The air is balmy as Trace slides open the patio door, a burst of sound slipping out with him before it’s muffled again as it seals shut behind him. Justin glances over his shoulder at the sound, a quick flick of the eyes to acknowledge his friend’s presence before looking back out over the city again.

 

There’s a party going on inside, something that’s gearing up to be an all night rager, a celebration of his VMA performance and award win. Justin, ever the willing host, doesn’t mind, likes that he can put on a good show for thousands as well as a decent shindig for a handful of his friends, but his ears are still ringing and right now he prefers the quiet city bustle of the streets below to the raucous laughter of the crowd inside.

 

Trace sidles up to him, bellying up against the railing and surveys the dark city before them without saying a word. He jabs an elbow into Justin’s bicep offering a cold bottle which Justin takes and clinks against his friend’s before taking a drink.

 

“Some performance tonight,” Trace says off-handedly and Justin smiles around the beer in his mouth, almost chokes on a laugh. His life is surreal. He nods.

 

“Say…” Trace says, swaying back and forth from foot to foot as he rolls his beer bottle between his hands. “Whaddaya say we get outta here for a few days?”

 

Justin swallows giving his friend a look. “Huh?”

 

“Yeah just like…I dunno, run down to Mexico. Fuck around a little before the big world tour kicks off.”

 

Justin snorts out a laugh. “Are you crazy?  The album is dropping in like three weeks I don’t have time to run off to Mexico.”

 

“Exactly, you need a little siesta before things crank up again!” Trace says and Justin still isn’t convinced. “Come on bro I know you’re tired as hell from the summer shows and your big VMA extravaganza. Let’s go hustle some senoritas!”

 

“Jess would love that,” Justin replies wryly and Trace snorts.

 

“We’re married not dead!” Trace exclaims. Justin blinks at him. “Fine. No senoritas. Just tequila. Come ooooooooon.”

 

“No.” Justin says firmly and Trace scowls at him.

 

“What happened to the Justin that was down for anything? Huh? A few years ago you would fly off to god knows where on a moment’s notice to go surfing… or shit just to get some pizza you’d been craving.”

 

“Hey that was once and you know it was because I was high and the munchies cannot be denied,” Justin says with mock seriousness and Trace rolls his eyes so he can pretend he doesn’t see Justin break, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What’s up with you? Why do you wanna go to Mexico so bad?”

 

When Trace doesn’t answer right away Justin cuts his eyes over at his friend who is rolling his beer bottle between his palms, staring at it contemplatively.

 

“I dunno man,” he says after a beat then tilts his head back to drain his beer. “Forget it.” He turns away from the city, letting his bottle sail into the trashcan in the corner, the shattering glass making Justin wince.

 

“Hey!” Justin says and Trace turns, looking at his best friend sullenly. Justin shrugs up his shoulders showing Trace his palms. “What the fuck?”

 

“I don’t know,” Trace spits, throwing his hands in the air and falling into a deck chair moodily. “A lot of shit has happened over the past couple years…”

 

“Yeah,” Justin says when he doesn’t go on, his tone saying that his friend is stating the obvious, a subtle jibe to get to the point asshole.

 

“I’m just saying that a lot has changed.” Trace says sweeping a hand out, “I mean we don’t even live in the same city anymore.”

 

“We haven’t lived in the same city since we were eight,” Justin says, thoroughly confused now which only seems to frustrate Trace more.

 

“No, like we were both in LA. Then Sam and I moved to Nashville for the baby. And you’re all over the place. We’re fucking married now. God what has happened to our lives?”

 

“Dude…” Justin says cautiously. “Are you…like are you asking me to run away to Mexico because… um…”

 

“NO!” Trace exclaims grabbing a pillow and hurling it at Justin who sidesteps only to let out a squawk as he watches it go over the balcony railing.

 

Both men scramble to the ledge in time to see it explode against the pavement in a cloud of feathers, pedestrians jumping and looking up to see where the offending object had come from. They both lean back on instinct. Quick! Hide!

 

Trace grimaces, peering back over. “Sorry!” he hollers, giving a weak wave and a “Fuck you dickhead” is returned.

