“We’re landing now. Once we step out of here, you’re not allowed to leave my side without permission,” he affirms with a hoarse boom through the microphone.
We defy gravity as the helicopter descends. Without replying, I rein back the festering desire rousing in my groin. This is not a life.
The pilot turns the engine off and exits the cockpit. I unfasten my belt, remove the headset, and sigh softly, not in defeat but in recognition that my time here won't end well. I’d rather die than be a soulless slave in captivity.
He rips off his headset and snatches my arm, rolling me around to face him in a standoff of wills. “Don’t leave my side.” His mouth says one thing, but the tone he uses is harsh and bitter. Icicle’s crack and shatter. Snowflakes powder his eloquence. The deluge of scorching blood racing in my veins coagulates to frozen crystals. “Understand, beija flor?”
Pinching my cap, he yanks it off my head and pings the elastic bunching my curls. His tongue dallies over his bottom lip as the lengths jumble free with disarray.
My teeth lock together, refusing to answer. The palm cuffing my forearm uncurls, but instead of letting go altogether, it travels to my nape. Electrical currents sparkle between us as he cradles me close enough to threaten a kiss. The color of his eyes matches the forest beyond, darkening to a shade of violence. My chest heaves. I’m held in an authority that lights my future up in flames.
An air of tranquility blankets the inside of the helicopter when his forehead presses into mine. Eyes. Breathing. Heartbeats.
“Did we have sex?” I ask.
“What?” His head snaps back.
“You poisoned me with a voodoo cocktail and trampled through my private thoughts. Didn’t you?”
“I asked about your intentions. It was purely a fact-finding mission to determine if you were a spy. You offered the extra information.” His mouth quirks, and the light contact dissipates. El Fantasma leans back in his seat and returns his sunglasses to his face. “I don’t fuck unconscious women. And I certainly don’t need to.”
My eyes roll in defiance of his misshapen morals. “But you hold them hostage and drug them.”
He observes me for a hushed second. Long lashes blink deliberately. An unapologetic smirk plays on his lips. “I’ve gathered all the information I require. I don’t need anything else from you now.”
I hate him.
“Except one thing,” I suggest, holding my forefinger in the air.
His fingers splay and close. “And that is?”
“My loyalty.”
He stiffens. “I don’t need that from you. I demand it. Otherwise, you won’t be afforded a farewell ceremony because you’ll vanish without a trace.”
Frustrated air escapes my lungs. The door shunts open. Oppressive heat strikes, chasing chilly beads of sweat plunging to the base of my spine. There’s not a hint of remorse in his collected poise or a wobble of regret in his smooth accent.
Wearing a tightlipped smile, I face the forest and add one last comment. “By the way, el Fantasma. Because you drugged me, I barely remember our time together. However, I know for certain it wasn't ecstasy or a real-life fantasy. Whatever you slipped into my drink altered my awareness and heightened my libido, that’s all. The vague, insignificant memory is easily forgotten. I’m also fully aware I can’t trust you either. If you think I crave your dick, you’re sadly mistaken. And any reckless decision to pull that stunt again or fuck me without protection will end up with an unfortunate outcome. You should know I haven't taken a contraception pill since I ended things with my ex.”
After unloading part truths, I clamber out into the open with adrenaline hiking up my heart rate. Not being on birth control—that’s one hundred percent accurate. Easily forgetting—that’s a hard to accept fib.
I shade my eyes with a crooked palm and take in the clearing I once called base. Storm-damaged tree trunks have been chopped and stacked high. All the technical equipment and camping gear have vanished, making me doubt I ever stayed here to begin with. It's only when I notice a crowd of men lined up, side by side, that I see a gaping hole in the spot where Bruce took his last breath.
Sorrow punches my chest. My arms swing by my sides as hesitant steps carry me closer. In a hollow deep enough to knock on the devil's door, lies a wooden casket. It’s rounded at the corners and beautifully hand-carved. A mountain of mud piles up at one side, and unknown faces assemble at the graveside. My scalp needles. I sense his approach before I hear his seductive timbre.
“While you were lost in a fever, I instructed my men to create a coffin from the tree your mentor lay beneath. Your friend is at one with the jungle now.” El Fantasma’s presence licks around my heartache. “I’ve brought you here to say goodbye to him.”
I spin around, staring up at guarded eyes. Confused by a man so calm before a thunderstorm, so moonless in a black sky. The thoughtful gesture catches me by surprise. I suck in my lips to stave a tremble and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I mutter, numb with shock.
He leaves my side, allowing me to breathe again. I detest myself for eyeing the sinewy arch of his back as he bends to scoop a wad of earth. An imperfect man with a creed. Shirking off the misleading reverie, I round my shoulders and rethink this grand show of thoughtfulness.
A man like him isn’t capable of such a selfless deed. It’s a farce. A distorted game. He’s giving an ill-fated girl the opportunity to bury a mentor while symbolizing a slave parting ways with her past.
I’m not lucky or grateful. This is a master flexing authority. A jailer justifying a life sentence. A man stripping a woman of her character.
With a toss, sodden earth pelts the intricately carved wooden lid. Rows of men lower their eyes in respect. The unified sight showers my skin with rampant goose bumps. No matter the hidden agenda, this is Bruce’s only send-off. The opening for his soul to finally rest in peace.
“Would you like to say a few words?” His tone thickens as he rotates into me with a fluid posture. I’m unwise to assume the sentiment will touch his soul. “Or we can cover him over now if you prefer.”
I nod once. “I’ll speak.” Hunkering to the earth, I copy el Fantasma and grab a handful of topsoil. My heart bucks. I wonder if simple words will suffice. Bruce’s wife deserves this moment, and right now, I’m all he’s got.
Rising, I hold my head high and clear my throat. When dirt thuds onto his casket, I project my speech to the jungle. “I’ll see you again, my friend. That is a must. We’ll meet someday soon. In that promise, I trust. Rest in peace.” Then I dust off my palms and swivel into el Fantasma. His muscles brace when I lift to my toes and whisper, “There's no difference between that coffin and this jungle. Except Bruce is finally at peace, and I’m a miserable prisoner starved of a soul. I’d rather die than stay in this godforsaken place with a man like you. So, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”
16
Dante
Where the jungle is my asylum, it’s my hummingbird's wire cage.
I’ve submerged myself in an unpopulated natural habitat, camouflaging scars, and numbing memories that will eternally trouble me.