16. - LUIS -
sixteen
- LUIS -
T ucked by the elevators in the hotel’s main hall was a business room, separated by sleek glass walls that gave it an illusion of privacy. Inside, polished wooden desks lined the space, each paired with a desktop computer and a small printer. The room felt like it belonged to a different world—a bubble of professional control amidst the chaos outside.
Using something meant for the public usually was a digital nightmare, but as long as we stayed off our accounts, it was an anonymous loophole—and a rare, unexpected gift.
I closed the door behind us and glanced at Rafael. He was already surveying the space, his gaze checking for every possible exit, hidden camera, or threat. It wasn’t paranoia. It was survival.
Monica sank into one of the chairs, pulling her blazer tighter around her shoulders. It just took enough time for that jacket to start to wrinkle for me to realize I truly cared about her. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the keyboard. There was tightness in her jaw as she focused on the screen.
That is what Raf’s focus meant too. It was love, even if it could never be romantic. I’ve never seen him act so selflessly before.
I sat down beside her at another computer and booted it up. The interface felt ancient compared to the speed and access we had at work. But with our phones gone and our usual tools out of reach, it would have to do. We were working blind. And I was eager to see just what this collective gift of the World Wide Web had left for us.
Raf leaned in over my shoulder. “How long do you think we’ve got?”
I didn’t look up. “Not long enough.”
The room fell silent except for the clatter of keys and the hum of the machines. Monica was digging through news sites, forums, and social media, piecing together the threads of the narrative the trolls had built against her. Every so often, she’d pause, her lips pressing into a thin line before she kept going.
I focused on online forums, scrolling through page after page of anonymous vitriol. The language was vile, the accusations ludicrous, but that didn’t matter. Lies didn’t need to be believable to stick. They just needed to be loud.
“Got something,” Monica said, her voice steady but stressed. She turned the screen toward us, revealing a screenshot of a troll group chat. The messages were timestamped and damning, outlining a coordinated effort to tie her to the murder.
“In order to frame me, they’re rewriting the whole story.”
Raf stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he scanned the screen. “This is what happens when people have too much time on their hands.”
“They’re playing with fire,” I muttered, my jaw tightening. “And they’re about to burn us all.”
Monica’s fingers danced across the keyboard, her pace relentless. Meanwhile, Rafael and I hovered like mismatched magnets, circling but never meeting. We weren’t just giving her space; we were caught in a quiet stalemate, both too aware of the standoff pulling at the edges of this truce.
Normally, Raf would’ve had us burning off steam in the gym by now, wringing ourselves dry until there was no room left for anything but sweat and muscle ache. But with the three of us here, splitting up into pairs meant someone would end up alone.
“You’re quiet again,” Rafael said.
I glanced at him, my hands tightening into fists. “I’m thinking."
“Doesn’t look like it.”
His tone was light, almost teasing, but it hit a nerve. “What is thinking meant to look like?”
Raf raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but his eyes amused. “I think you’re blaming me for something that isn’t my fault.”
“What am I blaming you for?” I shot back, my voice rising. “You act like you’ve got it all under control, like nothing touches you. This is serious for us, our careers are being ripped apart.”
“There it is.” Rafael’s smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “And you think this doesn’t touch me?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I knew he’d given up his old assignment to stay close to Monica, but it was never a role he cared for. Maybe I did blame him. Annoyed in some deep, stubborn part of me. He’d known that the ruse of being at her side was a lie layered over another lie—and he didn’t tell me.
Raf stepped closer, his presence filling the space between us. “You want to know why I keep it together? Because I have to. Because if I don’t, you won’t.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “No, that’s not it.”
“And yet here we are,” he said softly, his gaze locking onto mine.
“Take it outside,” Monica called from her seat. With only one door in or out, we did have just enough room to step away from each other—a plan that might have worked if we hadn’t both stepped into the hall at the same time, ending up on opposite sides of the door as if she were addressing us both directly.
The space between us shrank. I watched as he checked for cameras. When he finally settled back, his eyes lingered. Searching within mine before his drifted lower to settle on my lips.
I froze under his gaze, the charge between us more palpable than ever. It wasn’t just the closeness; it was the way he looked at me like he saw the whole world, and deciding if this was the moment to cross a line we’d been skirting for too long. My pulse quickened, my breath catching in my throat, and I wondered if he could see it, if he could feel the yearning thumping through my heart.
I’d never known what Rafael was into. Maybe that was his best spy work—keeping everyone guessing what girl he had on his arm this time, letting them believe what they wanted. The effortless charm, the sidelong glances, the way he could step into any room and have someone eating out of the palm of his hand—it all pointed one way. Or maybe I just hated myself enough to believe it, to let the lie settle in because it was easier to accept than hoping for something else. Something real. Something that might have included me.
His hand brushed against my arm as if testing the waters.
I didn’t pull away.
When our lips met, it wasn’t soft or tentative. It was fierce, almost defiant—a collision of everything we’d been holding back. My hand found its way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.
For a moment, nothing else existed. There was no mission, no trolls, no danger—just us.
“If we sink this ship,” he whispered, his voice so close I could feel the brush of each softly spoken word, “then we’re in this boat, drowning together.”
I could feel the meaning of his words settle in my chest, the knot of desire that had rested there for decades finally unraveling as my hand found his cheek, a touch that spoke of a truth we’d finally allowed ourselves to admit.
The scrape of a chair against the floor shattered the moment. We pulled apart, both of us breathing hard as Monica came over to the door.
“I hate to interrupt,” she said, her voice professionally cool, “but we’ve got a new problem.”
I glanced at the screen behind her, my heart sinking. A new video had appeared, this one claiming evidence of Monica doing the murder.
“They’re doubling down,” Raf said, his voice steady but his jaw tight.
“Faking it until they make it.”
Monica nodded, her expression grim. “Then we need to hit back now. No more playing defense.”
We spent the next hour piecing together a counter-narrative, pulling screenshots, timestamps, and chat logs to prove Monica’s innocence. The murder had occurred an hour before work, and my hope of using myself as an alibi crumbled. The tension between Rafael and me lingered, but it felt different now —less like an obstacle and more like an unspoken promise of what might come next.
As they worked, I couldn’t shake the memory of the kiss—how his hand had lingered on my arm, how he’d looked at me like I was the thing holding him together. Turns out, the gym wasn’t the only place he could pull me out of my spiraling thoughts.
The printer whirred to life, spitting out the final document we needed. Monica grabbed it, her eyes sharp with determination. “Let’s go,” she said.
The three of us walked out of the hotel, ready to face whatever came next. Moreover, we’d do it our way, on our time, with our truth—and nothing was going to stand in our way.