 

“That was a $300 pillow,” Justin says glaring at his best friend who merely flips him off in response, turning to fall back into the chair again. “Come on, bro,” Justin says, suddenly exhausted as if the past two month had just caught up with him in that one small burst of adrenalin. “What the fuck?”

 

Trace sighs. “We’re getting to the point now where everything is complicated. My kid. Your job. Our wives-“

 

“We can’t just get on a plane for pizza anymore,” Justin finishes and Trace nods.

 

“I dunno,” Trace responds, flopping back against the chair, swiping another pillow and shoving it behind his neck. “It was a dumb idea.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes, a sigh rushing past his lips.

 

Justin watches him for a beat before sighing himself. “Alright I’ll go.”

 

Trace opens one eye. “Huh?”

 

“I’m in let’s go.”

 

Trace leaps from the chair, fist pumping into the air. “Shit yeah you’re going!”

 

“It’ll have to be next week,” Justin says pulling his phone out of his pocket and consulting his calendar. Yeesh. “Jess and I are going back to LA for one of her friend’s birthdays and I have a meeting with-”

 

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Trace says waving a disinterested hand as Justin scrolls pensively through his schedule.

 

“I’ll have someone make the arrangements,” Justin says, adding “Mexico” to the next week. “What… three days?”

 

“I’ll take care of it.” Trace says settling his hands on his hips and beaming.

 

“Are you sure?” Justin says, looking cautiously up from his phone. “Because I could have-”

 

“Justin. I said I’ll take care of it,” Trace says firmly. “I’ll fucking take care of it.”

 

***

 

Justin is running down his front steps, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder when he stops dead, the low rumble of an old V8 engine coming from just behind the gate loud enough to make his ear drums tremble. He winces, wondering what the hell kind of redneck idiot had gotten lost in his cul de sac, thinking maybe he should call the security gate when the low hum of his own gate sounds and the heavy wooden door starts to swing inward.

 

His mouth falls open as the last remaining dinosaur that Detroit made comes rumbling up his drive, the gravel crunching under it’s bloated tires, his best friend grinning behind the wheel. It’s an old Ford F150 that Justin guesses at some point was red but has been reduced to a sun burnt orange, rust showing through in small dings with one giant patch that curls around the driver’s side headlamp and he is reminded of an old gas station dog back in Millington – Sanford, a pit mix with a bad hind leg, all brown except for the white patch over his right eye. Justin winces out of the memory as Trace puts it in park, the engine giving a high pitch squeal of protest before returning to it’s low chugchugchuging heartbeat.

 

“What…” Justin begins as Trace opens the door with an ear splitting screech of metal on metal and bangs it shut. “What the fuck is this?"

 

"This,” Trace says, thumping the hood, “is a fine piece of American machinery, my friend"

 

"Oh, it's a piece of something"

 

Trace gives him a wry look. "Come on bro we can't drive your goddamn Audi to Mexico." He snatches Justin’s bag from his shoulder and moves to toss it into the bed of the truck. Justin blinks.

 

"We're DRIVING?"

 

"Yes princess this is a road trip,” Trace says opening the driver’s side door, hinges groaning in protest. “Now get in the goddamn truck."

 

Everything in Justin’s body is screaming at him to protest. This is a terrible idea. But something about the look of sheer joy on Trace’s face as he threw that duffel into the back…

 

The horn blares and Justin actually throws up his hands to cover his ears. He can barely hear Trace’s impatient “LET’S GO” over the ringing in his skull and the low rumble of the engine.

 

Against his better judgment he rounds the hood, manages to pry open the passenger side door and slides in onto cracked leather seats. Trace grins at him as he guns the engine, a sulfurous stink spilling from the tail pipe and engulfing the car in white smoke.

 

Justin nearly gags coughing the noxious fumes out of his lungs, "Ugh how did this thing even pass emissions?"

 

Trace places a hand on Justin’s headrest, giving him a look before putting it in reverse and looking back over his shoulder. "It was 200 bucks dude, don't go asking questions."

 

They work their way out of the city with much cursing and stomping of breaks, finally making their way onto highway 101 away from the stoplights and city traffic but entering into the free-for-all of interstate driving.

 

“Don’t tell me you have to piss already,” Justin says as Trace slows to exit and Trace snorts at him.

 

“We gotta get on I-10,” he mutters distractedly and Justin looks at him confused.

