The Confession About the Trip We Should Never Have Taken

The county road opened between fields of withered sunflowers and low pine plots, without a single worthwhile bend. Bermejo held the wheel with one hand and gazed at the horizon with the expression of a man who has just closed a good deal and is already thinking about the next one.

—Signed and sealed —he said, dropping his cigarette butt out the window—. Now all that's left is the trip back.

Salgado nodded from the passenger seat. He was a man of few words, short and slim, with an incipient bald spot advancing from his temples with a consistency he himself lacked in many other things. They had been in business together for nearly twenty years, and that unspoken balance worked well: Bermejo talked, Salgado calculated, and between them they had built a road-maintenance company that let them live very comfortably. Bermejo was tall, broad-chested, and wore a graying goatee, with the way of moving possessed by men accustomed to having things done at their own pace.

—The northern provincial contracts come in January. And with this new warehouse, we've got the whole area covered —Bermejo said.

—Good.

—Good? Just good.

—Good, and hungry.

Bermejo turned at the indicated junction and took the road descending toward the coast. He had noticed a seafood restaurant's sign when they arrived the previous night and had filed it away with the precision of a man who remembers the details that interest him and forgets the rest. The place turned out to be a kind of beach shack raised on a wooden platform, with turquoise-blue painted tables and a view that justified the detour.

They ate lobster with local white wine. They ordered whisky for dessert. They smoked while looking out at the sea, with the particular calm of men who have worked hard and know when to take a breather.

—My wife has asked me to change her car —Salgado said.

—Why don't you change it?

—Because I changed one for her last year.

—You never learn. You have to tell women yes before they finish the sentence. That way you're always one step ahead. —Bermejo swirled the ice in his glass—. Mine just got a new BMW. I'm more of a this kind of guy —he said, tapping the Range Rover's steering wheel.

Salgado looked at his glass without answering.

***

They went for a short walk along the shore to settle their food before continuing. The beach was narrow, with a rock breakwater at the far end and very few people for midafternoon. The air smelled of salt and dried seaweed. At the farthest end, sitting beside their backpacks on the sand, a young couple listened to music from a portable speaker.

He wore his hair in a ponytail, a sleeveless shirt, and short bermuda shorts. He had earrings in both ears, a septum piercing, and tattoos on his forearms that climbed to his elbows. She was petite and red-haired, with freckles on her shoulders and cheekbones, a white spaghetti-strap shirt with nothing underneath, and a denim miniskirt that reached halfway down her thighs. They both looked twenty, give or take.

The girl saw them approaching from a distance. Without anyone asking, she rose slowly, turned her back to them, and began moving to the rhythm. She bent her knees, arched her back, and rolled her hips in slow, deliberate circles, with a fluidity that was not practiced but completely natural. Her thong peeked above the waistband of her miniskirt. The boy clapped from where he sat in the sand.

Bermejo and Salgado stopped.

—Holy fucking shit —Bermejo said under his breath.

The boy watched them with an easy smile, without getting up.

—Got a light? —he asked.

Bermejo held out his lighter. The boy lit a hand-rolled cigarette and returned it. The girl stopped dancing and turned toward them. She had large green eyes and the kind of smile that didn't need to be anything in particular to work.

—Are you on vacation? —Salgado asked.

—We came to work the season, waiting tables. But it's over now and we have to go home. To Rivamar del Monte, about fifty miles away.

—By bus?

—If there were one. The service around here is crap. And we're not exactly flush with money.

Bermejo looked at Salgado for a moment. Salgado shrugged.

—We're passing through there —Bermejo said—. If you want, we'll give you a ride.

***

Their names were Kike and Noa. They had been together since high school, had broken up for a while when they turned eighteen, and had gotten back together. Kike talked quite a bit during the first few miles, about the summer, the bars where they had worked, and the vague plans they had for the fall. Noa took the passenger seat and searched for music on a flash drive she pulled from her purse. The Range Rover smelled of expensive tobacco and new leather. The tinted windows turned the afternoon light into something more intimate than it was.

