What happens when in a weird twist of fate–or karma–the bullfighter becomes the bull?
Conchita Peron, a bullfighter still trying to earn respect in a male-dominated profession, vows to kill Asesino, the bull that took her father’s life. But what she doesn’t know–and may not realize in time–is within the bull’s body resides the soul of the man she once and still desires…that of the very handsome and very dead matador Antonio de le Vega.
Will she set aside her thirst for revenge in time to see the heart under the hide?
“Senorita, you really should be resting, not drinking. You need a clear head for tomorrow.” Mateo—once mozo de espada to Antonio, now Conchita’s—gave her what had to be the twentieth warning glance in the last hour.
It was becoming harder and harder to ignore him.
“A few shots of tequila never hurt anyone,” Conchita shot back and punctuated her statement by throwing her head back and downing another small glass of the scorching amber liquid.
“Ah. But a few shots of tequila and a pitcher of beer…” Her assistant wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Liquid courage may help you now, but it will not help you tomorrow when you are in that arena facing the most feared bull in Mexico.”
Conchita hated that her friend and mozo could see right through her, and she hated even more that he was right. But she’d be damned if she let him know that.
“Just go. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. The hotel is not far. I don’t need a chaperone.”
The man hesitated, his hands perched on the edge of the bar, his butt half off the seat. “Are you sure? You promise you are leaving soon? It is already ten p.m. You should get a full night’s rest—”
“God!” Conchita interrupted, slamming her empty shot glass on the bar. “Don’t mother me, Mateo. I’ll be fine. I’ve fought more bulls than I can even remember right now. What’s another one?”
“The streets this late at night—”
“Are fine,” Conchita stated with a warning note in her voice. “If I can fight bulls, I can fight men. They are nearly one and the same. Horny fuckers.”
Mateo blinked in surprise and his lips twitched at one corner, but he rose from his seat. “Till tomorrow morning then. Ten a.m.”
Conchita felt bad for being so harsh with him. In an industry that showed her very little respect, he had been good to her, had stood by her patiently for three years. She’d never regretted hiring him after Antonio’s death and he didn’t deserve her attitude. She needed to get her head on straight and focus her bad attitude where it belonged: on the bull.
“Yep. Ten. I’m leaving soon. I promise,” she said, then added, “Goodnight, Mateo.”
“Buenas noches, Conchita.”
He doffed his baseball cap, nodded one last time, and was gone.
Conchita watched him go, vowed to finish the half mug of beer still in front of her, and then she would leave. She knew better than to overindulge the night before a fight, but she could hold her liquor as well as any man and her nerves were strung tight. No, liquid courage wouldn’t get her far tomorrow, but it would help her sleep tonight.
In the absence of her friend, she became more aware of her surroundings: the tinkle of glasses as the bartenders shuffled, grabbed, and washed them, giggles from women in the corner as they eyed the men playing pool, the sound of balls hitting balls, voices from the men at the other end of the bar.
“I bet you a hundred pesos she loses,” one man said.
“I don’t know. Revenge is a strong motive. He killed her papa and her lover.”
Conchita spewed beer all over the counter in front of her. Her lover? What tabloid had they been reading? Dios!
“Matadoras don’t have lovers. They are all lesbians. They want to be men!” a third man declared drunkenly.
It was a battle not to turn and look at the men having this discussion, but Conchita forced herself to be still. She caught the bartender’s eye as he approached her, a white rag in hand.
The conversation continued, but she feigned disinterest.
“I heard Asesino had to be pulled off a cow, tasered and roped and drugged. His amorousness knows no bounds,” man number two’s voice came again.
His amigos chuckled as though that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
Conchita gestured for another pitcher of beer, wanting an excuse to stay and listen to the men’s conversation.
“An amorous bull is a fierce bull!”
“His cock was this long!”
More laughter.
Conchita cast a sidelong glance at the men and her eyes widened at how far the speaker held his palms apart. Did he really think it was that long?
“But you see,” man number one said, leaning forward as though he had a secret, “he is full of testosterone and missing his cow bitches. Now that he’s had a taste of cow cooch, he’ll be dying to get back there, bursting with sexual frustration, and this will make him vicious. He will kill her right away!”
The bartender placed the pitcher in front of her and Conchita quickly poured herself a mug, downing it as quickly as she could as the man’s words roiled with the yeast in her belly.
“Jorge, you saw him today, didn’t you? Didn’t you see the bull?”
“Si! Si! I saw him arrive yesterday. He’s in the barn! Massive, fierce, angry! The poor matadora. Let’s hope she’s been practicing.”
Conchita gulped, swallowing more beer as she did so. And she continued to drink and listen, drink and listen, as she clutched the red sachet under her shirt.
“Two hundred pesos says she defeats him.”
Gracias a Dios! At least someone had faith in her.
“No, no,” another man protested. “One hundred pesos says his cock is this big!”
Conchita summoned the bartender for a shot of tequila.
Catalina Ferrer lives in an undisclosed location and prefers to remain mysterious. She loves readers, however, and invites them to like her Facebook page to stay up to date on further releases from her. She promises not to spam you to death.
Another Hump Day Hook!
