About Seashores of Old Mexico
by BA Tortuga
44 pages
/ 15800 words
978-1-60370-386-4, 1-60370-386-1
Available file types - lit, pdf, prc, html
Clint is on the run, leaving Texas for the relative safety of Mexico after a bar fight gone horribly wrong. He's tired, hungry, and ready to settle someplace for just a little while.
That's when he meets Jack. Jack's a little older, a little wiser, and owns a cantina right on the beach, where Clint can earn some money. The two if them find a lot to talk about and even more to do that needs no words. But Jack has a past, too, and both he and Clint are ready to run when their former lives catch up to them. Will they be able to stay together when the truth comes out?
Sample
Okay. Okay. Okay.
He was cool.
See him?
See him be cool.
Oh, fuck him raw, he was screwed and tattooed.
Except, not, because that dude at the tattoo parlor had great big gold shark teeth and shit and, hell.
Hell.
Not even when he'd had a dime to his name, damn it.
Which he didn't now, but Clint'd swept the parking lot of the little beach bar and gathered up enough pesos to get him a cerveza, maybe. Or some guacamole. Maybe he'd ask for a shift washing dishes for a little dinero.
He spent a second thinking of Momma's cobbler and brisket on the grill. Potato salad in that big old yellow bowl and a glass plate of pickles. Damn, being in trouble with the law was hell.
The bar was pretty deserted inside, just a few old barflies scattered about, some gringo, some not. The place looked crazy as all get out, all palm tree lights and alligator heads, one of the booths made out of the front end of an old Chevy truck. The guy behind the bar, though, he looked like home, with a deep tanned face and a straw Stetson, grinning and chatting with some old-timer.
He walked up slow and easy, trying not to look like a drifter living too close to the bone. He settled on a barstool, the seat tilting a little. Maybe he could afford two beers.
"Well, hey there, son. What can I get you?" The bartender came on down, smiling at him just the same as he had at the other guy, not a bit of the fake he'd get at the touristy places that he couldn't afford anyway.
"Just a cold one, thanks. I ain't picky." He smiled back, nodded, keeping his hat pulled down just a little, more out of habit than need.
He got a look, not so much curious as knowing. "You look thirsty. It's happy hour, son. The cheap draft is two for one."
Oh, praise Jesus. "Looks like my luck's holding today, then. What do I owe you?"
"Well, it's a buck fifty, which I think is about sixteen pesos, give or take." Bright brown eyes shone under that hat, not real dark, more gold. Those smile lines deepened. "But I'll take what you can give and be happy."
Sixteen. He dug out what he'd picked up and counted. Twenty. Okay. There was even a tip. "Here goes."
Jesus. He was gonna have to drink slow.
"That'll keep you for a bit, son. Here, have some pretzels." Grinning, the guy slid a whole basket of goodies down to him.
"Thanks." He tried to eat slow, knowing he'd end up tossing if he dumped a bunch of food in him. Still, the beer was gonna hit him like a ton of bricks if he didn't get something in him.
Lord have mercy, he was tired. It'd been three weeks that he'd been running. Three weeks after a fight had gone from one thing to another and one man'd ended up dead and another one saying it was him that did the doing, whether or not it was true.
The bruises were all faded now, though, and the truck had been dumped in McAllen for $230 and he was...
Somewhere.
Lord.