 

“You just take I-5 down the coast. Takes you right into Tijuana. Remember?” He pauses. “Well, maybe you don’t remember.”

 

“I remember, asshole.” Trace spits but is grinning all the same. “We’re not going to Tijuana.”

 

“We’re not?” Justin asks with dread.

 

“Nope! Puerto Penasco! Eight hours-“

 

“EIGHT HOURS?”

 

“-and we’ll be on the coast with a Corona in our hand and a senorita in our lap.”

 

“Trace…”

 

“FINE,” Trace says with a roll of his eyes. “Corona in our hand… and some smoke in our laps.”

 

Trace pops the glove compartment and grabs a baggy, dropping it into Justin’s lap. He doesn’t even have to open the bag, can smell the aroma simply from its close proximity and Justin looks at Trace as if he’s lost his mind.

 

“You want to try and smuggle drugs across the border?” Justin asks dumbfounded.

 

“What, we’ve done it before.” Trace says with a shrug of his shoulder and Justin presses his fingers to his forehead.

 

“On a private plane you idiot!” he yells finally. “They search your car at the border! They have drug dogs!” He scrambles to bat the offending bag onto the floor. “We have to get rid of it! Air this place out.” He reaches for the handle for the window and actually jams his shoulder in his haste to roll it down. Of course it doesn’t budge.

 

“Would you calm down you fucking drama queen,” Trace says. “Why do you think I fucking PICKED Puerto Penasco? It’s a free trade zone. They don’t check your shit.”

 

Justin rubs his shoulder, his panic ebbing. “Seriously?”

 

“Seriously.” Trace says with reassurance. “Now pick that up off the floor, what the fuck is wrong with you? That’s quality shit.”

 

The road stretches before them, city and suburbs giving way to lonely desertscapes. It’s hotter than hell in the truck; the air conditioner of course is busted. They stop at a Shell station for a case of water and some beef jerky and it takes the two of them to get Justin’s window to budge. When it finally gives, it falls down into the door with a shattering of glass that has both men looking at each other astonished before doubling over laughing, Justin putting his head on his folded arms on the hood of the truck while Trace slumps over the wheel well, tears streaming down his face.

 

Now with nothing but dusty highway and blue sky in front of them they settle in for the long haul, the radio picking up nothing but static.

 

“Why did you buy this piece of shit, Trace?” Justin finally asks as he fiddles in vain with the radio knob.

 

“Come on!” Trace hollers over the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind. “You know this is what it woulda been like if we’d gone to college instead of you getting all famous and shit.”

 

“What?” Justin asks his voice jumping an octave as his attention leaves the radio and turns to his best friend.

 

“Yeah! Me and you, in some piece of shit old clunker driving to Mexico for one last summer she-bang before school starts again.”

 

Justin wonders how long Trace has been holding on to this fantasy. “Oh yeah?” Justin asks, grinning despite himself.

 

Trace nods, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in a short staccato rhythm. “Yep, we woulda been roommates don’t you think? At Memphis.”

 

“Coulda been,” Justin nods.

 

“We woulda gotten the sweet set up too because you woulda been a basketball star-”

 

“Oh man come on,” Justin scoffs looking out the window.

“No really without all that dancing you would have been ballin you know that. And majoring in some fancy shit like business or finance.”

 

“Oh and what would you have majored in?” Justin asks cutting his eyes at his best friend who looks over at him with a smirk.

“I woulda majored in pussy, who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to,” Trace says and Justin laughs so long and hard his stomach starts to hurt and Trace starts to get a little huffy. “Shut up dickhead and check the map.”

 

Justin sighs, lifting off the seat to fish his phone out of his front pocket.

 

“No, the one in the glove compartment,” Trace says and Justin gives him a look.

 

“Let’s just use the GPS,” Justin says, swiping a finger across the screen.

 

“We aren’t going to get a signal in the middle of the desert,” Trace reasons. “Better to get acquainted with the map now than when we have no fucking clue where we are.”

 

“I don’t think-”

 

“Unless you just don’t know how to read a map,” Trace says offhandedly and Justin’s jaw sets.

 

“I know how to read a map,” he grumbles pulling a yellowed map from the glove compartment and unfolding it across his lap. “Uh…”

 

“We’re on I-10” Trace says glancing over.

