Midnightmuse:
Thank you, thank you! Sands' head is an interesting playground… I'm glad you're finding Beth distinctive - my biggest concern in writing in the first person is always the development of characters around the one whose head I'm in (although Sands' personality makes this a little easier, since he's always trying to figure other people out.)
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Chapter Four:
Puerko Pibil and a Tequila with Lime
Waking up, I become aware of several things all at once.
1 - There's a burning, throbbing pain where my eyes used to be – it pounds all through my skull
2 - and possibly more disconcerting – I'm not alone in the room and,
3 - I don't smell Beth's cologne. I don't smell my own stench either. I should be pretty ripe – because even though I have no idea how long I've been out, I wasn't so sweet smelling to begin with, despite Beth's best efforts to clean me up.
I lie very stilland try to figure out what's gone wrong. This time.
The house is quiet – mostly. Off in the distance – the direction of the kitchen, I think – I hear soft music playing. It's nothing I can identify… something about it seems familiar, like a half remembered memory from a dream… fuck. Drugs. It's gotta be the drugs hindering my ability to think straight.
Ok, so I'm pretty sure I'm in the same bed I fell asleep in. I hope. I mean – how would I know? I could be on the other side of the world for all I know…
And then I realize a fourth thing… I smell… puerko pibil? Interesting. And just as disconcerting as everything else in my world at just this very moment.
And – Christ, it just keeps getting better and better – a sudden twinge in my bladder lets me know that I have to piss like a race horse. Fucking fantastic. I have no choice but to make a decision about what to do next.
Stalling my bladder, I try to centre my attention on this room. Whomever has been set to watch me is reading a book – I can hear the occasional turn of a page. I can't tell anything else, though. No telltale cologne or aftershave – no sounds other than quiet breathing and the occasional flip of a page. Large pages, I think – a magazine? I wish I knew what time of day it was… although pibil takes a good four or five hours to prepare – so at the very least it's reasonably safe to assume it's sometime after noon. My bladder kicks at me again. It isn't going to wait much longer.
Discarding better part of valor, I stir enough to let my warden know I'm awake and wait for a response.
Fabric rustles. And little feet dash from the room yelling for "Mama." The child's voice is female. Very interesting indeed…
As I sit up, I become aware of several more things. The first of which is just how damned sore my body is – it's like I've been run over by a Mack truck. I can ignore that.
I can't ignore the fact that this bathrobe fits differently than the one I fell asleep in. It fits just exactly right… it's made of well worn, nicotine scented terrycloth. I feel along the collar and find the burn. It's my robe. My robe that I left locked in my suitcase that I left locked in my trunk that I left locked in my hotel room.
Oh – my – Christ -- cold fear grips at me. If someone found my bathrobe, they found everything…
I had a stash of guns that – while wouldn't have been enough to overthrow a country, certainly would make your average NRA member blush with envy. And cash. Just a few thousand pesos – and about a thousand U.S… along with wigs… theatre make up – just the bare necessities – but enough to raise an eyebrow, that's for fucking sure. I also had a bunch of IDs in my suit case, all with my picture, but in different names – there were at least two or three passports… Christ, this cannot be good. Even though I know she also had to have found my real ID, the glossy laminate that identifies me as an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency… this just cannot be good.
I recognize the sound of my angel's footsteps at the door – but I refrain from turning my head in her direction. I'm angry. No, I'm furious. But more than that – I'm scared. I don't like all these new feelings – fear, helplessness. Uncertainty. They're foreign emotions. I don't like trying to guess what someone is thinking when I can't even see their eyes.
She seems about as uncertain as I am – unless she's trying to be polite. I try to remember what was in my wallet. CIA ID – international driver's license – real name on both. A couple of credit cards with my name on them… condoms… My keys were in my pants pocket and it stands to reason that if she riffled through my wallet, she probably riffled through my pants first and found my keys… that feels a little more personal than having someone go through my wallet. Car keys, keys to apartments in Mexico City, Guadalajara and L.A. – Santa Fe P.O. box – another in Guadalajara – my hotel keys – key that doesn't work to Ajedrez's pad… too fucking small my ass… And of course the keys to my little trunk of goodies. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn. She's still not fucking saying anything. I think that's getting to me more than if she'd started in on me, demanding all kinds of impossible answers…This is more fucking awkward than if we'd screwed.
Finally, Nature wins out and I announce that I need to use the head.
