She shoved the cash into her jeans pocket and jerked Donovan’s elbow hard while she tapped his hip pockets, looking for his phone.
Not there. Back pocket, then.
She found it and shoved the phone down her bra for lack of anywhere else. Now he couldn’t call Noa with her location, but he still had the car keys in his left hand.
Donovan kicked out, hitting her in the shin. Jule punched him in the side of the neck and he crumpled forward. One hard shove and Donovan hit the ground. He started to push himself up, but Jule grabbed a metal lid from one of the nearby trash cans and banged it on his head twice and he collapsed on a pile of garbage bags, bleeding from the forehead and one eye.
Jule backed out of his reach. She still held the lid. “Drop your keys.”
Moaning, Donovan extended his left hand and tossed them so they landed a couple of inches from his body.
Jule grabbed the keys and popped the trunk. Then she took her rolling suitcase and sprinted down the street before Donovan could stand up.
She slowed to a walk as soon as she hit the main road in San José del Cabo and checked her shirt. It looked clean enough. She wiped her hand slowly and calmly over her face, in case there was anything on it—dirt, spit, or blood. She pulled a compact out of her bag and checked herself as she moved, using the mirror to look over her shoulder.
There was no one behind her.
She put on matte pink lipstick, snapped her compact shut, and slowed her pace even more.
She couldn’t look like she was running from anything.
The air was warm, and music thumped from inside the bars. Tourists milled around in front of many of them—white, black, and Mexican, all drunk and loud. Cheap vacation crowds. Jule tossed Donovan’s keys and phone in a trash can. She looked for a cab or a supercabos bus but didn’t see either.
Okay, then.
She needed to hide and change, in case Donovan came after her. He would pursue her if he was working for Noa. Or if he wanted revenge.
Picture yourself, now, on film. Shadows flit across your smooth skin as you walk. There are bruises forming underneath your clothes, but your hair looks excellent. You’re armed with gadgets, thin shards of metal that perform outrageous feats of technology and assault. You carry poisons and antidotes.
You are the center of the story. You and no one else. You’ve got that interesting origin tale, that unusual education. Now you’re ruthless, you’re brilliant, you’re practically fearless. There’s a body count behind you, because you do whatever’s required to stay alive—but it’s a day’s work, that’s all.
You look superb in the light from the Mexican bar windows. After a fight, your cheeks are flushed. And oh, your clothes are so very flattering.
Yes, it’s true that you are criminally violent. Brutal, even. But that’s your job and you’re uniquely qualified, so it’s sexy.
Jule watched a shit-ton of movies. She knew that women were rarely the centers of such stories. Instead, they were eye candy, arm candy, victims, or love interests. Mostly, they existed to help the great white hetero hero on his fucking epic journey. When there was a heroine, she weighed very little, wore very little, and had had her teeth fixed.
Jule knew she didn’t look like those women. She would never look like those women. But she was everything those heroes were, and in some ways, she was more.
She knew that, too.
She reached the third Cabo bar and ducked inside. It was furnished with picnic tables and had taxidermied fish on the walls. The customers were mainly Americans, getting sloshed after a day of sport fishing. Jule pushed quickly to the back, glanced over her shoulder, and went into the men’s room.
It was empty. She ducked into a stall. Donovan would never look for her here.
The toilet seat was wet and coated yellow. Jule dug in her suitcase until she found a black wig—a sleek bob with bangs. She put it on, wiped off her lipstick, applied a dark gloss, and powdered her nose. She buttoned a black cotton cardigan over her white T-shirt.
A guy came in and used the urinal. Jule stood still, glad she was wearing jeans and heavy black boots. Only her feet and the bottom of her suitcase would be visible at the low edge of the stall.
A second guy came in and used the stall next to hers. She looked at his shoes.
It was Donovan.
Those were his dirty white Crocs. Those were his nurselike Playa Grande trousers. Jule’s blood pounded in her ears.
She quietly picked her suitcase up off the floor and held it so he couldn’t see it. She stayed motionless.
Donovan flushed and Jule heard him shuffle to the sink. He ran the water.
Another guy came in. “Could I borrow your phone?” Donovan asked in English. “Just a quick call.”
“Someone beat you up, man?” The other guy had an American accent, Californian. “You look like you been through it.”
“I’m fine,” said Donovan. “I just need a phone.”
“I don’t have calls here, just texting,” the guy said. “I have to get back to my buddies.”
“I’m not going to steal it,” said Donovan. “I just need to—”
“I said no, okay? But I wish you well, dude.” The other guy left without using the facilities.
Did Donovan want the phone because he had no car keys and needed a ride? Or because he wanted to call Noa?
He breathed heavily, as if in pain. He didn’t run the water again.
Finally, he left.
Jule set the suitcase down. She shook her hands to get the blood moving again and stretched her arms behind her back. Still in the stall, she counted her money, both pesos and dollars. She checked her wig in her compact mirror.
When she felt certain Donovan was gone, Jule walked out of the men’s room, confident, no big thing, and headed for the street. Outside, she pushed through the crowds of partiers to a corner and found herself in luck. A taxi pulled up. She jumped in and asked for the Grand Solmar, the resort next to Playa Grande.
At the Grand Solmar she got a second taxi easily. She asked the new driver to take her to a cheap, locally owned place in town. He drove her to the Cabo Inn.
It was a dive. Cheap walls, dirty paint, plastic furniture, plastic flowers on the counter. Jule checked in under a false name and paid the clerk in pesos. He didn’t ask for ID.
Up in the room, she used the small coffeemaker to brew a cup of decaf. She put three sugars in. She sat on the edge of the bed.
Did she need to run?
No.
Yes.
No.
Nobody knew where she was. No one on earth. That fact should have made her happy. She had wanted to disappear, after all.
But she felt afraid.
She wished for Paolo. Wished for Imogen.
Wished she could undo everything that had happened.
If only she could go back in time, Jule felt, she would be a better person. Or a different person. She would be more herself. Or maybe less herself. She didn’t know which, because she didn’t any longer know what shape her own self was, or whether there was really no Jule at all, but only a series of selves she presented for different contexts.
Were all people like that, with no true self?
Or was it only Jule?
She didn’t know if she could love her own mangled, strange heart. She wanted someone else to do it for her, to see it beating behind her ribs and to say, I can see your true self. It is there, and it is rare and worthy. I love you.