Migrant workers.
Everyone looked down on them, as if they were the lowest man on the totem pole, but Jack thought differently. He'd often drive past the fields of workers, just to watch as they did the same meticulous and repetitive work each day, marveling at them. He could never do a job like that. He wasn't exactly lazy; but he preferred to work smart- not hard.
It was grape season. She was harder to see during grape season.
He was looking for the same girl he'd been watching for the last few months. He felt guilty, he felt like a stalker to be more accurate; she was... different. Strange. All the other migrant women had a hard look to them. Many of them were very beautiful but the were rough, calloused. They had stopped caring long ago for dreams and wishes, for beauty and love. All that mattered to them was dirt and the eternal itch of passion that they desired from someone other than their husbands. Many of them had even demanded money from him in exchange for a roll in the hay. But unlike the other women who focused only on the rows and rows of crops, heads down and faces somber; this girl laughed and smiled as she worked, every few paces looking up towards the horizon. She'd never demand money of him for love. He saw she had too much pride for that.
He looked for her curly pass of hair, always held back from her face with a colorful scarf. She was always easy to pick out from the drab browns and grays and blues of the other women; the girl seemed to have a passionate hatred for earthly colors. He had never seen her once in a dress that was not a vivid color or a blend of colors; her tan skin looking beautiful and smooth against the colored cotton.
Hector would be furious. No, not exactly...they had defined their relationship long ago with an escape hatch for either of them. But still, he knew the older man would be at the very least irritated. And irritation on Hector Barbossa was almost as unbearable as fury. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Don't think about Hector right now. You need to focus. You're going to talk to her today. You're going to find a way to.
He had asked Marisol, one of the girls at the farm, about her. She had laughed, shaking her head.
"You're reaching for a shelf that isn't there," she teased him, "That girl is all about work."
"Wot do you mean?" he asked, his fingers gently teasing her hair, "Just tell me her name."
"Chicha," she replied, "Chicha Rosado. She came here a few months ago with her husband from Peru."
"Chicha," he exhaled, enjoying the feeling of her name on his lips, "It's pretty. Do you know what it means?"
"It means flesh," Marisol replied, chuckling, "But that girl lets nothing or no one touch that pretty flesh of hers. We went down to the market one day and a man offered her $200 for a rollabout, and she slapped him! $200 dollars," she tsked, shaking her head, "That girl has no eye for business. He wasn't bad looking either...a gringo if I remember correctly."
"A gringo?" Jack asked, looking confused.
"A white man, pasty faced. Dough colored. You know, an American."
"And Gringos are better than other men?" he asked.
"Tch. Hardly. They just pay better. But some of them, they're strange. A Spanish man would never ask for half of the things that Gringos ask for. One asked me to...Sweet Mother Mary, I can't even say it out loud." She leaned over and whispered in his ear, making him grimace.
"Really?" he asked, looking a little sick.
"Would I lie about something that disgusting?" she replied, shaking her head, "Anyways, why did you wanna know about Chicha? She's married you know. And her long legs are crossed tighter than a crucifix."
"Oh really?" he chuckled, nipping at her neck, "Is she a catholic?"
"Have you met a Spanish woman who isn't?" she grinned, leaning into his touches more.
"I met you," he replied.
"I'm only half Spanish," she replied, giggling, "Loophole."
He smiled as he drove, still looking for her. Marisol had done nothing to deter him from the object of his pursuit. If anything, she piqued his interest in the girl. He liked a challenge, and this girl was proving to be just his cup of spiked tea. He glanced about, and saw a vivid blue dot on the side of the road.
Bingo.
As he approached, she waved her arms, trying to get him to pull over. He had no problem with that; a perfect excuse for talking to her. As he pulled up, though, he saw the look on her face was unamused irritation- not what he expected. Her tawny eyes flashed angrily at him, her long lashes quivering with anticipation; she wasn't a girl to be messed with.
"Can you stop stalking us?" she demanded, "We see you out here every day. Get your jollies somewhere else, pervert!"
"I can't 'elp if I 'ave to drive past 'ere to get where I'm goin," he replied, flashing her a winning smile. He saw her posture slacken a bit, his smile had the effect he had hoped it would and he leapt on the chance, "So, wot's a pretty thing like you doin playin in the dirt an grime?"
"Working," she replied, smiling, "I like getting dirty."
"Oh really?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows. It was a hit or miss move, no in between. Finally she laughed, and he could breathe again. She leaned in his window, sticking out her hand.
"Chicha Rosado," she said. He took her hand, shaking it gently.
"Jack Sparrow," he replied, smiling.
She turned around, heading back to the fields. He couldn't resist.
"Wait!"
She turned back to him, giving him a wink and yelling, "Till next time, Mr. Sparrow." He gunned the gas, barreling down the empty dirt road. Yes, she was a challenge.
"Let the game begin, Luv," he muttered, grinning.