Wordlessly, Beth helps me to my feet – as soon as I'm up, I shrug her off. She doesn't fight me.
And then a new thought occurs – I reach for my face. The bandage is still in place… but… no, something's wrong. It's wrapped differently. Neatly. Fuck.
"Do you remember the way?" Her voice is soft. Just as soft as I remember it – like velvet – or chocolate.
"Yeah," I lie. I don't have a fucking clue – but it has to be out the door – I find a hand on mine and try to pull away.
"Just let me get you pointed in the right direction," she tells me.
"Whatever."
Apparently there's a bathroom attached to the bedroom – or maybe it's the same bathroom with another door – it's hard to imagine that there's more than one bathroom in this house. Most Mexican houses are pretty bare bones. I find my way into the bathroom and close the door hard behind me – which leaves me faced with the problem of locating the head. Well – honestly, Sands, how fucking hard can it be to locate a God damned toilet?
"You ok in there?"
"I think I can find my own dick," I spit back at her. Yep, Johnny is right where I left him. And I manage not to trip over my own two feet and smack face first into the floor… not that additional damage would really make a difference… my hands grip the toilet – I lift the seat and do my damnedest to take aim. Oh, this is just peachy – for all I know I'm hitting the floor and women turn positively vile when you do that… well, it sounds like liquid hitting liquid, so I guess I'm safe.
I stumble back to the bed, resisting the assistance she silently offers. I wish I knew what it was that was bugging her – Hell, I wish I knew why the one thing that's bugging me the most is bugging me more than any of the things that should really be bugging me. God damn it, Sands, you've lost it…
I feel her sit on the bed next to me. "How are you feeling?"
"How should I be feeling, Darlin'? You went riffling through mycloths – riffling through mywallet – riffling through my riffles!" Although the words are a jest, my tone is anything but humourous. I sit so that my hair hangs over my face, not facing her at all.
There's an even longer silence than I would have expected from her.
"What – cat got your tongue?" My tone is still venomous.
"I didn't have to go through your things to realize you weren't a tourist who got caught in the crossfire, Sands." Her tone is – cold. Detached.
"Yeah – but you didn't know who I was, either."
"So what – now you have to kill me?" Beth's tone is dark.
"Don't be an ass."
"Look who's talking."
That gets me – it's a cold laugh, though. "You got anything for pain – I've got a bitch of a headache."
"Hang on," she says and gets up.
Yeah – where the fuck would I really go? Where have I got to go – of course Beth can't know that. She's gotta be wondering why a CIA officer is here instead of in a real hospital. Shit I wonder if she tried to call someone – but who would she call? Your average American citizen can only remember the number for emergency services because they shortened it to three digits. Most of 'em don't even know where their nearest FBI field office is – and those guys operate on American soil. Ok – take a breath – one thing at a time – and the first order of business is the God damned headache.
Beth finally returns; she presses two pills into my right hand and a glass of water into my left.
"Vicodin," she identifies the pills before I ask.
"Two aren't going to cut this."
"Well, two are all you're getting," he tone is quite final.
God damn it. Fine. I swallow them dry just to prove that I can. Yeah, I'm pissed. I'm pissed that I let my guard down. I'm pissed that I let myself be taken for a ride by a cheap piece of ass like Ajedrez. I'm pissed that Guarvera took my eyes – my dignity. But mostly I'm pissed because Beth looked at me when she knew I didn't want her to. I'm pissed that she saw for herself the kind of freak Barillo and Guavera turned me into. I feel like some unspoken promise was broken. As if anyone's ever kept one single promise they've ever made… fuck me. I am such an idiot.
Oh yeah, and I'm pretty perturbed at her for going through my shit, too.
"Do you remember any of the last week?"
"Last week?"
"Today is the eight."
That grabs me by the short and curlies. She could be lying – but my brain keeps telling me that she's for real. Just some American do-gooder out to ease her conscious by helping the poor, the unwashed, the huddled masses of Mexico. I still can't imagine anyone living down here voluntarily. Fuck if I'd be here if I had a choice. I hate fucking Mexico…
Hazy half memories begin to poke their ugly little heads up through my ire – but it's like chasing after shadows in the dark… I remember being hot – burning hot – hellishly hot – probably fever. I think. I've never tried to remember something without the accompanying visuals before. Christ. "Tell me?" I ask in a tone that actually makes it sound like a request.