Bermejo drove without hurrying, watching the girl from the corner of his eye. Her legs were crossed, and she moved one foot to the rhythm of the music, her head resting against the window and her eyes half-closed.

—Do you always dance like that for strangers? —he asked her.

—For whoever the hell I feel like —she said, without looking at him.

—And today you felt like it?

Noa looked at him then, with an expression that wasn't flirtatious but something more direct than that.

—You've got a very big SUV and tinted windows. That always helps.

Kike took out some weed and asked whether they wanted to stop for a moment. They stopped on a back road behind some bushes. They rolled three joints. The conversation loosened, became more honest. Kike pointed to the two men's rings.

—Both married, right?

—For years —Bermejo said.

—And they don't mind?

—Mind what?

—That.

Bermejo took a long drag from the joint and looked at the road through the windshield before answering.

—Taking off your ring is a waste of time. And I don't waste time.

Noa gave a short laugh. Kike laughed too.

—I like this guy —Kike said.

***

It was Salgado who started, in the back seat, with a naturalness that allowed no argument. He put his hand on Kike's thigh, and Kike didn't remove it. He whispered something in his ear. Kike answered with half a smile and tipped his head back against the headrest.

Bermejo saw it in the rearview mirror, and his jaw tightened. Not from annoyance, but from the kind of dry arousal that always rose in him when he saw someone give in effortlessly.

—Is your boy always like that? —he asked Noa.

—Like what?

—Easy.

—Kike is curious —she said, as if that explained everything—. He always has been. When we broke up for a while, he was with men. He told me when we got back together.

—And that didn't bother you?

—I was with other people too. Neither of us held anything against the other. That's how we work.

In the back seat, Salgado had unzipped Kike's bermuda shorts and was stroking the bulge with a slowness that seemed almost technical. Kike breathed more deeply with every caress, his legs spread and his head thrown back, swallowing as if his throat had become too small. Salgado wasn't in a hurry; he squeezed, released, and squeezed again, measuring the boy's response with the precision of a man accustomed to commanding through touch. Kike bit his lip and let out a low, hoarse moan that made Bermejo smile at him in the mirror.

—Your partner doesn't waste time either —Noa said.

—I learned from him —Bermejo said.

Noa turned off the music. The silence that came in wasn't silence: it was breathing, the sound of asphalt, and something else, something coming from the back seat with increasing regularity.

—Kike —Noa called softly.

—Mmm.

—Pass me the lube from the side pocket of my bag.

There was movement in the back seat. The bag passed between the seats. Noa rummaged through it, took out a small bottle, looked at it for a moment, and passed it backward without saying anything else.

Bermejo took an exit and turned the Range Rover onto a dirt track between two sunflower fields. He stopped the engine. Through the windshield, they could see the tops of some pines and the orange evening sky.

In the back seat, Kike already had his pants completely down and was lying on his side, folded over himself, one knee on the seat and the other hanging off it. Behind him, Salgado pulled his underwear aside just enough and took out his cock with a dry, heavy gesture, without a trace of hesitation. Kike glanced at it, spread his legs wider, and braced one hand on the front seatback. Salgado slid the wet tip between the folds of his ass, first smearing him with saliva and then with the lube Noa had passed back. Kike let out a brief sound, half aroused and half frightened, and moved his hips, seeking more contact.

—Like that, huh? —Salgado murmured, his voice low and rough—. Feel it properly.

He pushed slowly at first, millimeter by millimeter, until the head went in and Kike dug his fingers into the leather seat. The boy clenched his jaw, breathed deeply, and then opened his mouth in a trembling exhalation that broke in his throat. Salgado never stopped looking at him. He entered patiently, stretching him with every inch, until he was fully inside. Kike was hot and tight, and his thighs trembled when Salgado truly began to move.

The first thrusts were slow and tentative, with the kind of control possessed only by men who know how to wait before breaking loose. The leather seat creaked. Kike, his face buried against the headrest, let out clearer, higher moans that mingled with Salgado's panting and the dull sound of the vehicle rocking on the dirt. Bermejo looked in the rearview mirror and saw Kike's flushed face, his wet mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. He saw Salgado lean over him, grip him by the waist, and drive his cock into him with a brutal regularity that kept growing in intensity.