 

“I know!” Justin snaps, his brow drawing as he studies the map closely, squinting at the tiny print.

 

They bicker back and forth for the next hundred miles, reminiscing about times spent and times that could have been. Trace is adamant about  Justin’s college basketball stardom and Justin is just as adamant about Trace trying to pass all his classes by banging the TA, even if it’s a guy. Trace’s howl of indignation is drowned out by the wind and Justin’s laughter.

 

They eventually find the turn off for CA-111 even though Justin swears the map had it showing 10 miles later and that was the reason they’d ended up in Yuma so many times. Trace points out there’s no possible way for Justin to be able to convert inches to miles on a map and Justin lays out a math equation that shuts Trace up for twenty miles, silently bitter that his fucker of a best friend can even read a map perfectly.

 

But all is forgotten once they cross the Mexican border, whooping and hollering as if it was the first time they’d ever done it. In a way it was. Just the two of them in that old Ford truck, with an ugly fuzzy cat that Trace had bought “for luck” at some desert gas station hanging from the rearview mirror.

 

They barrel down the sand strewn highway, bellowing every Johnny Cash song they know (which is all of them) over the high wind, their clothes sticking to their skin as the sun beats down on them through the hottest part of the day and five o’clock shadows beginning to shade their jaws.

 

“I feel like we should be there by now,” Justin says, consulting the map for the millionth time and lets his finger move along the tiny snaking road on the map. He consults his watch. “It’s nearly five. Trace we should definitely be there by now.”

 

“Alright. Alright calm down,” Trace says soberly, sensing the growing edge in his friend’s voice.

 

“When was the last time we saw a town?” Justin asks suddenly looking around at the steaming desert, nothing around them for miles but sand and scrub brush.

 

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Trace replies with a shrug.

 

Justin’s brow furrows even more, pulling the map closer to his face, examining the tiny lines fissuring through the tan wasteland. “What road are we on?”

 

“I dunno you’re the one with the map,” Trace replies and Justin growls, shifting the paper in his hands to move further down the page.

 

“It’s all these tiny roads with no names, it’s confusing as hell…” Justin trails off as his eyes reach the bottom of the page and even without his glasses he can make out the copyright in the bottom corner. “Oh my god,” he breathes thinly, his hand flying out, palm smacking into Trace’s bicep and his fingers curl in hard enough to bruise. “THIS MAP WAS MADE IN 1962 YOU FUCKING IDIOT!”

 

“What?” Trace asks in disbelief.

 

And as he looks over to see where Justin is jamming his finger so hard into the paper it’s a miracle it doesn’t bust right through, the engine begins to make a loud glugging sound, the steering wheel shuddering hard under Trace’s hand. He grips the wheel tight, giving her more gas but the glugging sound only grows louder, the shuddering of the steering wheel turning more violent as if it were trying to buck him off.

 

Trace grits his teeth, pressing easily on the breaks, Justin still gripping his arm with one hand, his other holding onto the door handle both silent in their growing fear. Trace eases them to a halt at the side of the road, the engine giving one final glug as if drowning and then belches a loud bang of smoke that curls from underneath the hood in thin gray tendrils. They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the engine hiss as smoke fills their nostrils.

 

“What the fuck just happened?” Justin asks lowly, his voice on the edge of hysteria. “Trace…” he starts again, fingers twisting tighter in his friend’s t-shirt sleeve. “What the fuck just happened?”

 

Trace sighs, moving to get out of the truck. "Well, it seems we've broken down," he says evenly and Justin looks at him wide-eyed before his hands fly up in a panic.

 

"WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMN DESERT."

 

"I AM AWARE OF THAT, JUSTIN!" Trace yells back, glaring at him through the windshield and Justin just blinks out at him looking utterly lost.

 

Trace pops the hood, disappearing behind it and Justin feels his stomach drop as steam billows out. Of all the things to happen to him. To him. He should have seen this coming. In fact, he did see this coming and against his better judgment he went along with this stupid scheme. And now they were stuck in the middle of the desert with – he pulls out his phone and yep – no means of contacting anyone. In fact he’s pretty sure no one even knows where they are. Jess thinks he’s in Tijuana (she’s going to murder him for not calling – fuck) and Trace probably didn’t tell a soul about their actual destination because he’s a goddamn idiot.