"You had a fever – you were in and out of delirium for six days."
"You put me in the tub," I say… it's fuzzy… but I remember sitting in a bath of cool water – she was sitting in it with me… I laid my head back against her shoulders drinking in her scent – she was so strong – so warm – she was fully clothed – but I wasn't. Shit. Why the fuck am I embarrassed by that? Lots of women have seen me naked – they've all liked what they've seen, too, I might add.
She chuckles.
"It's not funny!" I tell her, indignant.
"It wasn't at the time – your fever had spiked up to a hundred and three. But seeing you blush now is well worth it."
"I'm not blushing."
"Have it your way, Cowboy."
Damn her. I scoot back and lean up against the sturdy headboard of her bed - holding my head uprigth is just too much work - hopefully the vicodin will kick in soon and at least take some of the edge off - although I don't hold out much hope... I can remember laying in the water, now, clearly, leaning against her strength – her hands keep scooping cool water over me – over my chest and shoulders – she keeps a cool cloth on my forehead… and I mutter about her being an angel… she's singing – some tune I've never heard before – I think it's what I heard when I first woke up, though... After the bath, she brought me back to bed – the sheets had been changed, I remember how cool and clean they felt against my burning flesh – she laid me down – and curled up with me, pressing her body hard against mine to chase away the dreams… she held me all night long… all night… my night is going to be eternal.
"Chicken soup," I say suddenly, tilting my head back in her direction – I very distinctly remember eating chicken soup. How odd.
"My grandmother's recipe," she smiles – I can hear it in her voice. "You'd wake up once in a while – let me feed you – take you to the bathroom. But – you were never really lucid."
Crap. I know the shit I've got buried in the ol' cranium… "Did – uh – did I say much?" I ask her quietly. This could present a real problem – for both me and my pretty little angel... (Whom I realize may not be at all pretty – but let a guy have his fantasy, ok?)
She pauses for about a heartbeat before answering. "You said enough."
Those three words hang in the air between us for a bit. Finally, "Come on, Darlin', at least tell me if I spilled any international secrets," I joke. It's only half a joke.
"I wouldn't know an international secret if it was handed to in an envelope labeled Top Secret," she tells me.
And I believe her – not because I think her naïve… well, maybe I do…
"Mostly you talked about personal stuff – or stuff I'm pretty sure is personal."
Fuck. Not only does she have my ID – but she's got the skivy on my personal life… do I even have a personal life? Fuck me – that's a good question. "Give me a clue?"
"It's nothing you need to worry about, Sands. Most of it was stuff – just don't worry about it."
"Would you please tell me what it is you're trying so hard not to say?" I'm starting to get really pissed by her evasive maneuvers. No one should try to out fox the guy who taught the fox.
"Dinner's almost ready," she stands.
Frustrated – fucking furious is more like it – I reach out and snag her arm – I must have caught her off guard – she falls… right into my lap. I realize how tight my grip is and ease up a little – I only meant to get her back here, not put a hurtin' on her. Her body is ridged against mine, even as I ease up on my hold. She doesn't move or speak, but I can hear her breathing – her quickening heat beat. Even without eyes, I know she's scared. Hell, anyone with the sense God gave a goose is scared of me… but I still have these memories of cool water and her voice whispering softly that I'm going to get through this, that I'm stronger than I think… I seem to remember her promising that she wouldn't leave me alone in the dark – and I wonder if I voiced that fear or if she's just a good guesser… "I won't hurt you," I tell her in a tone I hope is convincing. "If nothing else, I owe you my life." Oh well, so much for that membership to the Asshole's Guild. Wonder if the Dumb Asses will have me… at this rate I'm going to have a really great resume to show them.
"You have absolutely no reason to trust me," she says, sitting up a little in my lap, but not really pulling away. "If I tell you I won't repeat anything you said, you can't know I'm telling you the truth. But even before I saw what you had stashed in that trunk of yours, I knew you weren't just some tourist, ok? Hermano told me about the gunfight and the cartel – but – just looking at you – you're much more than you appear to be, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. And a whole lot less."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You don't let people in because you're afraid. I can relate. Now can we just drop it?"
"One more thing –"
"No one saw your stash of firearms but me."
That makes me feel a little bit better. But it's not the biggest question on my mind – it should be… but it isn't. "What about – my face?"
"Just me."