—Do you like it like this? —Salgado asked.

—Yes —Kike said, almost voicelessly—. Fuck, yes.

Then Salgado began to pound him harder. Without elegance. Without pause. The thrusts were no longer exploratory but rhythmic punishment, his cock going in and out with dry impacts that made the seat vibrate and sent little jolts through the dashboard. Kike held on as best he could, his back arched and his breathing broken, and began thrusting too, trying to take every blow deeper. A long moan escaped him when Salgado grabbed his hair and forced him to keep his head raised.

—That's it —Salgado said—. Don't play tough now.

Bermejo, who had already unbuttoned his pants, lowered his hand and wrapped his fingers around his own cock while watching Noa. She didn't take her eyes off what was happening behind them, but she didn't seem surprised either. She had seen enough of life not to be scandalized by a cock entering a young man's ass in the middle of an SUV parked among sunflowers. She turned toward Bermejo, removed his hand, and licked two of his fingers before putting them back where he wanted them. Her mouth was warm, her tongue slow, and that was enough to make Bermejo give a short, vulgar laugh.

—You're a sweetheart —he told her.

—Don't get sentimental on me.

She knelt between the front seats and pulled her shirt up to her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples dark and hard, and the tattoo along her collarbone moved with every breath. Bermejo opened her with his hands, sucked one nipple first and then the other, licking around them and nibbling just enough to make her arch toward him. Noa rested one hand on his head and possessively gripped his hair, guiding him without needing to speak.

—Look at me —Bermejo said.

Noa looked at him, and in that look was a clean, carnal impatience, without shame.

Bermejo pulled back just enough to take his pants all the way down. His cock emerged heavy and thick, already hard as a rock. Noa smiled when she saw it and ran her tongue over her lips. Bermejo grabbed her hips, pulled her closer, and yanked her miniskirt aside to expose her pussy: shaved, wet, shining with desire. He brushed the tip over her lips slowly, enjoying the way her body contracted.

—You're soaked —he murmured.

—Then put it in already.

Bermejo gave her a light smack on the thigh, and Noa let out a husky giggle. Then he drove his cock into her in one thrust, all the way to the bottom, and they both made different but equally immediate sounds: her from the impact, him from the delicious pressure of feeling her close around him. Noa gripped the edge of the seat and began moving on her own, up and down, setting the pace, while Bermejo held her buttocks and gave her short, hard thrusts, the kind that made her pussy open and close violently.

The inside of the vehicle began filling with the sounds of four bodies working at once: the dry slap against flesh, Kike's moans, Salgado's rough panting, Noa's broken breathing, Bermejo's snort every time his cock went deeper into her amid a surly laugh of pleasure. The tinted glass reflected the orange sky as if the world outside remained intact, unaware of what was happening inside.

—Harder —Noa said, her voice already breaking.

Bermejo leaned over, put his tongue in her mouth, and fucked her more fiercely, gripping her hips until her thighs began to tremble. Noa arched, threw her head back, and let out a long, wide-open moan that mingled with Kike's grunt when Salgado gave him a particularly deep thrust and made him release a muffled protest, half pain and half pleasure.

—Fuck, Kike —Noa whispered from the front, without stopping looking back—. Look at you.

Kike opened his eyes just in time to see her half-naked, being fucked a few inches away from him, and that completely undid him. He came again, spurting dryly across the seat, his face contorted and his entire body shuddering. Salgado clenched his teeth, gave two more long thrusts, and then pulled out of him with a low moan, gripping his ass as he came over the inside of Kike's thighs and the seat cushion, thick and hot.

—Shit —Salgado said, breathing hard.

Kike fell back, completely spent, his legs spread and his skin gleaming with sweat.

Bermejo, who had been on the edge for some time, felt Noa tighten around him in short, almost violent spasms and dug his fingers into her waist to keep moving her. He drove his cock deep inside her one last time, very deep, and she let out a muffled cry as if the air had been torn from her. Then Bermejo came inside her in a long, hot release, feeling her pussy pulse around him as he clenched his teeth and remained motionless for a second, trembling.

