Chapter Text
A screech of poorly maintained brakes interrupts his solitude. Roier removes an earbud and sighs. He pulls his hat down to hide his eyes despite it being night and goes out to meet the car.
The Pemex gas station isn't as maintained as it could be. The overhead lights of the canopy flicker every few minutes. Even without the flickering, they're only bright enough to illuminate what's beneath. At the edges is pitch darkness. The lights from the GoMart sign and store aren't enough to ease the uneasy chill of paranoia. They're just far enough from fucking anything that no one stops through the dead hours of the night unless it's a holiday or there's a concert or something only travellers, odd hour workers and the occasional extranjero stops by.
The gas station is desolate now. Out in the darkness he can hear coyotes crying and yapping. Roier isn't alone, but the old man working with him is out nursing a beer in the freezer. He'll be back in an hour knowing him. Roier scans the car over subtly before he draws near. Nothing new, not dirty enough to be farm, so a traveller or some kind of trabajadore.
The man who rolls down the car window is handsome. He has soul-piercing dark blue eyes and wavy hair that puffs up to almost suggest animal ears. A cat, Roier thinks. If he squints the man's pupils could be narrow enough. The man's mouth is set in a deep frown.
He greets the man in lax Spanish, "Hey, just a fill up or do you want anything else?" Roier glances at the car. It could definitely need a little cleaning up and the tire pressure on the front looks shit. A little too shit to have been driving down any highway for long. "You want some air in that tire?"
"Sure, sure, yeah," the man handwaves. He looks tense. His eyes flit to the rearview mirror often. He has an accent. Roier can't place it at first with the few words. Despite his curiosity, he doesn't pry.
Roier's seen enough to know if it doesn't involve you, let it be. If the guy starts something, he could handle himself, but he won't make it a problem. He fills the car up, his eyes reflexively sweeping around.
It's then he notices a bloody handprint on the back window. Of fucking course. Roier averts his eyes. When he looks back towards the man he can see he's staring at him in his side mirror. Roier meets his gaze. He isn't going to be intimidated.
The man doesn't break eye contact until the clunk of the gas nozzle breaks Roier's concentration. He pulls the nozzle out and fetches the air hose. "How much you want in the tire?"
"Whatever," the man says.
Roier judges the car make and model himself, and picks a number for the PSI. He keeps an eye on the man, just in case. He's not some tall hulking machismo culo. He could take the man. But he doesn't think the man will start something. His posture is tense, but he's reserved.
The hiss of air fills the tense silence.
Then, "how much do I owe you?"
Portuguese? His accent and the way he says some of the words—he might be from Brazil. It's tempting to ask. But. Roier doesn't. He rattles off the price.
At least, Roier thinks, he tips. He pockets the tip and shifts the rest to his hand to go shove in the register.
"Culero," Roier mutters to himself, shaking off his nerves. The car leaves and he resigns himself to the counter again. He slides the earbud in.
Fifteen minutes pass. A police officer pulls in. Federal. Roier swears. He didn't want involved in this bullshit.
A terse greeting.
They don't ask him anything. They browse for a snack. Roier minds them. There's no way. Definitely federal, judicial, by the look of it. They have to be looking for that fucking guy. He knew there was something up.
But he doesn't get involved in that shit. Roier keeps his eyes on his phone as he swaps songs.
The police man drops a bag of chips on the counter, and a soda. Roier rings him up with only a soft "holá" and his total. The officers casts a look around, and then lingers on the camera.
"You have cameras on the pumps?"
"Yessir," Roier says, and internally rolls his eyes. He knows what question comes next.
"We are on the lookout for a very dangerous individual. Average height, brown hair, South American. Have you seen anyone like that?"
"No, sir," Roier says.
"Can we take a look at your cameras?"
"They're in the closet. Only the owner has the key," Roier says. It's the truth.
There's a muttered curse, but the officer sighs, grabs his snacks and leaves. Roier watches the car leave. He had a gut feeling the trouble isn't over. He paces, but the only scary shit that happens is the old geezer appears.
"You're standing around doing nothing? Go grab stock, clean something, make yourself busy!" the man snaps.
Roier rolls his eyes, like he can't smell the beer wafting off the man's breath. Their retail stock closet is barely large enough to move around in and severely in need of new organization. He digs around on the top shelf for more packs of cigarette and gum. They're supposed to keep it locked up, but God forbid anyone steal anything—they'd likely have to spend fifty minutes digging around in here to find anything.
He busies himself in the monotonous task of checking the two sides of the one shelf of snacks they have and shoving products in their places. He slides his other earbud in, since the old man's decided to man the front counter.
