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“New Mexico.”
“And that’s where you grew up?”
He nods. “A little town in the desert.”
“You like it there?”
“I do. It’s home.”
I throw him a look. “But there’ssandin the desert.”
He chuckles. “That’s different.”
“Oh, I bet. Plenty of snakes and scorpions slithering around in it, I imagine.” I shiver at the thought.
“For sure. No sharks, though.”
I shake my head. My brother’s partner has a line for everything, to the point I’m surprised he and Tripp haven’t killed each other. They’re too much alike.
“Happy childhood?” I’m the one prying now.
“Pretty much. Not always easy, though.”
What kind of background shapes a man, a good man, I’m presuming—I’m crediting his friendship with my brother to his account—who decides to take on denizens of evil, to become one with them, for a living? I wait, grateful when he continues.
“My dad was a good man and a hard worker, but pretty uneducated and never had great jobs. Anyway, unfortunately, he died of a heart attack when I was thirteen.”
I gasp.
Marco turns. “No worries. We survived. Mom worked hard. I did whatever odd jobs I could find. My big sister waited tables and then married a guy who was a sheriff’s deputy. He moved in until they started having kids, and things gradually got better.”
That’s a lot of drama for a young life, but probably nothing compared to what mine would have been had I not been removed from my home when I was five. I’ve learned things about my family of origin lately. I’m still trying to process it all. Apparently I have five more siblings.At leastfive more. I’ve never met them, and I don’t even know their names. Is it bad that I might not want to?
“Is it just you and your sister?”
“No. Two little sisters, as well.”
Makes sense. No wonder he’s so good with women.
I stumble on a cracked seashell. Good with women? The man picked me up in a bar. Well, the bar at a hamburger joint, but still. “How’d you end up DEA?”
“Law enforcement was my brother-in-law’s influence, and then I went to college in El Paso. You know, we were so close to the border, immigration and drug enforcement were both sort of baked into the cake. I went the drug route.”
“But why undercover?”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “Because I’m good at it.” His nose sort of crinkles. “Crazy good at it.”
I stare into his eyes, and I feel like he’s saying more than the words alone convey. He’s also sounding a lot like my brother again. I believe Tripp and I had a strikingly similar conversation this spring, back when he was all conflicted about who he was and whether he had a right to be happy. The darkness of his work weighed on him, as well.
And I guess I can sort of see it. If the job requires being a bad guy, and a person is good at his job, does it naturally follow that he’s not a good guy? Or just a great actor?
My head begins to spin. What is it with these men and their double lives? They’re practically like spies, these undercover guys. Too complicated for my blood.
Whatever. It’s not as if Marco will ever be anything in my life.
Nothing but a shameful memory I’ll always want to forget…except…he does possess a certain charm.
“So, what about you? What kind of job does an econ/math major do for a living?”