Noa continued riding him slowly a couple more times until she had drained him completely. Then she collapsed against him, breathing unevenly, her face hidden in his neck.

—That was really good —she murmured.

—I know.

***

Bermejo and Salgado got out to smoke while the two young people recovered. Night had fallen completely. The field smelled of dry earth and pine. They lit their Marlboros in silence.

—How is she? —Salgado asked.

—Well trained —Bermejo said.

—Are you finished?

—I'm not done.

Noa got out of the SUV wrapped in Kike's shirt. She asked Bermejo for a cigarette. He lit it from his own and handed it to her. They smoked for a moment without speaking.

—Are you going to finish what you started? —she asked him.

—That depends on you.

Noa dropped the cigarette halfway through, turned around, and got back into the Range Rover through the rear door. Bermejo looked at Salgado.

—Two minutes —he said.

—Take as long as you need —Salgado said, taking another drag.

***

That was when the tractor appeared. A green John Deere moved slowly along the dirt road, driven by a man of about fifty: visor cap, sun-weathered face, prominent belly. He stopped the engine ten yards from the Range Rover and climbed down from the step with the unhurried manner of someone who was never in a hurry.

—Good afternoon —he said, looking at the vehicle—. Trouble?

—None —Salgado said—. Just a technical stop.

The man looked at the SUV's rear door, which was ajar. There were sounds coming from inside.

—I see —he said.

He stayed where he was. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette and rested his arm on the tractor's fender, with the calm of someone who considered the situation to belong to him as much as to anyone else.

—This is private property —he said, though without much conviction.

—We won't be long —Salgado said.

The man nodded slowly and didn't move.

Bermejo finished a few minutes later. He got out of the SUV fastening his belt and saw the man wiping one hand on his trouser thigh while zipping himself up with the other. He understood everything at a glance.

—Be careful of the crops when you leave —the man said, raising two fingers in greeting.

—Don't worry —Bermejo said.

***

They dropped them off in Rivamar del Monte, at the roundabout at the entrance to town. Kike and Noa picked up their backpacks and said goodbye with the same carefree attitude they would have shown toward any summer acquaintance. Kike shook Bermejo's hand with a smile. Noa raised one hand without looking back and walked away with that particular way she had of moving, as if the ground owed her something.

Noa's red thong was left on the back-seat floor. Neither man noticed it until Salgado found it while looking for the lighter, already back on the highway.

—Souvenir —he said, and left it where it was.

***

Two days later, the Range Rover was brought into the interior-cleaning shop on Olivares Street with a ticket in the name of Bermejo Salcedo. Reference: Land Rover Defender, license plate 4291 KPT.

The woman who came to collect it wore a gray linen dress, sunglasses, and gold hoop earrings. She had just come from the hairdresser. She handed the ticket to the receptionist and waited standing, with the posture of someone unaccustomed to waiting.

—That's two hundred eighty euros —the manager said.

—Two hundred eighty? My husband said it was a regular cleaning.

—I'll check.

He went to the workshop. One of the young men looked up from his phone.

—The gray Range Rover—what did it have?

—The stains on the back upholstery wouldn't come out with the regular treatment. There were some on the dashboard too. And on the gearshift. It took us four hours to make it presentable.

—What did it smell like?

The young man looked at him for a moment.

—Like what you imagine.

The manager returned to reception and explained to the woman, tactfully and with euphemisms, that the interior had required special treatment for stains of organic origin.

—I don't understand —she said—. My husband said he'd taken a long business trip.

—Yes, ma'am. We also found a garment on the back-seat floor. We put it in a bag inside the vehicle; we didn't want to handle it any further.

The woman paid by card without saying anything else. She took the keys and left.

Before starting the car, she looked at the plastic bag on the passenger seat. Inside was a red thong with stretched elastic and stains that were not mud.

She looked at it for a long while.

Then she started the engine.