Blood of Paradise by David Corbett

On the job it can be a plus, react fast, don’t ponder the options. But not with women. Act on impulse, who knew what baggage you were dragging along? How many times had he done that? Whatever the number, add one.
    He tried to muster a little hope that maybe, with his going away, they could gain some perspective. They’d get back on track when he returned, laugh it off, call it a misunderstanding—and yet it seemed cowardly to leave it like that. I should phone her now, he thought, straighten it out. He reached for the glove box to collect his cell, only then realizing he’d neglected to get her number. Though he knew where she lived now, he still had no clue how to reach her by phone. And she was in the same boat—she hadn’t gotten his info, either. The international complications were irrelevant. There’d be nothing but silence between them the whole time he was gone. And maybe that’s for the best, he thought. Even if it isn’t, you’re stuck.
    He arrived at El Dorado Mar as dawn was hazing the sky a grayish blue, and rousted the guard with a horn toot. Once the gate was drawn back, he drove down the winding tree-shaded lane to Horizon House, parked, punched in his code at the pass switch panel, and snuck inside.
    Only Fitz was up—shorts and T-shirt, mussed hair, bloodshot eyes—sitting in the kitchen. He was the crew’s early riser, a frequent insomniac, something he blamed on his demining work in Kuwait after the first Gulf War. It also explained the constant tremor in his hands: eighteen months of ten-hour days, spent beneath a brutal sun holding his breath, sticking carpenter nails into firing mechanisms and unscrewing detonators on Bouncing Bettys and Chinese T-72s. He said he’d seen other guys slip up—one second they’re there, the next there’s just a bloody spray of dust and that percussive whoomph you never forget. It was why he didn’t take field assignments, just did the advance work for everyone else. He couldn’t trust his body under stress anymore.
    Even with Fitz’s quirks, Jude felt relieved at having no one else to deal with. He didn’t want his private life common knowledge, especially now.
    Fitz had made the day’s first pot of coffee and Jude poured himself a quick cup, needing a jolt to clear his mind before heading to his room to pack. He was taking his first sip when Fitz said quietly from behind, “Must feel good, get it out of your system.”
    Jude turned around. Fitz sat there, smiling. It didn’t seem exactly a friendly smile.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThe bone dance,” Fitz said. “Poon platoon. Horizontal mambo.” Something cold and a little vile slid around in his eyes, then stopped—that was the scary part—then slid around again. “No offense,” he said, “but I kinda figured you as overdue. This job makes it hard. Hard to connect, I mean, with the ladies. Unless you pay for it.”
    Jude realized further silence at this point might seem overly fussy. “I guess you could say that.”
    â€œWord to the wise? Put it behind you.” Fitz’s eyes did their trick again. “Some fuckhead slips up through a crowd with a gun or a knife, your brain’s wrapped around your dick? Don’t think it can’t happen.”
    Chances are good it’s not an issue, Jude thought, thinking of where things stood with Eileen, but he’d be damned if he’d share that with Fitz. “Thanks for the advice.” He managed a smile. Then, seeing a way to change the subject: “Mind if I ask you a question?”
    Fitz dropped an unsteady hand into his lap. “Sure. Go ahead.”
    â€œI was shooting the breeze with some people down at the beach, and somebody mentioned a worker dormitory being built for a coffee plantation up around the Tecapa volcano. You heard anything about that?”
    He’d had no time to do any independent