Seashores of Old Mexico Read online

  Seashores of Old Mexico

  By BA Tortuga

  After a bar fight gone horribly wrong, Clint is on the run, tired, hungry, and desperate to get out of Texas and across the border as fast as he can. But more than anything, he needs a place to relax and feel safe—at least for a little while. Searching for work, he stumbles into a cantina on the beach and runs into its owner. Jack might be a little older and a little worldlier, but the two men have enough in common to form a fast friendship that soon spills over into the bedroom.

  But Clint isn’t the only who’s done things he isn’t proud of, things he’d rather keep hidden. Both of them have to be ready to drop everything and run if the past gets too close, and that’s no foundation for a relationship—especially since the truth always comes out eventually.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  More from BA Tortuga

  About the Author

  By BA Tortuga

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  OKAY. OKAY. Okay.

  He was cool.

  See him?

  See him be cool.

  Oh, fuck him raw, he was screwed and tattooed.

  Except, not, because that dude at the tattoo parlor had great big gold shark teeth and shit and, hell.

  Hell.

  Not even when he’d had a dime to his name, damn it.

  Which he didn’t now, but Clint’d swept the parking lot of the little beach bar and gathered up enough pesos to get him a cerveza, maybe. Or some guacamole. Maybe he’d ask for a shift washing dishes for a little dinero.

  He spent a second thinking of Momma’s cobbler and brisket on the grill. Potato salad in that big old yellow bowl and a glass plate of pickles. Damn, being in trouble with the law was hell.

  The bar was pretty deserted inside, just a few old barflies scattered about, some gringo, some not. The place looked crazy as all get-out—all palm tree lights and alligator heads, one of the booths made out of the front end of an old Chevy truck. The guy behind the bar, though, he looked like home, with a deep tanned face and a straw Stetson, grinning and chatting with some old-timer.

  He walked up slow and easy, trying not to look like a drifter living too close to the bone. He settled on a barstool, the seat tilting a little. Maybe he could afford two beers.

  “Well, hey there, son. What can I get you?” The bartender came on down, smiling at him just the same as he had at the other guy, not a bit of the fake he’d get at the touristy places that he couldn’t afford anyway.

  “Just a cold one, thanks. I ain’t picky.” He smiled back, nodded, keeping his hat pulled down just a little, more out of habit than need.

  He got a look, not so much curious as knowing. “You look thirsty. It’s happy hour, son. The cheap draft is two for one.”

  Oh, praise Jesus. “Looks like my luck’s holding today, then. What do I owe you?”

  “Well, it’s a buck fifty, which I think is about sixteen pesos, give or take.” Bright brown eyes shone under that hat, not real dark, more gold. Those smile lines deepened. “But I’ll take what you can give and be happy.”

  Sixteen. He dug out what he’d picked up and counted. Twenty. Okay. There was even a tip. “Here goes.”

  Jesus. He was gonna have to drink slow.

  “That’ll keep you for a bit, son. Here, have some pretzels.” Grinning, the guy slid a whole basket of goodies down to him.

  “Thanks.” He tried to eat slow, knowing he’d end up tossing if he dumped a bunch of food in him. Still, the beer was gonna hit him like a ton of bricks if he didn’t get something in him.

  Lord have mercy, he was tired. It’d been three weeks that he’d been running. Three weeks after a fight had gone from one thing to another, and one man’d ended up dead and another one saying it was him that did the doing, whether or not it was true.

  The bruises were all faded now, though, and the truck had been dumped in McAllen for $230, and he was….

  Somewhere.

  Lord.

  “Here’s your beer, son. You want some water too? I ain’t gonna charge you for bottled, bad as the local stuff is.”

  It was almost too much, that friendly voice.

  “Yeah? That’d be a kindness. Thank you kindly.” He drank most of that first one in a few gulps, the beer hitting his stomach with a splash.

  A bottle of water landed next to his mostly empty glass. “I’ll get you the next when you’ve had some water.”

