“Certified Payroll Processor. It’s a pretty intensive certification program that you take so you can work in accounting and human resources. Once I’m certified, I have a standing job offer from a company that provides payroll services to Fortune 500 companies.”
“And you are going to do what?”
She shrugs. “Nothing anymore. I’m not going to be able to take the test in time, which means all my prep classes are wasted, which means I won’t be able to start my job, which means . . . I don’t even know anymore.”
“This is a fucked-up world, darlin’. That you’re still breathing oughta be counted as a win.”
“It’s . . . how do I go back to that?”
“To what? Your dick-for-brains boyfriend? Your job that you talk about with all the enthusiasm of a goat herder?” I’m getting angry, and I can’t even pinpoint the real cause. Is it because I am pissed off that she still cared enough about her boyfriend to contact him? That she actually called him a boyfriend? That she didn’t care enough about herself to be with a guy who could give her a real-life orgasm? That she is thinking about going back to Minneapolis, the coldest tit a witch ever froze, to take up a job that would turn her into a zombie in under three years? Or that she is so achingly goddamn beautiful, and that I want her so much my balls might fall off?
Even though my external word vomit doesn’t match my internal bloviating, Regan still looks taken aback, but she rallies quickly.
“You know, I’ve gone through a lot and am still standing, so you can dial back on the Robin Williams Die Hard inspirational speeches. You suck at them.”
“It’s Bruce Willis, and I know.” I grin at her because I’ve never been one to stay angry long, and her confusion between Bruce Willis and Robin Williams is funny as shit. “Let’s go, fighter.”
“Fighter. I like that. You can keep calling me that one.”
“How about baby fighter? Or fighter doll?” I tease. I pay the bill and gesture for Regan to step out in front of me.
“You staring at my ass? Is that why you always want me to go first?” she sasses back, whatever hurt my incautious words may have caused apparently gone.
“You do have a fine ass, fighter baby.” I whistle. “It’s plump and bitable like a juicy piece of Brazilian fruit.”
“Yet you haven’t even attempted a taste. Maybe you don’t like Brazilian fruit?” She sashays out in front of me, her ass swinging back and forth, looking like a true Rio native. All the ladies in Rio seem to have a special hitch in their step that makes people-watching down here almost mandatory. But right now my eyes are glued on this one Minnesotan’s prime real estate, and my head’s reeling from her very obvious come-on. I don’t really know what to make of it.
“I love fruit,” I say. “I never like to eat where I’m not invited.”
“What kind of invitation is it that you need then? An engraved one with gold lettering?”
I want to pull her aside, maybe push her up against one of the concrete walls of the buildings lining the Rua Visconde de Pirajá and test out that invitation. She laughs and then snaps her fingers. “Better close your mouth, baby boy, or flies will land there.”
Snapping my jaw shut, I hurry to catch up with her. Who said we needed sleep when we got done with Luiz? I’m thinking there are a dozen other things we could be doing in a soft, warm bed between some cool, clean sheets.
Whistling, I wink at Regan, and she gives me a big smile in return. Life is easy when you don’t think about anything but the moment. We’ve got to get Regan papers, and then we’re checking into a decent hotel room.
“This is a pretty nice place,” she says as we walk down an avenue full of luxury brand stores. “I mean, I think these are nicer stores than we have in Minneapolis.”
“Ipanema is the second-wealthiest neighborhood in Rio.”
“And we’re going to see a forger here?” she asks.
“Maybe it pays well?” I stop at the address that Pereya gave me. It’s an art store—a high-end art store.
“This?” Skepticism drips from the word.
Opening the door, we step inside, the air-conditioning almost too cool for our skin. Regan shivers noticeably, and I wrap an arm around her instinctively. She leans into my embrace. For the warmth, I remind myself, but I find myself pretty damned pleased.
“Tudo bem?” A lithe, model-tall woman walks toward us, her dark hair caught up in a heavy braid that lies like a thick snake on her shoulder.
“Just awesome,” I lie. “Look, I could give you a big song and dance complete with code words and shit like that, but I need to see Luiz. Pereya sent me.”