Guess I should probably introduce myself. My name is Lola Consuelo Cortes. I am almost twenty-six years old and I've been hunting ever since I got these damn scars. Don't get me wrong. I own my scars. I take them with me everywhere I go. I can't picture being the woman I am today without them–and hell, it's not like I don't get any action with them. I've kept my body toned enough to keep up with demons and tricksters alike and I've been told by many a drunken man in the hazy neon illuminated motel room that my figure makes up for my half destroyed face. Sure, I'd like to have that side of my face be as pretty as the other, but I wouldn't have the fuel I get from looking in the mirror like I do now. Every time I look at myself I feel this white hot rage, like nothing can ever cool it and the only way I can make it stop hurting is to hurt something else.
That's what keeps me going. That's what keeps me killing evil. I know if my Grandpa was still alive he'd tell me to kill for the good of the people the evil has touched. To save the innocents. But I've always been too pissed off to worry about anyone else but myself. I'll say it flat out so you're not surprised later on. But I guess my saving factor is that I can heal people. Never really sure how that happened. That medicine man back in Puerto Rico must have messed up some wires when he was gluing my body back together and switched something freaky on. All I have to do is touch someone and they're brand spankin' new again. My abuelo's theory was always that the medicine man did it on purpose. Used some ancient spell or incantation secretly because he knew someday I'd be hunting the same things my abuelo was. That I would need a little help. Personally, I think it s a load of shit. I can't heal myself –a lot of good that does me in my profession.
I've been learning how to hunt ever since the incident. I've been on my own since I was sixteen, when my grandpa thought I was old enough to leave home. For the first few years I was bent on tracking werewolves. More specifically, I wanted to find the ones that had chewed me half to hell and murdered my grandmother. The trail took me all the way to America and the pickings are so good here when it comes to the supernatural, I've decided to stay. I never did find those bloodthirsty bastards but that doesn't mean I've stopped looking. I've just put them on the backburner for a bit while I hunt down other stuff.
It's not a glamorous life, I won't lie. But I've never been a high maintenance kind of girl. I'm completely arrancao more often than not –I don't have a penny to my name. But I get by. I work small jobs, I get fake IDs, I go hungry, etc. The hunters in America or at least this side of the country are a pretty close knit group though; they look out for each other. Most of them are pretty down to earth too. They're the only people in this damn world who don't look reproachfully at my scars. But speaking of other hunters, I guess I should start this off by telling you how I met the infamous Sam Winchester. It wasn't the greatest moment of my life, I'll tell you that much.
As I said before, life as a hunter isn't glamorous. We see a lot of horrible things. And those of us who are alone turn to the bottle more often than not and get pretty sloppy when we do so. It's a great escape for us. To me, being drunk feels weightless. Like the world floats away. For a few hours I live the life of the common person. With no knowledge of monsters and evil -no blood on my hands, no hunger for it. I'll admit I've had a problem with alcohol in the past and can never shake the pesky bastard off my heels. But for the first time in my life I can thank it for more than early morning headaches and motion sickness.
I was at a nightclub doing shots. I was already pretty far gone at that point and most people were steering clear of me. If not for my slurred Spanish to no one in particular, then definitely the scars. But for those as drunk as I was, my scars melted away. And all they got was an eyeful of my long caramel legs, my shamelessly revealed abdomen and barely covered breasts. I don't exactly remember what I had come to the nightclub that evening to forget –honestly most of it is still a blur. Anyway, I was sitting like the sloppy, slutty drunk I was, playing with the stem of a cherry with my lips when the man of the hour waltzed in. At the time, I had no idea who he was. I had heard of the Winchester brothers. Generally a pretty pair, opened the gates to hell, caused general mayhem and pissed a lot of hunters off before Dean Winchester died and his brother vanished off the map. But I'd never seen them in action and passed Sam Winchester off as just another face at the bar.
Another devilishly handsome face, mind you. Alcohol tends to make my hormones skyrocket. He sat close enough at the bar to me where I could casually ogle him from under my lashes. He ordered a heavy drink and a shot of whiskey and downed the two right before my very eyes like they were nothing. I was pretty hammered but could still read deep seeded pain in the handsome stranger's eyes. He was drinking to forget. You could always pick the type out at the bar. He grimaced after downing the shot and gestured for another. That one went down just as quickly. I enjoyed the muscle in his jaw jumping as the alcohol threatened to throw him off his chair with its potency.
I decided I would be the one to show him a good time. Whatever he was trying to forget, I'd help him. With feline movements I eased myself from the barstool. I did not try to conceal my scars as I made my way over. I had a system when working in my drunken state when it came to my appearance. Men were normally similar –first they'd be torn between disgust, laughter and attraction. They wanted to scoff at my hideousness and I'd let them for a moment. But then I'd wait until their eyes moved downward. Until they noticed I had the body of a dancer, the hips, the legs, the hardened shape of a goddess, that I could do a split, shake my ass like only a Latina can and throw my heel behind my head. Then they'd stop laughing.
Confidently, I came up behind the long haired man and eased my hands down his chest from behind. I growled gently in his ear when I felt the hard pectoral muscles under my eager fingers and his warm heart beat. (Really, I'm a much more distinguished, dignified woman when I'm not drinking. Promise. As I said before, this was not one of my finer moments.)
"Would you like to dance?" I asked in a slurred voice. My accent was so heavy in my stupor I wasn't sure if he understood me. He tensed under me. I could sense his uncertainty as he looked back over his shoulder at my face.
Whether it was curiosity or my cleavage though, after a few moments of contemplation he rose from his seat. His face was still hard, eyes dark. Something heavy was weighing on his shoulders. A part of him was missing. But I was confident in my abilities, I would blow his mind. I would make him forget whatever was troubling him so.
"Sure," the man nearly stumbled off the stool and had a hard enough time regaining his balance with the whiskey hitting his system.
"Ay, fantastico," I murmured gently. I tightened my grip around his impressive forearm as he finally stood, coming to stand at least a head taller than me. His broad chest met my eyes and it was all I could do to keep from ripping his clothes off with my teeth right then and smelled like soap and cologne. It was a soft scent, gentle. I nearly melted into it as we headed out towards the dance floor.
The music thumped hard under our feet. I could feel the vibrations of the bass all the way up my spine which I pressed into the handsome stranger's chest. At first he was uncomfortable. His body was stiff and nearly immovable as I spun my hips and grinded against him. I could feel his inner turmoil that I suspected easily as it translated into his limbs. He still hadn't fully shaken whatever was bothering him. That heavy weight had made him weary and though he appeared alert, I felt as though his soul was exhausted. So I danced crazier. I twisted my body like a worm against his, flipped my hair into his face, refusing to lighten up. I wanted this poor stranger to release whatever was holding him down. See, even when I'm drunk I'm capable of empathy!
I raised my arms in the air and then folded them backwards around his neck. Then he finally started to respond. I felt his massive hands come over my hips and guide them against him as I rolled them in time to the music. His chin came over my shoulder and I felt his lips in the crevice of my collar bone as our bodies moved together in the dark, crush of bodies. I laced my fingers with his and let them trail down my bare thighs, letting the bass thrum through our chests. We had such instant chemistry, or so my drunk self wanted to believe. Of course in reality, we were just two lost souls heading for the bottle and illusions of normality. Two torn up people looking to forget in all the wrong places.
Nonetheless, it only took two more songs until he decided to take me to his motel.