  The guy moved off, giving him a minute to sit and blink. He finished the pretzels and the water and the beer, eyes on his hands there on the bar. They looked like his daddy’s, sorta. Couple of scars, couple of rope marks, veins on the back sticking up a little. Working man’s hands. A good man’s hands. Shit, he sure hoped he could call himself a good man when all this happy crap was said and done. Clint rolled his eyes at himself. Quit all that shit, man. You get your other beer and move on and find a place to nap where you won’t get eat up.

  “Here you go.” His second beer joined the other glass on the bar. “You look like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “Thank you, sir. Just been a long day or three.” He’d get it figured. He didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Although that last hombre that gave him a ride was hauling grapefruits.

  “I’ve had a few of those myself.” That wink was pure-D wicked, the guy laughing a little. “Well, if you need anything else, holler, all right?”

  “You’ve been real nice. I….” He rubbed the back of his neck once. “I don’t reckon you know any place that needs an evening of work? I can do near anything.”

  “Sure. I could use someone to haul boxes tonight when my beer delivery comes. If you don’t mind hauling, I can pay you some.”

  “I can do that.” Shit, yeah. He tried not to sound too eager, but damn. Hauling boxes was better than anything, and the guy seemed decent enough. He held one hand out, keeping his arms close to his chest in case he stank. “I’m Clint. Pleased.”

  “Jack. Pleased right back. You just down from the States, son?” They shook, good and firm, Jack looking him straight in the eye. Approving of him.

  “Yeah. I was….” He bit his bottom lip. Hush now. “I’m traveling some. Seeing stuff.”

  “Sure.” The easy way Jack nodded made him think maybe the man knew something about seeing stuff, like it or no. “Well, if you want to hang around, that’s fine. Or I got a cot in the back room….”

  “I….” He drank most of his second beer before he finished answering. “I wouldn’t mind a nap before you put me to work.”

  Then he could keep walking through the night, not have to worry on finding somewhere else until tomorrow night.

  “Well, there you go. Come on, son.” The drop counter between the wall and the bar rose under Jack’s hand, and the guy led him back to a little office and storage room. “I got a wee bath if you want to wash up, and the cot’s just there. You go to it, because I’ll work your heinie off come dark.”

  “I appreciate it, man. I ain’t scared of working.” Go away now, because he was so fucking tired he could just fucking lose it, and he didn’t want to. He’d been holding his shit together real good.

  “You need me, you holler.” And Jack was gone, just like the man had heard him. Or, you know, had a bar to run.

  Clint managed to wash his hands and his underarms and his face and all and say a quick prayer for his folks before his body gave out, hands holding his hat safe, boots resting there on the grou
nd, in case he needed to wake up running.

  JACK WORKED and talked and smiled, but half his mind was on the kid in the back room. Oh, he wasn’t worried the boy would steal from him. No, sir. He figured if that was the intent, the kid wouldn’t have offered to work for some money. Nope, his thoughts turned more toward how the kid reminded him of himself all those years ago, worn to the ground and needing a place to hole up. A place to light, just for a little while.

  This wasn’t the first stray he’d taken in. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Jack figured he owed it to the universe at large to help people out, just the way someone had helped him back then. Besides, the kid was cute, if you took away that hungry look.

  When Ramon showed up to work the night shift, Jack went to wake the kid up, figuring he’d best feed both of them before the delivery showed. Redheaded as the devil and freckled to boot, Jack’d bet the skin of the kid’s belly was white as a sheet, but hands and face and neck were tanned deep. Those hands were holding on to that beat-up straw hat like it was the only thing the kid had left in the world. Lord, Lord.

  Eyes that were green as a Heineken bottle flew open, the kid sitting straight on up. “I. Hey. Sorry. I. Uh. Shit.”

  “Hey there. How do you feel about seafood burritos?” That had taken him some getting used to. The whole shrimp in his tortilla thing.

