Mexican Sunset

Capítulo Uno: La Playa (The Beach)

This is her territory.

The dry Mexican heat, the rolling waves of pop music skating tremulously across a cerulean blue swimming pool, mixed to the sounds of daiquiris clinking in air.

She is a predator and huntress and damn they should know it.

Skin of cocoa and in a string bikini, she releases a languid smile, which catches a pair of wandering eyes that widen with interest. But she's not looking for love in this shallow of a dating pool. A gathering that's wasted, high, or some blend of the two. Charming foreigners.

What is that American phrase? Ah yes, 'Stealing candy from babies.'

A passing male licks his lips and reaches for her ass. Not to be outdone, he is rewarded by her claws digging deep into his backside.

"Ay, mamacita," he squeals in a butchered accent before taking a drunken stumble.

She plucks his wallet from his khaki pocket before turning around and dipping her fingers into the abandoned purse of a coked-up tourist.

"Tontos," she curses. They're making it easy when she craves a chase.

A breeze runs over her human skin, eliciting a shiver. Lately she's been spending more time in fur. She grabs an abandoned jacket that's strewn across a lawn chair.

Raul warned her to stay away from parties like this. People like these. Foreigners- from North of the border and killing a weekend in Tijuana.

They are embarrassing to steal from. And she does feel some remorse for her actions but it has to be done.

She eases the diamond ring off a girl's finger, too busy ramming her tongue down the throat of an unmarried man to notice.

Stepping back quickly, she adds this to the collection and then all at once collides with a figure who feels carved of stone. The intruder bends and whispers, "I wouldn't call you a terrible thief, but your craft needs work."

Her heart leaps and she can hear it, booming in her ears. The American stranger with russet eyes and a smoldering jaw has caught her in a crime and, as the only sober person in Tijuana, can do something about it.

"You are a wolf," she whispers, eyeing him and all his predatory muscles.

"Well, look here, Mexican Sherlock. I thought we'd dance around it, but I prefer the direct approach."

She battles his intimidation and sarcasm and stands tall. To the humans who don't see the world as one giant alcohol-induced blur, they must look strange.

The American in his freshly pressed suit with a power red necktie.

Her in a revealing two-piece with eyes that are weary of the world.

"Why are you shivering? Are you afraid or is it anger that I'm intruding on your felony-in-progress?" His voice rumbles, "I can't be the first."

"You'd be surprised. First one sober."

He chuckles low, "Charming. Is this the Mexican hospitality I've heard so much about?"

"Hah. An American with a superiority complex," she counters in lilting English, "How original."

He narrows his glowing eyes, then makes a show of breathing deeply.

"You smell like a weak wolf," he proclaims. The words punch her fast in the gut with truth. "Even the lowest creature seeks out prey to feel strong."

"How dare you! I'm not a common bully that's pushing around humans." Her claws itch and edge on her shift.

"Easy, querida mía. Not common indeed," he whispers huskily. His Spanish is a dream, and the endearment is flawlessly spoken and patronizing as hell.