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The ride has been going smoothly, and that’s exactly what should have made Nacho suspicious. He’s pretty sure taking Route 285 South and going in from Texas would have gotten them where they are now faster, but Lalo insisted on going straight for El Paso. There, he allowed Nacho to take a break to grant him a couple hours of sleep before the long haul between the border and Nuevo León. Maybe they should have driven the whole night through instead.
Now they’re standing by the roadside, waiting for the temperature gauge of the engine room to go down far enough that they can check out the reason for the billowing white steam coming from the car hood. With the way they’ve been doing nothing but cruising through the desert for almost two days now, it’s been a question of time until the engine overheats.
Lalo says they’re not that far from the next town, so that’s good news at least, but they still need to get there first.
After last night, Nacho is slowly recovering from the state of catatonia that he’s entered the second he realized what kind of shit he’s gotten himself into. He has no earthly idea why he’s here, or what Lalo’s plans for him are. All he knows is that he needs to tell Fring about this as soon as possible, before any suspicions arise that this might be an attempt to escape. Nothing could be further from the truth. His own car feels like a goddamn cage with Lalo sitting right next to him.
At least Lalo’s been unusually quiet these past few hours, mostly staring out the window pensively, only telling Nacho where to take which turn every now and then. He seems almost a bit sullen and hasn’t switched on the radio either, which is close to concerning. Sometimes Nacho’s caught Lalo eyeing him, and he’s not sure whether it’s the Salamanca’s gaze or the desert sun that makes him sweat under the collar. As to what Lalo is planning, Nacho still can’t wrap his head around it. Not that he hasn’t come up with about a dozen horror scenarios about Lalo taking him out and burying him in the desert far away from US authorities. But Nacho has given him no reason for suspicion. And since when did Lalo Salamanca give a shit about discreteness when it came to capping people in the head?
It’s cold comfort, but apparently Lalo is not planning on killing him. Not yet anyway.
It’s in the afternoon, and the summer heat is screaming down on them. Wherever Nacho looks, there’s nothing but barren hills for miles and miles, with a vast, clear sky stretching as far as the eye can see, and the narrow black band that is the street winding through it like a snake. Nowhere to run but forward.
Nacho’s bent over the engine room of his Javelin, sweat dripping from his brows down onto black, dusty surfaces, elbows deep into the area behind the radiator, checking the fans.
“You want me to give it a look?”, Lalo says, and Nacho stills immediately, confused about the sudden consideration. He raises his head and sees Lalo standing a couple of feet away, watching him intently. Nacho wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and straightens himself.
“Yeah, sure”, he says and steps back from the vehicle. He usually wouldn’t let Lalo touch his car with a ten foot pole, but he’s tired of this heat already and the quicker they can get out of it the better.
Arms crossed over his chest, Nacho settles against the side of the car. His eyes are fastened to the spot where the road meets the horizon. He can feel the phone in his pocket lightly pressing against his thigh. He’s trying not to check it for service too often, for fear of raising suspicion, but he might just as well check the sky for rain clouds.
“Alright. Give it a couple more minutes to cool off, but that should’ve done the trick”, Lalo says and pats off the dust from his clothes. “Probably a problem with the water pump. It’s fixed for now, but I’ll have to take a closer look at it back home.”
Back home , the words crackle through Nacho’s body like an electric shock. Is Lalo taking him to his actual home?
Nacho is just about to agonize over the implications, when he notices Lalo staring at him.
“What?”, Nacho asks.
With a gesture towards his chest, Lalo steps closer. “You got your clothes stained.”
He’s right. Dark oily streaks from the engine cover Nacho’s shirt and thighs. Lalo on the other hand somehow managed to remain completely clean.
“That’s no good. Come on, change”, Lalo says, and with a wink he adds: “I’m not gonna peek, I promise.”
Face completely blank, Nacho just stares at him for a moment. “Change into what.”
Lalo tilts his head quizzically. Nacho sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “We didn’t go back to my place before we left. The only clothes I got with me are the ones I’m wearing right now.”
“Well, even better then…!”, Lalo says with a beam, gives Nacho an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder and walks around the car to the passenger’s seat, throwing the hood shut in the process.