  The kid’s stomach growled loud enough for him to hear, and he bit back his laugh. “I ain’t picky, but I… I ain’t got. I mean. I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Oh bullshit, son. Your belly’s gonna eat your spine. I hate to go to Rosarita’s alone. That widow lady always hits on me. Now, get your ass up and come on.” There. See the kid not follow orders given in that tone of voice.

  “Yessir.” The hat went on, and the kid popped up like a jackrabbit out of a warren, still looking more than half asleep.

  Jack led the way out the back door and on down to the little whitewashed restaurant with the brightly painted flowers and parrots on it. The smells coming out had him drooling. Rosa must be eighty, but she made the best grub around.

  The kid was quiet, but right there, looking about as hungry as a man could. Lord, Lord. There was a story there.

  They got sat, and Jack grinned over the top of the menu. “You need any help, you holler. Rosa don’t cater to English much.”

  “I…. Okay.” The kid looked at the menu, then pointed to the cheapest thing he could find. Oh Lord. Clint was about green, but wasn’t that just dear? “What’s this here?”

  “You don’t want that. I tell you what. I’ll order.” Poor kid. When sweet Elena came up, he rattled off an order that would feed a working man. Burritos and some of them puffy things filled with cheese and pork and lots of chips and shit. And he had to have some of them sopapillas too.

  The kid tipped his hat to Elena, gave her a smile. “You sound like you been here a good while.”

  “Lord, yes.” He’d been there just on twenty-odd years. Long enough, for sure. “And I’ve been eating here all the while.”

  “It’s good, to have it so close.”

  “It is. Hell, I chose the bar mostly because I can get Rosa’s kids and grandkids to deliver when it’s slow.” The chips and guacamole and that pico de gallo salsa arrived, and Jack took a chip right away so the kid didn’t think he had to wait.

  “There you go.” The kid took a chip and scooped up some guac, moaning over it a little. “Oh, man. This is good.”

  He just grinned. Everything seemed better when you’d done without, that much he remembered. “So where are you from, son?”

  “Little pissant town in Texas. Nowhere special.”

  No, but somebody was missing it, he’d bet. “I’m from Arizona, myself. Sometimes wish I could go back, but it’s a good life down here.” Margaritas on the beach, all the sweet tourist ass a man could handle. Yeah. It was good.

  “I been to the Gila River. Right pretty out there, with the saguaros and the mountains.” The kid had hands like an old man’s, all scarred and rough and callused.

  “You from a ranching bunch?” he asked, nodding at those hands. He remembered that too. Damn, the kid took him back a long, long way.

  “Yessir. My daddy runs cattle and working horses. Does okay with it too, him and my brothers.”

  The urge to ask came and went. Kid wouldn’t be willing to tell him now, and if he didn’t know, wasn’t nobody who could ask him questions.

  The food came, and Jack dug right in again, knowing it would put the kid at ease.

  The kid ate like he had a hollow leg, just putting it away. When the fork hit the table, Jack got a crookedy grin. “I haven’t eat that good in a while. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll take it out of your hide when I put you to work.” Oh, sopapillas. Man, he did love him some fried bread. “We used to go to the Four Corners when I was a kid,” he said, pouring honey on his dessert. “And that Navajo fry bread tasted a lot like this.”

  “Yeah? I ain’t been there, but the funnel cakes at the state fair? Them and my momma’s cobbler is the only thing better.”

  “Cobbler. Now that I haven’t had in an age.” Jack wondered if Rosa could be convinced to make cobbler. Leaning back, he patted his belly. “Damn.”

  “Yessir.” Clint wiped his mouth, the hint of stubble on upper lip and chin catching the sunlight. “I might live.”

  “Good on you. Well, come on, son. We’re wasting time.” Winking, he left a couple of US twenties on the table, because Rosa always needed the money, as many folks as lived with her. “Shipment ought to be in, and Ramon is worthless as tits on a boar hog for anything but pouring tequila.”

