10. Keeping Score

George is out of the car before I've even got the keys out of the ignition. By the time I do that and grab my bag, he's yanking my door open and looks like he's fixing to start something then and there. I give him an innocent look. His face changes; he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders as I emerge from the car. "It's too hot for that" I complain, trying to give it back.

"Maybe, but it's not so - what's the word? It hides that."

For the first time, I notice the red stain blossoming on my right sleeve. I push it up in disbelief and stare at the wound on my upper arm. It doesn't hurt - I'm still absolutely wired with endorphins from that wild ride - but I realize I've been shot - and George takes advantage of my momentary stillness to fling the jacket across my shoulders and steer me toward the entrance with an arm around my waist. I must be in shock; I don't take that as my cue to lay him flat and jump him.

We wind up in two connecting rooms with a bath between, overlooking the Gulf of California. George sits me down on the edge of one of the beds. The wound doesn't hurt - yet - but I'm starting to feel shaky. And silly. I ought to be able to take something like this in stride, for crying out loud. Sands stands on the far side of the bed, near the balcony doors. George blots away the blood with a wet washrag.

"It's still in there," he murmurs to me as I stare at the ugly furrow gouged into my arm back to front. There's a lump under the skin where the pellet is lodged.

"What?" asks Sands, bouncing a little. He's hyper; right now, I hate him for all his surplus energy more than anything. The buzz is starting to wane; I'm going to crash pretty soon, and the first prickles of hurting are starting to make themselves felt.

"They winged Kate," George tells him. "She's got a slug in her arm."

I swallow hard. Sands must hear it, because his glee becomes positively indecent. "Are you going to remove it?" he asks eagerly. "Hey, no big deal - I dug a bullet out of my own leg last year with a pocket knife. Of course, I didn't have to watch it spurt gore, either." He makes being blind sound like a real advantage in such a situation; I'm really wishing the cartel had ripped his tongue out instead. Then I wouldn't be here, bleeding all over some strange hotel room and feeling queasy.

"It was infected," he adds. He's doing it on purpose, trying to gross me out, I know he is. And it's working. "Really messy. Manolo said the stuff oozing out of it was green. Kinda like guacamole -" I lunge full-length across the bed, ignoring my arm, and upchuck, catching Sands from the knees down.

"Oh, you fucking bitch!"

"Sands," growls George. "Go wash yourself off and get the hell out of here. You're not helping."

The blind man flounces toward the bathroom, grimacing. After the door closes behind him, and we hear water running, George chuckles. "You are not a nice girl" he says admiringly. "Don't worry." He indicates my wound. "That's not too bad."

While Sands hogs the bath, George calls down to the front desk and requests some first aid supplies be sent up. He fishes the bottle of caplets out of his pocket and offers them to me. He even finds a soda machine when I decline a glass of tap water. All I need now is Montezuma's Revenge on top of everything else.

"I've never been shot before," I say to him in a small voice. I feel light-headed and embarrassed. There are stabbing flashes of pain in my arm.

"So I gather," he answers as I gulp down the caplets with a swig of root beer. "Many, many people live their whole lives without ever being shot."

"How many times for you?" I venture. If the graze on his head is bothering him, he hasn't shown it. The fact that he actually has to pause to think about the answer only makes me feel worse.

"Several," he says finally.

Maybe Sands was right, maybe I am just a twink who needs babysitting. No, I'm not going to think that; if I hadn't been here to drive, things would've been fubar. Obviously, Sands can't drive and the odds of him hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle - buy a lottery ticket, you'd have a better chance. And George shoots just fine, but trying to operate said vehicle while trying to hit a moving target...nah. On the short list of things I'm really good at, driving like a nocturnal creature recently paroled from the infernal regions is one of them.

As Sands opens the bathroom door and turns to his left, I can see scars on both of his thighs and another on his left arm. I don't know who used him for target practice, but kudos to them.

"Is there any hot water left?" George asks him.

Sands turns, and above the towel wrapped around his slender waist, I see a fourth round scar on the left side of his abdomen. "You gonna wash her back, El?" he leers. "Maybe her front, too, while you're at it?"

"No, I was thinking I would wash your mouth out with soap."

"Yeah, and there's soap left, too. Have fun." Sands goes into the other bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"I really hate that guy," I say.

"Chica, you're not alone."

To Kerttu: Gee, um, thanks, although I think Kate is crazy enough for both of us.