Chapter 8
Paula
My protocol breaks the second I lock myself in my room.
I can't sleep. All night thinking about the dance, my hand on her hip, her mouth an inch from my neck. About the short conversation we had in the car on the way back to her apartment.
At eight thirty, Iris shuffles out of her room. Early for her. Shorts. Too short, showing the bottom curve of her ass. An old college T-shirt, no bra, though I shouldn't be noticing that.
She sees me sitting in the kitchen. Stops for a second. Smiles before she opens the fridge, grabs the orange juice, and drinks straight from the carton.
Last night, there was no TV on. I don't know if that's good or bad.
“Sleep well?” I ask, almost on autopilot.
“No. You? Are you going to put it in the report? Like… 'Protected subject unable to sleep. Cause: bodyguard said four sentences in a car and destroyed her nervous system.' I thought we were going to talk this morning,” she grunts, sitting across from me.
She's pissed. Or disappointed. Probably both. She grabs a mug and fills it from the pot I just brewed. Burns her tongue on the first sip. Winces, but says nothing.
I don't answer her question. I promised we'd talk, but I can't talk about what she wants until I can think straight. And thinking straight requires not being in the same kitchen as Iris Vance in short shorts and no bra.
“You have practice in an hour and a half,” I remind her before heading to my room, feeling her eyes track every step.
***
The club facilities are safe ground. Security at the entrance, people around at all times. An active surveillance protocol we've set up, though she doesn't know about it.
We sit down for a quick coffee with Zoe, Tessa, and Tina.
“How was the gala?” Tina asks, taking a small sip from her mug. “You two left pretty early.”
“Great,” Iris says. “Paula can dance. That was the revelation of the night. Who knows what other surprises she's hiding from me. Or what promises she won't keep,” she adds, and the edge in her voice could cut glass.
Practice runs long, and I sit in the stands with my laptop open. Iris looks for me three times. The first time, I look away. The second, I pretend to be reading. The third, I'm reading for real, though I catch her from the corner of my eye.
At noon, she walks out of the locker room and finds me waiting by the car.
“Eat at a restaurant or at home?” she asks.
“Wherever you want.”
“You don't care?”
“Wherever you want, Iris,” I repeat.
She gets in the car and slams the door.
“How many times are you going to say my name like I'm a bank customer?” she snaps, voice rising. “Iris, I'm not—”
“'Wherever you want, Iris.' 'I'll keep that in mind, Iris.
' 'The entrances are secure, Iris.' If you're going to keep this up, you can go to hell.
I went to bed shaking last night. Literally.
I got my hopes up, you told me we'd talk for real today, and all you've done is put more distance between us.
And the worst part is I'm an idiot, and I let you, that I'm still sitting here waiting for you to say something nice like you're actually my girlfriend and not a bodyguard.
God, I'm such a moron, I swear,” she explodes.
“I need time,” I admit.
“Time for what? To deal with what you feel?
Are you going to tell me you didn't feel anything last night?
Come on, Paula. Don't hide like a little kid.
And they say I'm the immature one,” she says.
“We're eating at the club cafeteria. With luck, some teammates will be there, and I won't have to be alone with you,” she adds, getting out and slamming the door again.
***
In the afternoon, Zoe brings Wesley to the apartment. The kid grabs Iris's legs, screaming something that sounds like “Iris,” though given how things are between us, it could also mean “crisis.”
She picks him up, smells his head, and closes her eyes. I've seen this ritual dozens of times, but I can't help smiling whenever she does it.
“Damn!” Wesley says out of nowhere.
“No, no, boss, no. That word doesn't exist. Who taught you that?”
“You!” he answers, cracking up.
Zoe looks at me from the door and narrows her eyes, as if to say, see what I have to deal with?
“I'm leaving him for two hours, don't get him too wound up or he won't sleep. And no candy,” she warns before leaving, though I doubt Iris hears her because the two of them are already on the living room floor playing.
With the kid, Iris turns into someone else entirely. She tells him a new dragon story, something about a game in the rain where the dragon slips, loses the ball, and thinks about giving up, but the old turtle teacher yells from the sideline to get up and keep fighting.
When Zoe comes back to pick him up, the stuffed octopus stays on the couch. Iris grabs it, smells it, and puts it on her pillow.
At seven, she pads barefoot through the living room and stands at the window.
I want to say something that isn't professional. I would like to have the conversation I promised her we'd have.
“I'm going to check the locks,” I say instead.
She doesn't even turn around.
“Yeah, sure, check everything real good,” she mutters, clicking her tongue.
At ten, I knock on her bedroom door.
She opens it in pajamas. Ponytail half undone, barefoot. Her laptop is open on the bed, some show playing.
“Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“I don't need anything. If you're doing more rounds, don't bother knocking,” she grunts, and almost shuts the door in my face.
At 11:43, my phone rings.
Iris.
“Come. Please.”
Short. Precise.
I find her standing in the middle of the room, phone in hand, white as a sheet.
The second I get close, she shoves the screen in my face.
Message from @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal.
“Who is she, Iris? The dark-haired one. Your new pet.
She's not like the others who keep you busy for a night or two and disappear.
She's been with you for weeks now, and she's still there; living in your house, by your side nonstop.
She doesn't love you like I do, you can tell.
And when you get tired of playing, I'll be here. Because I'm always here. Always.”
I read the message twice. The second time, slower.
This isn't admiration anymore. This is rage. Possessiveness. A new rung on the ladder. A much more dangerous one, because the next step is usually direct action.