  “Yessir.” Clint stood and followed close, boots clacking on the wood floor. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’m good at giving orders.”

  Clint was good at following them too. Damned if they didn’t get the truck unloaded in less than half the time it usually took, and Jack was downright grateful.

  “You need a job, you just say the word,” he said, taking off his hat to wipe sweat off his brow. “I could use a good worker like you.”

  “Yeah? I… I wouldn’t mind a bit of work, sir. I surely wouldn’t.” There was some honest fear living right under that thin layer of coping, the look of someone lost at sea and not sure where the fuck to go next.

  “Well, good.” He knew he was pushing it, but Jack went ahead and asked. “You got a place to stay, son?”

  “No. No, I’ll just…. Would you let me sleep around back of the bar for a night or two on the deck where you load? I swear I won’t cause no trouble.” Clint chewed on his bottom lip a second. “You can even hold my pay for a bit, so I can prove it.”

  “Shit, son. I don’t want you to feel like you gotta do that.” Clapping the kid on the shoulder, he grinned his best buddy o’ mine grin. “I got me a little place right on the beach. Plenty of space.”

  “You sure? I wouldn’t want to put you out none, and you don’t know me from Job.”

  He laughed, right out loud. “Oh, believe me, son. You remind me a lot of me when I was young.”

  A lot.

  “You ain’t that old, Mister, and I swear, I’m not feeling too terrible young.”

  No, but give the kid a shower and a clean pair of shorts and he might lose a decade of sorry.

  “Let me just tell Ramon I’m heading out. I sure could use a shower.” Wait until the kid got a load of his outdoor shower. Lord, Lord. “Be right back.”

  Ramon was shaking his ass at some pretty filly, the crowd busy but friendly, all regular folks not looking for trouble. “You got yourself another gringo, Boss?”

  “Shut up. I’m going home; you slam drinks, not women. At least on my time. And you cash out your tips, not mine. You got it?” He grinned, though, knowing Ramon would do his job. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be there.

  “Aye, aye, Bossman.” Ramon’s eyes twinkled. “You want you some Spanish fly?”

  “Don’t ma
ke me hurt you.” He waved at Jess and Hector when he went out and joined Clint out back again. “Come on, kid.”

  “Right behind you.” The kid was starting to drag a little, boots scuffling on the sand just enough to hear.

  It wasn’t far to his place, and he let Clint in and turned on the light. “Guest room there, bath in there. Go ahead and shower if you want. I got some paperwork to do.”

  “Oh….” The kid nodded, looking like he’d just been offered a gold ticket to heaven.

  “Go on. I’ll get some towels and all.” And some undies. He had a new pack Rosa had given him for Christmas.

  “Thanks.” The door shut and the water started before he even got down the hall. Oh yeah. Somebody was needing a bath.

  Whistling a certain Willie and Waylon cowboy song, he wandered on down the hall to get stuff for the kid to wear, feeling like he’d done his good deed for the week.

  And the fact that he’d given himself some fine scenery for a while didn’t make no never mind. No sir. None at all.

  Chapter Two

  CLINT NODDED to Ramon as he carried another keg from the back to the front. Saturday and everybody was in the bar, dancing and singing and shit, and hell, after two weeks? He didn’t feel like he was gonna get beat to death with his own tongue. He still stayed out of the way and quiet, because damn, Jack was good to him and God knew he didn’t want it to stop, but he was sort of….

  Settling in.

  “Here’s this one, man. What next?” He’d got the storeroom all cleaned up and the loose boards nailed down in the back so he didn’t fall carrying boxes anymore. It was working.

  Ramon gave him a grin, one that had the ladies falling all over. Did nothing for him, though. Ramon was a good guy, but damn.

  “Just get the glasses washed, man. Then it’s time for some salt and lime.” Ramon liked to have a shot at the end of his shift.

  “Sure.” He nodded and headed to the sink. It was mind-numbing work, sort of, so he didn’t have to worry or nothing. He could just wash and relax and think on things.