I nod. I don't have any reason to trust her – but I don't really have any reason to distrust her either. Except that everyone screws me over eventually.
"Sands – I want you to listen to me – I mean really listen to me," she says then – and out of the blue, her voice has taken on this – strength. My little angel has gone all Archangel on me, flaming sword and everything…
"I'm listening," I tell her.
"There is a difference between pity and caring – even when it's caring too much. There's a difference between sympathy and giving a shit. I care. I give a shit. And I'm not the least bit afraid of what I see when I look at you without the bandages. I've seen scarier things in my life than your face."
I swallow hard – but she's not done.
"I won't try to tell you that I understand – or that everything is going to be all right – because even though you have no reason to believe it when I say this, I don't lie. I don't always tell the whole truth – but I don't lie."
Call me a stupid fucking bastard… "You said my face doesn't scare you. Do I?"
"Do you want to?"
"Don't answer a question with a question!" I squeeze her wrist hard.
I feel her tense up – for a second, I think she's going to take a swing at me – then she counts to ten, just under her breath. When she addresses me again, her voice is ice. "Let me go. Now." There's something very dangerous in that voice… something that scares even me… because there is nothing more dangerous in all this world than a wounded animal… except maybe an animal protecting her young…
I let go immediately, because let me tell you, Greta Sands didn't raise a fool for a son, no matter what you might think of me.
"If you ever touch me like that again, Cowboy, it'll be the last thing you ever do." I feel her get up off the bed – she doesn't really step away from me – but I'm pretty sure she's thinking how much she hates my sorry ass right about now.
And of course, the proverbial light bulb has gone one in my brain. I would have seen it earlier if – well, fuck, if I could see anything at all.Beth is a wounded animal. A mother protecting her young. "So who was he?" I ask in a very casual tone.
I'm pleased by the startled intake of air on her part. And I can feel her icy glare settle on me. "No one," she answers after a heartbeat – so – whoever he was, the nerve's still raw.
And I know I haven't lost my touch. I smile, just a little. It's probably not a very nice smile. "Hey," I say as I hear her start to leave me. "You sorry?"
"About?"
"Being so nice to a prick like me."
I hear her start to answer. Then catch herself. "No. Even if you want me to be – I am who I am, Cowboy. I'll bring some dinner to you in few minutes."
I'm angry again, but I bite back my comments about not being allowed to dine with the family. It won't do me any good to push her too far – I still happen to need her. And it grates on me - but pissed or not, the truth is that a fuck of a lot has to have happened in the last six days. I have to find out what went down on the Day of the Dead, who's gone to lie with their ancestors and who's still standing. So, I smile a smile that I know women find charming and ask, "One more question, Darlin' – how did you know pibil was my favourite?" My tone is as sweet as my smile.
"I'm psychic," she teases – although her tone is cold.
But I laugh anyway. I must really have talked up a storm in my sleep… fuck. "Hey – how about a smoke?" I ask her before she has a chance to fully retreat.
"Check on the nightstand – to your left," she tells me – and leaves the room.
I snort quietly to myself. Then feel to my left – nightstand – cigarettes! There's a lighter sitting right next to them – and an ashtray. I get a smoke lit with only nominal difficulty and place the ashtray carefully in my lap as I lean back against the headboard enjoying the sweet flavour of my favourite brand of nicotine. Some of the sharpness even seems to come off my headache…
I'm about half way through my second smoke when I hear small footsteps approaching. They stop just at the door. She sent her kid to bring me dinner? Fuck – no one with any sense would trust their kid with a guy like me – oh piss off, not like that – Christ! I just mean that a guy with a trunk full of guns and disguises, who swears like a sailor, smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish isn't the best possible influence, ok?
I park the cigarette carefully on the ashtray and manage a smile. I can be charming when I want to. "Hello."
"Hello." She has her mother's voice.
"How old are you?" I ask. Oh God, please do not let her just hold up her fingers…
"Siete."
Seven. "I've got a daughter," I say – establish common ground. Yeah, I seem to remember some psych prof saying something like that – when you're dealing with kids, it's important to establish common ground. And if I want to use the mother without her hating me – betraying me for no other reason than she does hate me – I'd better make nice with the kid. "She's a little bit older than you, though." Christ – Emma would be – almost fifteen? Damn, I'm getting old.
Silence.
She's a real talker this one. "So – does your Mom know you're in here talking to me?"
"Uh-uh."
