They had been in Cartagena three days when the man at the corner table started buying rounds. Mid-thirties, American, sunburned across the nose, the two of them looked enough alike that the bartender had already asked if they were married. Amy had laughed and said twins. Jake had not corrected the assumption fast enough.
The bikini was a mistake she kept making. Black, three triangles and four strings, the bottom cut so high the fabric disappeared between her cheeks when she stood. She had put it on under a thin shirt for the walk to the bar and never bothered to change. Sweat stuck the shirt to her ribs. Every time she crossed her legs the string pulled.
The man offered a cigarette after the second beer. Sweet on the paper, bitter underneath. Amy took one drag. Jake took three because the first one made his tongue feel thick and good. Within minutes the cumbia slowed. Amy’s nipples tightened against the bikini top until the fabric showed every edge. Heat pooled low in her belly, heavy and stupid, the kind that made her shift on the stool and feel the seam drag across her clit.
“Hotel’s close,” the man said. His voice came from far away. They both nodded.
The room had a ceiling fan and a bed that smelled like bleach. Amy’s shirt hit the floor. The bikini stayed. Jake’s hands were already on the ties at her hips before the door locked. The drug made every touch land twice: once on skin, once somewhere deeper that said yes before she could think it.
He turned her toward the mirror. The bottom was soaked through, a dark line where it had ridden between her lips. He hooked two fingers under the string and pulled it aside. She was swollen, glistening, clit peeking past the fabric. He rubbed it with his thumb and she made a sound that didn’t belong to a sister.
“Bend over.”
She did, palms on the dresser, ass tipped up. The bikini bottom was a thin strip now. He spit, worked one finger into her ass, then two, watching her hole stretch around his knuckles in the mirror. She pushed back. The drug had turned the burn into something she chased. When he replaced his fingers with his cock she went quiet, then loud, taking the head, then the shaft, inch by inch until his hips met her cheeks.
“Fuck, Amy.”
“Don’t stop.” Her voice was slurred. “All of it.”
He fucked her ass in short, mean strokes, one hand knotted in the bikini ties so the fabric stayed yanked aside, the other reaching under to rub her clit. She came the first time with her forehead against the mirror, cunt dripping onto his wrist, ass clenching so hard he had to hold still or finish. He didn’t hold still. He kept going until her legs shook and the only words left were his name and harder.
He pulled out. She turned without being told, dropped to her knees on the tile, bikini top still on, strings damp with sweat. He fed his cock into her mouth, still slick from her ass. She opened wider, let him past her tongue, into her throat. Spit ran down her chin and onto the black triangles. He held the back of her head and used her face the way the haze told him she wanted, slow at first, then deeper, until her eyes watered and she gagged and still didn’t pull off. He came down her throat. She swallowed, coughed, licked the head clean, then opened her mouth to show him.
On the bed he stripped the bikini top off and left the bottom tangled around one thigh. She lay back, pulled her knees to her chest, and reached down to spread herself. Two holes, both used, both wet. He pushed into her cunt first, fucked her until she squirted across his stomach, then pulled out and sank back into her ass while she was still clenching. She fingered her clit and begged him not to switch again. He did it anyway. Cunt, ass, cunt, ass, until she was hoarse and the sheets were ruined and he came the second time buried in her ass, holding her hips down so she took every pulse.
They didn’t sleep so much as drop. The fan turned. Somewhere a phone buzzed and neither of them moved.
Amy woke to sunlight and an empty mattress. The bikini was on the floor, crotch stiff, one string snapped. Her ass ached in a deep, specific way. Her throat was raw. Jake was sitting against the wall in his jeans, staring at the open safe.
Passports gone. Phones gone. Wallets gone. The watch gone. On the desk, four numbers in his handwriting and a hotel pen.
The clerk downstairs said they had checked in alone. Cash. Key returned before dawn. The footage showed two Americans walking in under their own power, Amy still in the bikini with the shirt half-buttoned, Jake holding the door for her. No third person entered. They left an hour apart, each with a bag.
Borrachero, the clerk said. People got agreeable. They wrote down PINs. They opened safes. Sometimes they did other things, because the drug made skin feel like permission, and the mind filled the blank with whatever the body had been doing when the lights went out.
Amy stood under the shower until the water ran cold. The soreness stayed. Jake sat on the closed toilet and didn’t look at her through the glass. On the flight home they did not sit together. Neither of them asked what they would have seen if the camera had been inside the room. The blank spot stayed blank. The way her ass still hurt when she sat did not.
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