How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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Sunday afternoon, Mendocino stumbled out of the king-sized bed.
Leaving the white-tiled bathroom, he glimpsed himself in the big mirror. Stopped, backed up, flipping on the bright bathroom lights.
His RV. It had a small medicine cabinet mirror over the bathroom sink. Good enough to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and shave. He hadn't seen himself for months. Even the hospital bathroom had just a small mirror over the sink. And back then, he was bandaged all over.
He drew back at the image in the big mirror which stretched across the long countertop, illuminated by bright lights reflecting off white tile. My God. His caramel brown hair was normally bleached blonde from the sun. It was disheveled. Too long and darker than he could remember. Dark as his brows. Yesterday was the only sun he'd had since the day he got shot.
His face, chest, stomach, arms, and legs. Roasted. Clouds must have come in not long after he passed out, or that sunburn would be ungodly. He winced, touching his skin. Mendocino's brownish-gold eyes were bloodshot and puffy.
He looked like he'd been to war. He'd never really looked at the scars on the right side of his chest, where the bullets penetrated. Big. Round. Puckered. Shiny. He couldn't see the much larger scar on his back, where one went out. He touched each scar on his chest. How had that not killed him?
Wide puncture wounds, one in his lower left rib cage and another on his right side, below the ribs. Those scars were from doctors slicing him open to pull out broken-off thorns, then stitching him back together.
Leaning into the mirror, turning his head, he ran his finger over the long slash from the outer edge of his right eyebrow across the right side of his scalp. He lifted his hair. It wasn't purple anymore. It faded like Patty said it would. If he cut his hair, the way he used to wear it, there would be no hiding it. Maybe that's why he'd put off a haircut for so long.
He studied his image. When he was younger, Mendocino wanted to be six feet tall. He never quite made it. Shorter than a lot of his buddies. He shrugged. Maybe that was why he'd always pushed himself to be stronger, run farther, faster than the others.
He'd lost weight, but not his muscle tone. He flexed his right bicep. He was still powerfully built. He found solace in that. But the guy in the mirror. He was hard to look at. No wonder she'd pick big, pretty boy Bobby Watson.
He shuffled back to bed, glancing at his cell phone on the bedside table. He'd put it on silent with his first chug of whiskey the afternoon before, leaving it in the room while he was at the pool. Missed calls from Amos.
He took a deep breath, walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold can of soda, holding it against his eyes.
He called Amos back. "Hey, man. What's up?" He sounded hung over. He knew it.
"Where the hell are you?"
Mendocino didn't respond. He'd popped the top on the soda, turning it up, half draining it.