Hmm – ok, that sounded like a 'no'. And you wonder why I hate kids? "Didn't she ever tell you not to talk to strangers?" I ask.
"Uh-huh."
Christ. "What's your name?"
"Cicily."
Different. "I'm Jeff," I tell the child. The only people who call me Sheldon are me and - well, Alison is the only family I have left.
"Mama said your name was Senor Sands."
"Well – that is my name. Jeff Sands." Christ. This is pointless. I take a quick drag of my cigarette.
"Mama says – "
Harried footsteps in the hall stop Cicily mid sentence – I imagine her turning around to see her mother trotting anxiously towards her. I smile up at Beth. "Your daughter is charming."
"Sorry – she – gets curious. And she hasn't set the table like I asked her to," that last is obviously directed at the child, not me.
"I wanted to ask Mr. Sands if he was coming, too. He's awake."
"He's still very tired," Beth explains in that quiet, stern tone that only mothers seem to truly be able to master. "I'm going to bring his dinner to him."
"I think he should eat with us."
"It's ok," I interject, "I think your Mom's right. I should rest." Resting is the last thing I want to do – but suddenly the notion of just sitting alone and eating in the dark is more pleasant than trying to sustain conversation with a curious kid who doesn't seem to like to talk.
"Come on," Beth says – I hear her close the bedroom door behind them. I finish my cigarette… I don't have long to wait before Beth reappears – I hear her footsteps before she knocks.
"I'm decent," I tell her.
The door swings open, "I doubt that very much."
I favour her with half a smile and sit up a little. "Smells delish," I say of the pork – the closer she gets, the more I can smell it – and it really does smell fucking amazing. I hadn't quite realized how hungry I was until now.
Gingerly, she straddles the tray over my legs. "Fork to your left, knife to the right," she says. "Food dead centre." Her directions are efficient enough that I think she must have some experience working with blind people…
"You trust me with a knife – I'm flattered," I tell her sarcastically. "But – no tequila?" if she knows pibil is my fave, she has to know I always have it with a tequila and lime.
"Nine o'clock."
I frown – but feel to the nine position – my hand settles on a glass. It's not big – but – I just know what's in it… "You are an angel, Beth," I tell her quite sincerely.
"So you keep saying."
I take a sip of the tequila – there's even a wedge of lime in it. And damn – it's good tequila, not the cheap crap they serve in most of the dives I've been to. I savour the potent nutty-sweet-grassy flavour of my (second)favourite liquor and the tang of the lime, feeling my tongue go delightfully numb – and then I swallow. It goes down like silk. "That is good shit," I tell her. (Rum is actually my favourite - but you cannot get good rum around these parts. Well - technically, rum is my second favourite and tequila is my third favourite – but my favourite favourite is almost impossible to procure outside Europe – and my sorry ass hasn't seen civilization in three long years. But I digress…) I raise the glass to her before taking a second sip and putting it back down. It's something I want to savour.
"I'm so glad you approve," she replies with mild sarcasm. "Although I feel it's only fair to warn you, I've never made pibil before – Hermano's aunt gave me the recipe."
She – cooked… for me? No way. No one goes out of their way for me… my brain honestly does not know how to wrap itself around that concept. So I shrug it off. But I suppose I should at least givethe pibil a try and let her know how she did…
Feeling a little awkward (I've never tried to eat something I couldn't see), I pick up the fork… and try to find the pork in the dark… fork goes in – and I manage to find my mouth on the first try. "Oh damn," the meat melts in my mouth…sweet – tangy – a hint of tequila… damn… she's good. "This has got to be the best –" Oops. I really didn't quite mean that that way. Guess I'm trying to hang onto that membership in the Asshole's Guild after all… because I am very sure she knows about my – obsession for balance. I clear my throat. "It's good," I manage to say in a more neutral tone.
"I'm glad you like it," her tone is – hmmm – let's just say I really must have talked up a storm in my sleep. I hear her begin to leave.
"Beth – I – really did mean what I said."
"Can you narrow the field, a little Cowboy?"
Is that a hint of fear I hear in her voice? I really don't know. "About owing you," I tell her. I only hope that's enough to keep her from screwing me over.
"You don't owe me anything." Her tone is cool.
I keep my expression carefully schooled. Ilistento her retreating footsteps. Then I down the tequila in one gulp and lean my head up against the backboard. I don't owe her anything… I can only think of one meaning for those words... I don't owe her because she's already screwed me over.