 

This was typical Trace; wild with no inhibition, no consideration of consequences. It was usually Justin’s job to remember that part. Except Trace had said “I’ll take care of everything.” How could Justin have been so damn stupid?

 

 Trace is still hidden behind the smoking hood, Justin seething as he sticks his head out the window. “What’s wrong with it?”  He asks petulantly and Trace just slams the hood and says:

 

“Fuck if I know.”

 

Justin closes his eyes, trying to gather his patience but ends up banging his open palm against the doorframe anyway “Goddamnit Trace,” he grits, getting out of the truck and slamming the door behind him with a satisfying bang.

 

“This isn't MY fault.”

 

“YOU"RE THE IDIOT THAT BOUGHT A $200 TRUCK FOR A 450 MILE ROADTRIP,” he yells, his voice echoing around them in the empty desert and Trace has the decency to look chastised. “Open it back up, dickhead,” Justin grumbles rounding the front of the truck and Trace looks at him dubiously.

 

“What the fuck are YOU gonna do?” Trace asks, even as he reaches to pop the hood. “You don't know shit about cars.”

 

Trace says it with little conviction. He had seen Justin excel at things far beyond his own imagination much less his own ability. If he was really completely honest with himself he would admit that deep down it always irked him. Being best friends with someone as infuriatingly talented as Justin could give a person an inferiority complex like one would not believe. But it also has its perks…

 

“I know things," Justin says and Trace stands back as Justin peers inside. "Is this supposed to be loose like - OW SON OF A BITCH!"

 

Trace laughs as Justin sucks his burnt fingers into his mouth only to realize they're now oil slicked. He makes a face, snatching his hand away and turns making a gagging sound that causes Trace to double over with laughter. Justin kicks sand on him in petulant retaliation.

 

“Fuck you Trace,” Justin grinds out, spitting into the dirt and stomping his way back around the hood of the truck.

 

Trace is just starting to get a hold of himself, wiping at his dripping eyes when Justin goes to rip his door open and lets out a yowl of pain as the door doesn’t budge, stuck fast from the force of him slamming it earlier. Trace doubles over once more as Justin holds his aching shoulder and rears back, picking up his foot and slamming the bottom of it into the side of the truck, jamming his knee but it feels so good he keeps doing it until his sweating and exhausted, falling against the wheel well panting.

 

Trace sidles around eyeing the now prominent dent and says, “Yeah she needed some body work.”

 

Justin scowls at him hard and Trace rolls his eyes with a sigh.  “Look being pissed at me isn’t going to solve anything.”

 

“No but it’s sure as shit making me feel better right now,” Justin snarls, still clutching his shoulder which continues to ache.

 

“Fine,” Trace spits throwing his hands in the air, “Be that way.”

 

Trace stomps around the bed of the truck, letting the tailgate fall with a bang and flops onto it, staring moodily down the empty road. The sun starts to get lower on the sky as they sit in their opposite corners ignoring each other and it’s Trace who breaks first, like always, not being able to stand any kind of rift between them.

 

“Look,” Trace says coming around the side of the truck to find Justin sitting on the ground against the wheel, one leg stretched out in front of him, still clutching one arm. “It’s getting dark and we have yet to see any cars.” He looks both ways down the road as if to make sure and it was as empty and desolate as ever. “Maybe we should start walking back towards town…”

 

Justin scoffs. “What town?”

 

“I don’t know Justin the last one we saw,” Trace replies with a weary sigh. “Come on.” He holds out his hand to help Justin up and Justin glares at it for a beat before taking it, wincing as he stumbles to his feet.

 

“You okay?” Trace asks.

 

“It’s just my knee,” he says shortly shaking out his leg, trying to coax some feeling into it as Trace reaches for the passenger door.

 

“Yeah you and this iron beast aren’t exactly in the same weight class,” Trace deadpans as he tries to pull open the passenger door and remembers that it doesn’t budge. “Goddammit,” he mutters, reaching through the open window to grab the map. “Here,” he says handing it to Justin.

 

“What are you handing me that for?” Justin asks crossing his arms over his chest and Trace sighs.