Nacho doesn’t understand the reason for Lalo’s sudden excitement until they’re standing on a street lined with shops in Torreón about an hour later, in front of a clothing store. It’s small but neat, its wooden door and window frames coated with slightly chipped blue paint. There are only two mannequins standing in the store window, both dressed to a T in simple yet elegant ankle pants and light shirts.
“You want to look your best when you’re meeting Don Eladio”, Lalo says and pulls the door open, causing a bell to ring. There are already customers in the store that the owner is attending to, so he shoots Lalo and Nacho a short apologetic smile and encourages them to have a look at whatever they like.
Nacho’s already standing in front of a shelf stacked with colorful slacks when Lalo’s words really get through to him, and his stomach suddenly drops as if he’s missed two steps in a staircase. Don Eladio. He’s picked up that name from Tuco before. He’s the head of the cartel. Is that where they’re headed?
Not really paying any attention to what he’s doing, Nacho rifles through the shirts, his head reeling with all the possibilities in which this could mean his impending demise. Two hands land on his shoulders with a light clap and make him flinch. It’s Lalo. He’s standing right behind him, the grip of his warm hands on Nacho’s shoulders growing tight enough to lead him away from the shelf and towards the fitting rooms in the back of the shop.
“No no no, Ignacio. You stay put, I’m gonna pick something really nice for you”, Lalo says, pushes him inside one of the booths and pulls the curtain shut. Standing in the tight space facing his own reflection in the mirror, Nacho wishes he was surprised at this turn of events. He can hear Lalo bustle through the shop. At least he seems to have shed his bad mood for the time being.
It doesn’t take long until Lalo peeks in to hand Nacho a pair of pants and two shirts. Nacho pointedly closes the curtain shut in front of Lalo’s disappointed face and peels out of his sweaty clothes. When he’s done changing, he looks himself up and down in the mirror. He’s wearing black fabric pants, a white henley shirt and a light shirt jacket. Lalo was so kind to select a striking red one. Everything fits nice and sleek, but not too tight. Nacho expected the clothes Lalo picked to be fashionable. What he didn’t expect was that Lalo would also take his style into consideration.
Nacho doesn’t have to look for the price tag to know these clothes are expensive, he can tell from what he’s seen in the store and feel it from the softness of the fabric on his skin. He’s only wearing his smaller neck chain, and still it clashes with the subtle sophistication of the shirt. It’s not that his own clothes aren’t expensive as hell by now, but there’s something different about these. They are fancy, but in an understated way.
Maybe this is how he would dress if he had always been rich enough for it, he thinks.
When Nacho was in his 20s, there was nothing more important to him than looking like the toughest guy around. Didn’t matter how much he actually made, he would think, as long as he looked the part. His neck chains, the huge wristwatch best suited for breaking someone’s cheekbones, all this just to prove himself. It’s in this moment that it hits Nacho how much he’s been fronting with his style, despite the fact that by now he has all the money in the world and not a single reason to think he has anything left to prove.
He thinks of his walk in closet, of the clothes in it. They may be more expensive than what he’s been wearing in his 20s, but they’re still just as tacky. They still have those desperate attempts to look like a cartel badass written all over them, when actually, he’s nothing but a chauffeur to the cartel. Or more fittingly, a dog, in the process of getting fitted with a new collar from his master.
“Oye, Ignacio. ¿Estás listo?”, he hears Lalo’s impatient voice from the other side of the curtain.
“Ya voy”, Nacho answers, throws himself a last appraising look and wants to stuff his necklace back into his collar, when suddenly, the curtain his shoved aside and Lalo squeezes himself into the narrow booth behind Nacho.
“Sorry, couldn’t wait”, Lalo says. Through the mirror, Nacho is shooting Lalo a long glance from under raised eyebrows. “Had to admire my handiwork!” Lalo starts inspecting Nacho both in the mirror and right in front of him, pulls the henley and shirt jacket into place needlessly, letting his hands linger on Nacho’s shoulders and waist for far longer than absolutely necessary. It’s already warm in the stuffy little booth, but with their bodies so close together like that, Nacho grows hotter by the minute. Goddammit, he thinks, as much as the neverending threat that is Fring made him lose his mind, it also provided such a handy excuse for making out with Lalo.
But now there’s no Fring around for hundreds of miles, and Nacho still can’t help enjoying the way Lalo’s body lightly presses against his, and the way his fingers ghost over the fabric of the clothes he’s just put him in.