You blew it, my brain tells me. You've burned your bridges – pissed off everyone around you – and now it's time to pay up. The only question is who will I have to pay – and how much is it really going to cost…
And I'm just not hungry any more.
I sit for many long moments with various unpleasant scenarios going through my head, until I realize that I really will snap if I just sit here and fucking brood.
So, I lift the tray carefully off my lap and set it aside – then slide out of the bed… if I have any luck left at all, Beth has left my trunk in this room somewhere…even if it isn't - I have to do something more productive than sit and brood.
I take a few tentative steps – and then a few more – I stumble on something – a chair? Yeah – chair. A rocking chair. I give it a little push – it's made of smoothly polished wood – kinda reminds me of something you might find in a grandmother's house… there's a table next to it. A lamp. I feel around on the table – knitting? I make a mental note of that – knitting needles can be deadly if used correctly.
My mind begins to form a map of the room. Next to the table with the knitting needles there's more wall… then… dresser. On it are all manner of feminine items. A tray holds a brush and comb – and a hand mirror, I think it is – perfume bottle – ornate glass – maybe three or four ounce-size. I give an experimental sniff – yup, that's her stuff. The intoxicating scent makes me smile despite my trepidation. And perfume is flamable.
I feel a few papers – a book – some fabric – silk. Real silk. It smells like her…a nighty? Yeah, probably… wonder what colour it is… is Beth into pink or red – black or white? Or is it something off the wall – like green. I wish I knew what she looked like… I wish I knew what she was planning to do with me… I hate fucking uncertainty.
Then my foot collides with something – something familiar. My trunk. My wonderful beat up old black trunk.
Kneeling, I run my hands over it… I'm reassured by it's presence, by the familiar smoky, musky smell and the rough texture. Even without my eyes, I can trace my fingers over all the stickers and know which is which – you the kind of stickers tourists get when they go somewhere – everywhere I go I get something and stick it on. Some of these have been here for fifteen years. I try the lid. Locked. Damn.
But – the key has to be somewhere – I go back to the wall and make my way back to the bed. There are tables on both sides – on the left, water and cigarettes. And on the right… bingo. Wallet. Keys.
This time, I take the bolder route and walk across the centre of the room – I stumble over a trunk at the foot of the bed – my mind conjures up images of a hope chest, something filled with photos and other mementos of a girl's childhood. Beth's photos are definitely safe from me…
At my trunk, I kneel again (this does hurt – but ignoring the little discomforts is easier when I've got something else to think about). Finding the right key is a lot harder than you'd think – but after four tries, I get the right one into the hole.
Inside, everything is as I left it – except for my suitcase. I wonder where she's stashed that – but all it has in it is my cloths. What I want is in the trunk.
A dozen guns of various shape and size… Styr GB, Glock-18, a couple of Brownings, a pair of Sig-Sauers (a 250, and a Sig-Pro), a Jerico, a couple of Mausers, three Makarov PMs … I let my hands linger over each one, just long enough to assure myself that they're all still there. Still loaded. Still ready to go. But none of those are the one I want. I want my favourite. My baby. My special girl, a Beretta 92S. She's an older gun – they don't even make them any more… but she's seen me through more than one tough spot. And she is right where I left her. Sleek and black – fifteen rounds in each clip. I flip off the safety – and then flip it back on again. Just warping my hand around her, I feel better already.
So with the Beretta tucked safely under my pillow, I lean back up against the headboard and pick at the pibil…
now picture the scene
it's downtown after the show
I'm looking around
but there's no-one I'd like to know
then I see her
yeah I think those looks would kill
maybe she won't
but then again maybe she will
I'm trigger happy
just thinking that she'd blow me away
trigger happy
I'm trigger happy
but she won't even look my way
trigger happy
my mind is moving
as the music is swinging her hips
my body quivers
when her tongue caresses her lips
I'm easy prey
yeah I know that I'm looking scared
she starts to smile
cos it looks like I'm nearly snared
she's trigger happy
but she knows it could go either way
trigger happy
she's trigger happy
cos it looks like we're both gonna stay
ah yeah she's looking at me
pointing a gun kind of nervously
on my back
from a fatal attack
through the heart
and that's just the start
loaded chamber, silver bullets gleaming
check out the beat, you be feeling
trigger happy
Nitzer Ebb