 

“It got us here, we might as well follow it back,” he says and Justin takes it grudgingly as Trace pops the glove compartment and pulls out his bag of smoke before slamming the compartment shut again.

 

“What are you doing?” Justin asks as Trace opens the bag and fishes out one of the prerolled joints inside before shoving the baggy in his pocket.

 

“We’ve got a long fucking walk, bro,” he says, reaching into the truck again and fishing a lighter out from the console. “Might as well make it enjoyable.”

 

They grab their duffles from the back and head north, shuffling along the side of the road as darkness begins to fall with the temperature, their sweat damp clothes making them stiff with cold. It’s slow and boring, even the drugs can’t really help the desolate scenery but Justin has to admit that it’s been awhile since he’s seen stars this bright, the moon a bright half dollar in the sky.

 

“Nice night for a stroll,” he says off handedly and Trace snorts.

 

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Hey…man…” he pauses, shuffling his boot through the dirt. “I’m uh… I’m sorry for… you know… all this.”

 

“Yeah,” Justin replies flatly, looking down the darkened road, the full moon making it swim blue in the distance.

 

“I guess I just wanted us to have one last adventure,” Trace says with a sigh and Justin can’t help the laugh coughs out of his throat.

 

“Oh this is an adventure alright.”

 

They both laugh, watching the fuzzy outline of their shadows on the road in front of them grow darker and more defined. They’re confused at first, turning around and they both blink in the glare of oncoming headlights before realization comes crashing down on them. They’re saved!

 

Their duffle bags fall to the ground in a puff of sand and dust as they wave their arms over their heads, yelling and jumping up and down as the car sails past them. Justin can feel his stomach drop to his toes as it speeds past, the gust of cold air hitting his face like a slap, grit and sand stinging his eyes and mouth. Then the tail lights blind him as the car begins to slow to a stop and Trace emits a cry of joy, fist pumping into the air before taking off running towards the car. Justin, heart still hammering in his chest, bends to pick up both their backs, jogging after his best friend, his muscles sluggish with the flood of relief.

 

“JUSTIN!” Trace exclaims, waving him over frantically. “Justin, they’re cops! – Oh man, are we ever glad to see you guys. See, we broke down just a little ways that way and– HEY!”

 

“HEY,” Justin echoes, dropping their bags and taking off at a run as he watches a short but solid man grab Trace by the arms and force him against the hood of the police car.

 

Another officer moves to block Justin’s path, speaking rapid fire Spanish and Justin watches in horror as the other officer starts to pat Trace down, wiggling fingers into his front pocket and pulling out the baggy of weed. The officer shouts to the one in front of Justin who takes a quick step back, drawing his weapon and Justin’s hands shoot over his head so fast he feels his elbows pop. More rapid-fire Spanish, the tone firm, almost angry and Justin can feel tears well up behind his eyes because he doesn’t understand.

 

“ENGLISH,” Trace is yelling as the other office grinds his cheek hard into the hood of the car while he cuffs his hands behind his back. “ENGLISH! HE DOESN’T SPEAK SPANISH. NO HABLO ESPAÑOL! NO HABLO ESPAÑOL!”

 

Trace is being shoved into the back of the police car, Justin still behind held at gunpoint by the other officer who is yelling, “CONTRA EL SUELO! AHORA! AHORA!”

 

Justin yelps as the officer stomps over and kicks his legs out from under him, falling to his knees hard and gets a mouth full of sand as he’s forced onto his stomach, his arms pulled violently behind his back. Hands are patting him down, fingers fishing around in his pockets and one pulls out his wallet, examining his ID under a flashlight while the other pulls out the rubberbanded wad of fifties and hundreds he’d pulled from the bank the day before.

 

“Doing a little funny business here in Mexico, amigo?” One of them asks in heavily accented English right into Justin’s ear and Justin can only grunt as he’s brought to his feet by the chain linking his hand cuffs.

 

“No man, you got it wrong that’s just spending money for our trip,” Justin stutters as he’s shoved towards the police car, Trace watching him with wide eyes through the back window. “We’re on vacation!”

 

“And what about this?” one officer asks, holding up the baggy of weed. Justin looks at him stone faced, clenching his jaw as the officer holds the bag up at eye level, seeming to weigh it in his hand. “Looks like ten years in jail to me. What you say Ernesto?”