Roier's mind has drifted elsewhere. He's toying with his boxcutter he has shoved next to his pocketknife. His finger runs over the tip of the blade as he slides it out and open.
It's dull. He needs a new blade. It's such a small thought. It's been such a small nuisance cutting into cardboard today. He sighs. Now where'd they put that box of Rockaleta?
While he's digging around he hears the door open and close. Roier glances over, but in the narrow confines of the stock closet he can't see who enters.
"Hey, that isn't a public restroom!" the old man hollers, loud enough he can hear it over his music, but the door slams closed anyway to the bathroom.
Roier rolls his eyes. He goes back to looking for the candy. Unless they're shooting up hard drugs or an ass, he's not going to go busting down the door to get them out.
The old man gives him a nasty look, but goes pounding on the bathroom door himself. Roier lets him be. He unpacks the candy display and breaks the cardboard boxes down, his eyes sweeping out the window.
There's no car parked out there now. His and the old man's are parked around out back. A prickle of unease runs down his spine. It's just a vagabundo or some idiot then, right?
But it doesn't feel that way. Roier lingers at the counter, next to the register. He's distracted by a car pulling up, a customer. They're playing a loud wailing corrido at a volume that rattles windows. He sighs, shoves his earbuds in his pocket and goes out to help them.
They've evidently come from a party. Roier does not get a tip. He barely avoids cursing them out, but does manage to get them to turn down the music with a well placed glare. By the time he gets back in the store, the old man has vanished—likely for another beer after he gave himself a headache yelling—and the vagabundo or ass who was in the bathroom is looking through their meager selection of snacks.
Least he's buying something. Roier settles behind the counter then pauses. He glances at the man.
Just as dark blue eyes meet his.
Oh.
There's no car outside now. The loud corrido is drifting further and further away.
Roier subtly shifts a hand to his pocket knife. It's not much, but it's a small comfort. The dark blue eyes pull away and Roier presses his tongue to his teeth. The man seems to have freshly changed clothes, his white shirt is still wrinkled, the brown leather flight jacket hugs his biceps.
He's fucking handsome. He's unshaven. His eyes have shadows under them. And if Roier was feeling a little dumber, he might have told the stranger that he's gorgeous.
Instead, "hey?"
The man doesn't look at him. He's perusing the candy. Roier watches him carefully. There's a sleek grace to the man's movements. He fluidly squats down to grab a lollipop. Cat-like.
When he stands, unbidden, Roier's brain conjures an image of those lips wrapped around the lollipop in his hand. Pink lips, plush, puckered around the red, kissable.
Fuck. This. No.
He's not that stupid. He can think with his goddamn head not his dick.
"Just this," the man says, placing the lollipop on the counter.
Roier decides he's not going to dance around it. As he rings up the lollipop he asks flatly, "Where's your car?"
The man laughs. "Thank you, I have everything I need." He hands him a few pesos for the candy. Roier takes it but doesn't break his eye contact. The man walks out the front door.
"Wasn't a fucking joke, pendejo," Roier mutters to himself.
He has a half a mind to check on the bathroom, but puts it off. The light is off and the door is closed. Good enough. He's more concerned about where the fuck the stranger came from and where he's going?
Roier cautiously opens the door and glances around outside. The stranger isn't in sight.
It's too dark to see much outside of what's lit up by the Pemex canopy. The tall grass and Mesquite planted by the owner past the chain link fences makes him nervous. He's always thought one day a ravenous coyote might take a running leap, clear the fence, and chew into his leg if he looks around too much. It'd likely have rabies.
Roier walks around the edge of the building, slow, cautious, quiet. He considers only for a millisecond pulling out his phone flashlight, but dismisses it.
He doesn't want to give away his location. He's played enough video games to know that. He grips his pocket knife, still closed, tight in his fist.
He clears the corner. There's nothing there. His car and the old man's truck sit there, unbothered. He can't see anything amiss. There's no other cars. Roier quickly glances behind him. He's getting the creeps.
It's just him. There's nothing out there. Where did that fucker go?
Roier heads back inside. "Feels like a fucking horror movie," he mutters to himself. He's going to go splash some cold water on his face and clear his head. He's starting to work himself up over nothing.
He swings the door to the bathroom open and it hits something. There's a heavy metallic smell clinging to the air. There's enough illuminated by the store lights he can see red on the linoleum.
Roier sucks in a breath. He flicks his pocket knife open. He quickly turns the bathroom light on.
The old man is dead.
And he's all over the floor. Blood coats the porcelain sink—all the pieces of it. The corner of it has broke off and is laying in pieces across the ground.