“Look at you!”, Lalo finally exclaims, obviously satisfied with his work. “Wait, let me just…” He reaches around Nacho to tug up the sleeves of the shirt jacket, letting the henley peek out a bit. “You wanna pick up the white here”, he murmurs, his lips right next to Nacho’s ear. “See, now there’s white on your sleeves, and in the center…” He gestures towards Nacho’s chest, then lets his hands rest on both sides of Nacho’s shoulders and looks at him in the mirror. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he almost seems… proud. “Now you look like a second in command!”
Very slowly, Nacho turns his head to the side, and upwards. Lalo’s face is right next to his now, and Nacho can feel the other man’s breath ghosting over his skin, an invitation open in his dark, warm eyes.
Is Lalo playing some perverted game with him…? Is he trying to gain his trust? Second in command does sound a hell of a lot better than a dog. Or is it just a fancier word for the same thing…? Nacho did just get dressed like a damn trophy boyfriend after all. Whatever angle Lalo is going for here, it’s either now or never to make sure he knows Nacho won’t just take whatever he’s dishing out lying down. Nacho lifts one hand, fingers digging deep into Lalo’s hair, inclines his head and presses his lips to Lalo’s.
Lalo kisses back, closes his eyes and deepens the kiss. Nacho can taste the salty tang of sweat on Lalo’s skin as the other man reaches around Nacho’s upper body and pulls him closer. Hands are roaming over his chest, bunch up soft fabric and brush Nacho’s nipples, drawing a quiet moan from Nacho that he hopes is drowned in their kiss. Their breathing is growing heavier by the second as Nacho pushes his ass back against Lalo’s crotch. The narrow booth walls bounce the sound back to them, making it seem even louder. Lalo’s hands move down Nacho’s body, one grasps his hips to keep them from shifting away as he grinds against his ass, the other starts palming Nacho’s crotch through the comfortably stretchy pants.
The voices of the customers chatting with the owner of the shop are still audible, though muffled by the curtain.
“Look at that…”, Lalo interrupts their kiss and whispers, nodding his head in the direction of the mirror in front of them. “Don’t you like what you see?”
Nacho has avoided looking in the mirror for a while. Reluctantly, his eyes wander towards their reflection. What he sees is a man standing with his back squared, dressed in sleek but striking clothes, his broad shoulders filling out his shirt in all the right ways. He’s got one hand buried in the hair of the taller man behind him, a high ranking member of one of the most dreaded families in the business, who is kissing down his neck almost reverently.
Yeah.
He does like what he sees.
In fact, it’s hard to tear his eyes away from that image. Nacho bites down on his lower lip, lightly rocks his hips forth against Lalo’s hand and back against his growing erection, listening to Lalo’s low groans. There’s a hand gripping the fabric of Nacho’s shirt again, harder this time, as Lalo bites down on the muscle connecting Nacho’s shoulder to his neck and shoves him against the wall with a loud thud.
The conversation outside stops immediately.
Part of Nacho is considering letting Lalo have him, take him like this, against the inside of the booth, innocent bystanders be damned. Then again, that’s what a dog of the cartel would do. And Nacho feels like he might be done with that.
He gets a hold of Lalo’s hands and pulls them away. “You plan on ruining this shirt, too?”, Nacho asks, his voice raspy and out of breath, but firm.
Lalo regards him, not through the mirror, but eye to eye, their faces as close together as can be, and Nacho holds his scrutinizing gaze determinedly. “No, you’re right”, Lalo concedes, and the smile is back on his lips. “We’ll get back to this later.” They kiss one last time, short and fierce, then they break apart. A mutual agreement.
Nacho gets his dirty clothes from the ground and Lalo his wallet from his back pocket. He fishes out a couple of bills and hands them to the baffled shop owner as they walk outside.
Nacho gets inside the car and checks the rearview mirror. Something catches the light of the sun and blinds him for a second. It’s his neck chain that’s still lying on top of the fabric of his shirt, clashing terribly with it. Nacho doesn’t hide it in his collar. Humming a quiet, chipper tune, Lalo gets in the passenger’s seat, and Nacho turns on the ignition.
There’s no way of knowing where this road is leading him. But he’s got nowhere to run but forward.