 

“Si,” Ernesto says from behind Justin, pulling harder on the handcuff chain, “Ten years.”

 

Justin, in a moment of terrified weakness, panics. “It’s not mine!” he shouts and both officers burst out laughing, Ernesto moving to shove him in the back next to Trace. “It’s all his. Now please. Just let me go!”

 

“What the fuck man!” Trace yells, elbowing him the best he can with his hands cuffed behind his back and Justin lets his head slam back against the seat.

 

“Well it was your idea, genius!” Justin yells, stress giving his voice a keening edge. “I was just minding my own business on my goddamn balcony when you said ‘HEY LETS GO TO MEXICO.’”

 

“You are such a fucking pussy,” Trace mutters disgusted and Justin growls slamming his shoulder into him the best he can and they begin to grapple in the backseat as the car starts to move, only stopping when Ernesto bangs on the cage separating them from the front, letting out a string of Spanish that they don’t understand but sounds violent enough.

 

They’re silent the entire ride, resolutely avoiding each other’s gaze and glaring out at the desert shining silver in the moonlight. When they arrive at the police station they are uncuffed and thrown unceremoniously in a cell, Ernesto ignoring Trace’s demand for a phone call by flicking off the light and slamming the heavy metal door behind him. Trace continues to bang on the bars, yelling and cussing, demanding his phone call.

 

“Trace,” Justin says soberly from where he stands in the middle of the cell, numb with fear and hopelessness.

 

“You fucking asshole!” Trace yells, banging his palms so hard against the metal bars Justin fears he may break them. “We’re goddamn Americans. I want my fucking phone call-”

 

“Trace,” Justin says with a sigh, moving forward.

 

“-I want my goddamn embassy, you prick. Do you know who we are? DO YOU KNOW WHO HE IS?” Trace yells, his voice breaking as his hands curl around the bars, seemingly trying to pull them from the wall.

 

“Trace!” Justin says sharply, reaching to grab his friend’s shoulder.

 

“HE WILL HAVE FUCKING PRESIDENT OBAMA ON THE PHONE SO FUCKING FAST AND ALL HE WILL HAVE TO DO TO GET HIM TO BOMB YOUR PIECE OF SHIT COUNTRY OFF THE MAP IS AGREE TO SING AT SASHA AND MALIA’S BIRTHDAY PARTY!”

 

“WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Justin snaps in alarm, whacking Trace hard on the shoulder and his friend whirls around, eyes wild with panic.

 

“They gotta give us a phone call right?” Trace asks. “They can’t just throw us in jail for ten years and not let us talk to anyone.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll get one,” Justin says, trying to keep his voice calm, holding on to both of Trace’s shoulders to steady him. “They probably just have to process us first.”

 

“Yeah?” Trace asks, his face beginning to smooth as the panic leaves his eyes.

 

“Yeah!” Justin says with a nod of certainty and he sure as hell hopes to god that he’s right. “Yeah we’ll call my lawyer and get this all straightened out.” He gives Trace’s shoulders a squeeze and feels them slump beneath his hands.

 

“Oh…o-okay.”

 

Trace looks around in a daze, cinder block walls surrounding them on three sides, with bars at his back. A stainless steel toilet is attached to the wall in the corner and he can smell it’s foulness from across the cell. Long wooden benches line the walls. He shuffles his way over to one, his knees suddenly weak, his hands throbbing painfully from their beating against the bars. Justin sits down next to him, both men letting their heads fall back against the cool concrete and staring off into the darkness.

 

“Your lawyer can get us out of this?” Trace asks after a long silence and Justin scoffs next to him.

 

“For what I pay him he fucking better,” Justin spits. “Also as soon as we get back on American soil and I’m certain that I can beat the rap, I’m killing you with my bare hands.”

 

Trace snorts out a laugh. ”I’d like to see you fucking try you big sissy.” He pitches his voice high in a mocking imitation of Justin. “Oh officer it’s all his! Please I’m too pretty to go to jail!”

 

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Justin replies, shifting uncomfortably on the bend.

 

“You are such a little bitch,” Trace says and is unable to conceal his laugh.

 

“Fuck off, dickwad,” Justin mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

There’s a beat of silence before Trace sighs and asks, “Still friends.”

