Chapter 26 #3
“Alana, focus,” Rodrigo snaps, and he pulls me behind a vendor’s stall— a sturdy wooden structure selling ceramic mugs that we crouch behind as another shot splinters the display above us. Tiny painted Madrid landmarks rain down on our heads.
“Are you hurt?” he asks me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes doing that full-body scan thing that is both protective and also devastatingly attractive, which is a very confusing combination of feelings to have while someone is actively trying to assassinate you.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mostly am, except for my heart rate, which has left the building entirely.
Another shot. Closer this time. Alana returns fire from behind a pillar. A man crumples somewhere in the crowd, and she doesn’t even watch him fall.
We bolt again— through a gap between stalls, down a narrow lane, into a small plaza where a fountain gurgles peacefully, completely unbothered by our crisis. Rodrigo pulls me into the shadow of an archway, and Alana skids in beside us, barely winded.
“Why do they keep finding us?” Rodrigo hisses.
And that’s when I see it.
I look down at myself. At the outfit I’m wearing— the club outfit, the one chosen specifically for Pulse, designed to glow under ultraviolet light.
In the dark archway, the fabric on my arms and torso is doing exactly what it was designed to do.
It’s glowing. A soft, unmistakable neon luminescence that turns my silhouette into a beacon.
I look at Rodrigo. Same thing— his shirt radiates a pale electric blue.
Alana’s pink ensemble pulses like a flamingo-shaped nightlight.
We’re not hiding in the shadows. We’re illuminating them. Every time we duck into darkness, we light up like human glow sticks. We might as well be wearing signs that say SHOOT HERE.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“What?” Rodrigo asks.
“It’s the clothes.” I gesture at all three of us. “We’re glowing. We’re literally glowing in the dark. Every time we try to hide, we turn into targets. That's how they keep spotting us.”
Rodrigo looks down at himself. Then at me. Then at Alana, who is examining her own luminescent sleeve with a mixture of horror and aesthetic appreciation.
“We have to take them off,” I say.
The words leave my mouth before I fully consider their implications. But I’m right. The math is simple— the clothes go, or we go. Permanently.
“But, our bags are back in the club!” Alana says. “And this jumpsuit is panty-free. No lines.”
I motion to my own glow-in-the-dark, leather pants, and the highlighter-colored tank top that I’m currently wearing without a bra or underwear.
“Same here,” I say. “I don’t have any underwear because someone kidnapped me and didn’t bother to pack any so I’ve been going camo for days!”
We both look at Rodrigo. He shrugs. “I do have mis calzoncillos. But will depart from them in solidarity if necessary.”
“So should we…” Alana starts to say.
“Do the math, Alana,” I answer, rolling my eyes.
Rodrigo looks at me. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, one eyebrow arches.
It's not a concerned arch. It’s not a questioning arch.
It’s an arch that communicates, in a single muscular movement, that Rodrigo Esperanza thinks taking our clothes off is an excellent idea, and not entirely for strategic reasons.
The corner of his mouth twitches. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that has nothing to do with assassins and everything to do with the fact that, apparently, my survival instincts have accidentally proposed that we all get undressed in a Madrid plaza.
A bullet whistles over our heads, and we all duck down at the same time. The bullet slams into the wall behind us, sending ancient stone crumbling into pieces.
“Unless someone has a better idea—” I start.
“No, no,” Rodrigo says, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Buena idea.”
Alana is already unzipping something. “It’s actually like, totally fine. A gift to the world, really. This outfit is so uncomfortable.”
Another bullet ricochets off the fountain behind us, sending a spray of water into the air.
Right. Clothes off. Assassins later. Or— assassins now, clothes off now, everything now, everything all at once, which is apparently just how my life works these days.
I grab the edge of my glowing top and start to pull. And suddenly, I’m naked, running through the marketplace totally in the nude. Tourists point and stare, but thankfully— the square is so crowded I can blend in with the crowd— somewhat.
Rodrigo points across the square to a hotel. “There,” he says, and I try not to look at his perfect body. We crouch low among the crowd, making our way to safety. As we move, Rodrigo grabs newspapers from a stand and passes them among our group— an attempt to cover us up.
“Perfect,” Alana shouts, and she clutches a newspaper to her chest and takes off across the square, almost at the door to the hotel.
Rodrigo pauses, even in the midst of danger, helping me to arrange the newspapers in a strategic fashion, even tying two together in a sad, uneven knot below my waist. “Thanks,” I say, and Rodrigo— as another bullet flies past his head— bursts out laughing.
Then his laugh makes me laugh and together we disappear into the crowd, following Alana’s form into the night.