I set the phone on the nightstand and look at her.
She's frozen. Shaking.
Iris Vance, the woman who fills every room with her energy, is standing still. Arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself. It's the first time I've seen her like this.
“It's not like the other ones,” she says through her teeth. “The other messages were creepy. This is different.”
“Yes. It's different,” I confirm. “People like this build a story in their head and anything that doesn't fit, they read as betrayal.”
“He says he's always here.”
“I know.”
“What if it's true? What if he's out there right now? In the parking lot? On the street? Watching us? What if he has cameras in the apartment?”
“I checked every entrance to the building less than an hour ago. I've checked our perimeter cameras, the locks, the emergency exits. Nobody is here. There can't be any recording devices inside the apartment, audio or video, we did a professional sweep,” I remind her.
“And tomorrow? And at the stadium? And when I go for a run?”
“Tomorrow I'll be with you. At the stadium, I'll be with you. When you go for a run, I'll be with you. I won't let him get near you,” I tell her, and I run my hand down her left arm.
She looks at me. Her green eyes are wet. She doesn't cry, but they shine, and her jaw is clenched. With her arms crossed like this, she looks smaller than she is.
“I'm going to need full access to your phone,” I say. “Your socials. Everything.”
“Okay,” she says. No resistance.
“Do you want me to call Zoe? Or Lucía?”
“No. I don't want anyone to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Scared,” she says.
I pull her into a long hug. I can't stop myself. It isn't professional, but it's what she needs and what every nerve in my body is screaming at me to do.
“He's not going to hurt you. As long as I'm here, he's not going to touch you. I swear, if he tries, I'll rip his head off,” I whisper in her ear, and I kiss her cheek.
Iris pulls back slightly and raises her eyebrows.
“That wasn't very professional,” she murmurs.
“No. It wasn't professional at all. But that one's a promise.”
She nods and buries her face in my neck so I'll hold her again. I feel her breathing, the tip of her nose brushing my skin. She knows I just crossed the line I've been avoiding all day.
Her lips graze my neck. Small kisses. Slow. Deliberate.
And that's what destroys me.
Everything she does is impulsive. The goals, the jokes, how she moves through people. But this isn't. She traces my neck, and every kiss is different from the last. The first is barely a touch, her lips just below my ear.
The second drops half an inch and pauses. The third makes me tremble. She opens her mouth, and I feel the heat of her breath on my skin, the tip of her tongue, half a second, just enough to short-circuit everything.
I don't remember putting my hands on her waist, but my fingers close over the fabric of her pajamas, and I feel the warmth of her body underneath. The muscles along her side. The curve of her ribs as she breathes. She's breathing fast.
We're both breathing fast.
And she doesn't stop.
She pushes my shirt aside to kiss my shoulder. Her teeth graze the thin skin of my collarbone, and a sound escapes me that I didn't know I was holding.
“Want me to stop?” she whispers, her fingertips tracing my neckline.
“No.”
“You sure?”
All I can do is nod.
She climbs back up. Slow. Kiss by kiss. First my jaw. She stops at the corner of my mouth, not touching my lips, making my whole body beg without a single word.
She smiles at my reaction. I can feel her smile without seeing it.
“Paula, Paula,” she murmurs against my mouth while her hand slides under my shirt.
My brain goes dark.
We kiss like nothing else exists, my hands running down her back, one of hers slipping under my waistband to find my ass, the other tracing my face with her fingertips.
And everything around us disappears.
“This isn't part of the contract, is it?” she asks when she pulls back, eyes locked on mine, voice dropped to nothing.
“No. This isn't part of any contract.”
“And you're okay with that?”
“I don't know,” I admit.
“God, Paula. I just kissed you and you say 'I don't know.' Do you ever answer with something that doesn't sound like a damn form?”
We stay quiet. Her hand still on my face. Mine on her waist.
“Do you regret it?” she asks.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don't regret it. And that's what worries me,” I say, and it comes out like a sigh.
She lets out a short laugh.
“Welcome to the club.”
She steps back. Half a step. Runs her hands over her face. Fixes her ponytail. And I watch the exact moment the shield goes back up. Her posture shifts. The smile returns.
“Okay. You go track down the psycho. I'm going to brush my teeth. And tomorrow we talk like adults who kissed in their pajamas on a Tuesday night. Which is the most depressing story in the world, but it's ours.”
“It's not depressing.”
“You kissed me right after a stalker threatened me. It's not exactly a kiss by the Eiffel Tower.”
“You don't need Paris.”
The shield wobbles for a second.
“No,” she says, quieter. “I guess I don't.”
When she comes back from the bathroom, she gets in bed and watches me while I type on my phone.
“Paula?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you stay tonight? I mean… here, with me… in the bed.”
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“I'm not asking you to do anything. My body's not up for it right now.
Well, my body is, but my head's not,” she admits, laughing low.
“I just… I don't want to be alone. I know you'd be in the next room, but it's not the same. I would rather not be alone with the phone and that message and everything that just happened. Is that too much to ask?”
“No. It's not too much to ask,” I murmur, pulling off my pants and getting into bed next to her.
She gives me her back, but presses herself against me. I wrap my arm around her waist, and she takes my hand, strokes my thumb, and falls asleep.
No television. No podcast. No noise.
I lie as still as I can and think that this breaks every rule.
I think about Valentina.
I think that this isn't the same.
Iris murmurs something in her sleep. She turns and tucks herself against my shoulder. A strand of hair falls across her face. I brush it back, careful not to wake her.