Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) (21 page)

“Any time you want, girl, I be here for you. I drive you anywhere you want. Or you could stay. I take you home to my madda.”

I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, but it seemed polite to suggest, “We’ll have dinner on my way back north.”

I wasn’t in the least upset about the way things had turned out—the Mustang wasn’t mine to be upset about—but it was strange being without a car.

And public transport was unlike anything I had experienced. From the outside, it was just an old school bus still painted yellow from the States, but inside, tasseled upholstery fringe was strung across the windows with multi-colored Christmas lights, and South African reggae played from speakers bolted to the roof. The bus stopped at a field between the border and the capital so that forty men with machetes could board. One of them fell asleep on my shoulder, and nothing I was prepared to do would wake him up.

After six weeks of touring the country, I understood I had to share a seat already occupied by a woman if I didn’t want a man nuzzling into my neck, but little else had occurred to make me think I wouldn’t live another six weeks. I was fairly certain the three month prediction of my demise was inaccurate.

Belize wasn’t exciting enough to be deadly. It was certainly full of liars, criminals, and exiles, but they all seemed to be retired.

And when I stopped long enough to think about it, I was pretty tired too. I’d divorced shortly before leaving Tennessee, and even though it had been a friendly parting, divorce is something that starts a long time before the paperwork is finalized and finishes a long time after.

Divorce is exhausting.

So is non-stop traveling.

When I arrived in San Ignacio on Belize’s western border, I was so drained of energy, so desperate for a touch of stability, I decided to stay. I thought I might stay forever. But that was before meeting the crazy American.

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