 

Justin coughs out an unwilling laugh. “Well seeing as we’re going to be cellmates for the next ten years in a Mexican jail I guess we gotta be.”

 

He cuts his eyes over at Trace, a smirk pulling unwillingly at his lips and Trace reveals his own smile in a flash before smothering it with a hand a looking out ahead of the again.

 

“Fine… but you’re bottoming.”

 

“Oh fuck that,” Justin snaps and Trace lets out a bray of laughter that echoes off the stone walls and Justin even finds it in himself to chuckle.

 

“Our wives are gonna kill us,” Trace says after a moment and Justin winces, his muscles going taut.

 

“Our wives aren’t going to know anything about this,” Justin replies firmly and Trace snorts.

 

“Yeah. Right.”

 

“I’m fucking serious man,” Justin says sitting up a little straighter on the bench and turning to Trace. “This goes to our graves.”

 

“If it doesn’t get into the papers…” Trace mutters and Justin groans loudly, falling back against the wall, letting his head thunk hard against the concrete.

 

“Goddammit, Trace.”

 

It’s around midnight when both men are woken from a fitful doze by the loud clank of the metal door opening down the hall and raised voices arguing in quick Spanish, the sound becoming louder as they approach their cell. Justin elbows Trace who’s head had lolled onto his shoulder and they spring apart like opposite ends of a magnet, each glaring at the other with sleepy eyes. Their attention turns to Ernesto who is opening up their cell while a clean cut young man in a cheap suit reads him the riot act. Or so Justin guesses; the entire exchange is in Spanish.

 

“Mr. Timberlake!” the young man says, practically knocking Ernesto over in his haste to reach for Justin’s hand, shaking it vigorously, “and Mr. Ayala,” he says pumping Trace’s hand with the same enthusiasm, “I’m Kenneth Munroe; I’m from the American consulate. How are you all this evening?”

 

Trace blinks at him slow. “Well, we’re in jail…”

 

“Right, right yes,” Kenneth says with a laugh, tapping the side of his head as if to say silly me. “Don’t worry about any of that we have it all straightened out now. If you’ll just follow me. You’re free to go.”

 

“We are?” Justin asks in disbelief and Trace is already on his feet.

 

“Oh yes” Kenneth says with a big grin. “As soon as I got the fax with your names I knew exactly who you were.” He looks bashful as he goes on. “I have an older sister, and…well let’s just say I feel as if I’ve grown up with you two.”

 

Trace looks baffled and a little in awe that he’s included in this confession; knowing Justin is normal, knowing him is weird. Justin’s eyes narrow.

 

“You’re from the consulate?” Justin asks and Kenneth nods proudly. Justin looks him up and down quickly. “How old are you?”

 

He deflates a little. “Twenty-two,” he says and then goes on with hesitation. “Technically you could say I’m an intern,” – Justin and Trace’s eyes widen looking at each other in disbelief before Kenneth hurries to add, - “But don’t worry I’ve taken care of matters like this before. My boss hates making trips to the jail. Idiot Americans getting arrested on vacation, drives him crazy,” Kenneth laughs and then coughs. “Not…not to say that you two are idiots I just-”

 

“We got it,” Justin says, rubbing his face tiredly as he stands. Kenneth looks relieved.

 

“And just so you know we never got our damn phone call,” Trace complains moving to follow Kenneth out of the cell, Justin falling in behind him.

 

“Oh, yes they aren’t required to give you one here. Don’t worry I’ve taken the liberty to call your families and let them know you are both fine and that I am personally overseeing your release.”

 

“You called our parents?” Trace asks his disbelief stopping him in his tracks just inside the cell door and Justin presses a hand to his forehead. His mother is going to kill him.

 

“No,” Kenneth says turning to look at them strangely. “Your wives. If you want me to get in touch with your parents I can…”

 

Kenneth’s voice trails as he watches both men’s eyes widen, looking at each other in horror and Trace turns abruptly walking back over to the bench and plops down.

 

“Close us back in,” Trace says and Justin is still standing in the middle of the cell, a cold dread settling in his limbs.

 

“Excuse me?” Kenneth asks in alarm.

 

“Close us back in,” Trace repeats as Justin moves to sit down in the bench next to Trace, his head in his hands. “We’ll take the ten years.”