I'm doing.

Mozey shakes his head and laughs at me some more.

"Like fifteen-hundred kilometers, more or less."

"That means nothing to me.

Please, habla English."

"Like seventeen to twenty hours by my guess.

I thought you were supposed to be Russian."

He's chuckling at my expense.

"Twenty hours? Jesus! Do you even drive?"

"Yeah, I can drive.

I'll drive! We'll switch!" We battle back and forth like a couple that's dating, or married, or better yet—on the brink of divorce.

What do I know? We haven't even begun, but we peck and caw at one another like two old crows.

He ends up reclining the seat all the way to nap before we switch off and it's my turn to rest.

I watch the rise and fall of his chest almost as much as I watch the highway, which is empty except for the occasional semi or passenger bus.

I watch how his hand curls as it drapes off the side of the seat.

I watch how the other hand moves occasionally, gliding along the cotton of his t-shirt, palm down and splayed out on his broad chest.

I sigh inside with so much looking at him.

Is it unhealthy to worship someone? Because I think I might be worshiping Moisés as we speak.

I long to know everything about him.

I can see those hands when they were pudgy toddler hands seeking the comfort that we all seek.

I know that his past was a painful one, but he somehow turned out so good-natured and sweet.

I had it easy in comparison, and I'm the one that's ill tempered and chronically moody.

The drawings he created in Tijuana were painful ones.

I need to be strong enough to ask him about those things.

But for now I'll just watch him sleep.

A truck whizzes by and pulls my attention away from him.

Away from the beauty that is Moisés in dreamland.

There hasn't been a sign of civilization for over an hour.

I've only seen a stand offering barbecued goat.

A stand in the middle of nowhere.

Where did they come from, and how far did they bring the goat? I've got to pee so bad my bladder is numb.

I'll have to pull over and make ends meet.

I ease over to the shoulder when the earth dips down rolling away from the highway enough for me to hide and pee.

I start talking to myself as the car rolls to a stop, and I undo the seatbelt.

It's now almost dark outside, and the landscape is fading.

There's only a star-filled sky against darkened earth, with the zipper of the highway stretching righteously up its gigantic backbone.

Mexico still scares the shit out of me.

I shoot Mozey one last look, hoping the lack of motion has pulled him from slumber-land.

His warm, brown eyes are staring right at me, with just a touch of smile beginning to break.

"I love waking up close to you," he says and raises his arms above his head, simultaneously stretching his legs.

I hear his tendons and fascia snap with excitement.

I search my brain for a romantic come back, but I suck at talking about feelings and my bladder is trying to prove equations about distance and water weight.

"I have to pee."

Oh, how romantic, Lana! Make him swoon with your gross bodily needs .

"Okay, let's pee."

I feel like he's always smiling, like somehow he's always amused with whatever I say.

In part it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, and at the same time, it totally unnerves me.

Moisés de la Cruz does all sorts of funny things to me.

Our pee steams in the cold night air.

Apparently the temperature drops down to nothing as Mexico goes to sleep and the sun takes its leave.

Mozey finishes way before me and I get self-conscious, thinking he might be watching.

My urine stops its exodus midstream.

He laughs, and his sneakers crunch on the gravel.

"Lana, don't tell me you can't pee in front of me."

"Go wait in the car!"

"Last night you masturbated in front of me," he says as if he's talking about dinner.

I whimper in response and try to push out the pee.

I guess he's got no problem just mentioning the thing that's been eating away at me.

I ignore my feelings and his comment, and the stream agrees to cooperate again.

"Is it wintertime here or is it just cold like the desert?" His laugh makes me start and scares away my pee again.

"Mexico is to the US as the US is to Canada.

We're not in South America," he says, still laughing and now kicking up rocks in the gravel under his feet.

"How'd you get so smart for a—" "A what? Mexican? Immigrant? Last time I checked, Lana, you were from someplace else too."

"That's not what I meant.

I was going to say delinquent."

"Oh, that's generous of you.

A juvenile delinquent."

He walks back to the driver's side, and I toss him the keys.

I keep my comments about being careful and questions about a license all to myself.

I lie down in the reclined seat that's still warm from his slumber and heavy with his scent.

This is paradise.

This spot is all I need.

"Mo, will you tell me your story to put me to sleep?" He runs his fingers through his hair and throws a curious look my way.

"You really want to know?"

"Every single thing."

And that is how I hear the story I never wanted to hear.

The story that just about kills me to know.

The story of baby Moisés and how he made it to the States.

Probably the saddest story I'll ever live to know.