He glances to the body and regrets it. The head is caved in, the face is unrecognizable.
Roier feels cold sweat trickling down his neck. "No mames," he whispers to himself. He turns quickly and closes the door behind him to the bathroom, unable to stomach the sight.
Roier crosses the store quickly and locks the front door. He reaches for his phone and dials 911. The connection isn't strong enough. Shit cellphone towers. Shit. Shit. "Pinche—puta madre," he snaps. He pockets his phone, and makes a split second decision.
His car is out there. He's getting the fuck out. He can make a break.
He reaches for his keys beneath the counter and his fingers close around nothing. Roier freezes. It's almost with certain dread he eyes the locked door. The store key is with his car key.
Had he? The stranger?
Better to assume he had.
Roier laughs to himself. Claro. No mames. He slumps against the counter and stares at the rows of candy. With a loud sigh, he tugs on his hoodie over his dungarees and steps outside.
That fucking guy is probably in his car? Why hasn't he left? Roier doesn't see anyone as he walks around the side of the building. He takes a deep breath, grips his pocket knife tight in his hoodie pocket and approaches his car.
The door is already unlocked. There's someone sitting very calmly in his passenger seat.
Roier doesn't move a muscle. Not at first. There's no gun. No threat. Nothing comes. He opens his car door with a creak of its hinges.
The man doesn't say anything.
"What the fuck are you doing in my car?" Roier asks. He doesn't want to try and strike the guy while he's in his car. He doesn't want blood on the seats.
The head turns slowly and with a smile, the man says, "Darling, could I trouble you with driving me somewhere?" the dark blue eyes of the stranger crease warmly, but there's a chill.
Fuck no.
"Smart ass, you just broke into my car—you have my keys! What are you playing at?"
The man blinks slow and calm. He examines his nails. There's blood beneath them. "I can't drive manual."
What a fucking joke.
But there's a charm to this man. Dangerous. Stupid of him to think that, but those eyes meet his and for a moment Roier thinks he's finally met a hidden legend: a siren, an enchanter—something people tell legends of. The moment passes and Roier digs his nails into the palm of his hand.
No, what he hasn't had is a good relationship in a long while and it's screwing with his head.
Should he ask the obvious? Should he attempt to drag the dangerous man out of his car? Roier bends halfway into his car, one hand on the center console and his pocket knife inches from the man.
"Get the fuck out," Roier growls.
In an instant there's a flash of metal. The man is armed.
Roier reacts faster; he presses the knife in a warning against the man's throat—but the man doesn't bother with a warning. The knife slices into Roier's throat. Blood quickly soaks his shirt collar. He pulls back. The car, this fight—not worth it. His retreat is stopped; a hand tightly closes around his wrist.
Roier takes a ragged breath and prepares to strike but now the man is calm again. The dark blue eyes meet his as he grips Roier's wrist hard enough to bruise, then twists.
"Pinche puto—" he reluctantly releases his pocket knife and it tumbles into the man's lap.
"Darling, it won't take much of your time," the man says.
"Yeah?" Roier snarls. But he's already lost this fight the moment he chose to even try to get in the car. He looks at the rearview mirror at the Pemex. He sits properly in the seat, and with a heavy breath, closes the car door.
It feels like closing a lid on a coffin. He just buried himself with a killer—some sort of psycho. It doesn't help, the man doesn't immediately release his wrist, his fingers stroke over his pulse, his thumb traces the red bruises flaring from his own touch.
"All-right, pendejo, where are the keys? Where are we going?" Roier says.
"Chihuahua," the man says, and hands him the keys.
Roier stares. "Have you lost your mind? You think this piece of shit car can manage a two-hour drive let alone an eleven?!"
"Get me as close as you can," the man says. "And you have my word, I will not hurt you."
He's speechless. "Any other batshit requests? Algo más, princesa?"
"Don't take 54 or 49," the man says.
"¿Qué?!"
"There's police," the man says as if that explanation satisfies.
Roier considers his keys. He considers if he could pull them out and dart from the car and lock himself in the store. The man rests his hand over Roier's.
"I wouldn't," he says.
Maybe not psychic, but psycho enough to know when someone is going to run. Roier starts his car and it splutters to life. He almost wishes he hadn't filled his tank before work.
"Where in Chihuahua am I taking you?" Roier questions.
"I'll say later," the man says.
Roier throws a hand up in exasperation and mutters a few choice words under his breath but he leaves the Pemex. Unlocked. Unmanned. And glowing 'lone in the light, a distant lighthouse in a rocky sea. And beside him sits a killer, and Roier can see the imprint of the bloody bathroom on his eyelids.