3
A week has gone by and there’s no sign of the blonde. I’m starting to doubt my own memory—maybe it was a fever dream, paracetamol, and that reheated pizza I ate at three a.m. But come on, who am I trying to fool?
Because here I am—yours truly, Alaska, president of the Drama Fan Club—peeking out the window every time a black car creeps onto my street.
I pretend to sweep the terrace when I’m really in full security-guard mode, waiting for my archnemesis to roll down the window and wink at me.
And forget about going out to “run errands,” the lamest cover story ever invented, because the only exploring I’m doing is combing the neighborhood Dora the Explorer–style, but for blonde wildlife: Where’s the blonde?
Here? There? Not even Google Maps helps.
It’s ridiculous. It scares the living shit out of me, but honestly—and I’ll say this under my breath—the thrill turns me on.
She’s got my heart doing drum solos, the bitch, and when I’m not staring out the window, I’m fantasizing she kidnaps me in a van to declare her criminal love.
Today is Saturday, the twins’ big day. Fat stacks and total dominion.
Saturdays with a capital S for Salary and for “kick off the heels—we’re gonna tear up the floor tonight.
” The air in this apartment today smells like easy money, industrial-strength hairspray, and the promise of a nocturnal shitshow.
I’m getting ready too, but I’ve got that twitch in my stomach you get when the client is new.
Not one of the regulars, the ones whose wants I can recite by heart.
No, tonight’s menu was set by Bea, the head of the agency, who keeps the calendar in her head and a glass of wine permanently in her hand, like any good business witch.
When Bea says “VIP client,” you brace yourself: either a millionaire goddess with tastes that only exist in Vogue, or a Martian who wants to pray the rosary between fucks. No middle ground.
While I wrestle with pantyhose and hunt for earrings that don’t scream “straight out of El Rastro,” I scroll through the boss’s WhatsApp:
Bea: You’re going to like her, Alaska
She’s discreet, good taste, pays well
But I don’t know her that well
You know: be careful ??
Sure, Bea, thanks for the safety talk—just what I didn’t need. Vega appears in the doorway, hair freshly fla t? ironed and lips red. She leans on the frame with that look of bi g? sister wisdom even though she was born after me.
“Nervous, little sister?”
“A little. I don’t love it when they’re new. It’s got jo b? interview vibes, just with more cleavage.”
She laughs, because she’s my sister and the stuff that makes me anxious cracks her up.
“Relax, she’s probably some rich prep with zero imagination. If she’s weird, send me a skull emoji and I’ll stage a rescue mission.”
I stick my tongue out, because I am very mature and sophisticated, and also because it calms me to know that if something happens, at least someone will come collect my corpse and tell the police I was nice, just kind of a mess.
Anyway, I get to the hotel with nerves in my gut and an “I’ve got this” face, because I’m a professional.
I’ve got the trick down cold: boss posture, steady stride, the pose of “if I fall, I get up dancing.” I ball my fist, an old reflex from when we trained ourselves not to shake in front of anyone.
I straighten my jacket like I’m not an escort with existential problems but a Zara heiress.
Deep breath, and I step into this restaurant with giant chandeliers and waiters who look like models about to retire.
I head to the hostess stand, drop my name like I’m important, and brace for the classic “right this way” stroll to the corner table, wine and awkward small talk.
But no. Not today. The ma?tre d’ appears with an aura like he floats above good and evil and plants a whit e? an d? gold keycard in my hand: 107.
“The lady is waiting for you in the Presidential Suite,” he whispers, cool as can be—like heading to a stranger’s room without passing Go is the most normal thing in the world.
I freeze for a split second and stare at the keycard.
I do not like this. Vega always says if something smells off, you count to eleven: if you’re still shaking at nine, snap a pic and bounce.
If you make it to eleven, you’re in. I never go straight up—hell no.
It’s always, "Hi, how are you? Do you look like a serial killer?
No? Then we proceed." Cold sweat hits. Old instinct: clock the exits, always. I consider bailing, calling an Uber, going home to hug my pint of ice cream and forget life. Or dumping the mess on someone else from the agency. Vega hates surprises. "If you can’t read the scene, don’t gamble," she keeps telling me.
Emergency plan: call Bea. I pull out my phone and dial, ready to lay the drama on her.
"Yeah? Alaska?" she answers.
"Girl, is this normal now or are you messing with me?" I whisper, hunched, paranoid as hell, scanning around. "They handed me a room key. Like, no drink, no bullshit—straight to 107. Do you know what the client’s like? Because going full porno with a stranger gives me the creeps."
Bea lets out that faux-boss sigh she does, but the laugh bleeds through and professionalism goes straight to hell.
"Relax. I thought it was weird too, but the lady insisted.
She says she needs absolute discretion. If it gives you a bad vibe, leave.
But if you go up and see anything off, get out and call me. Okay?"
I bite my lip, pissed and half convinced. "Okay. But if I don’t come back tomorrow, tell my sister I left my phone password on the fridge."
"Girl, you’re such a dumbass," Bea says, laughing her ass off now, no pretense left. "But you’re my favorite. Call me either way, okay? And if you have to run, do it with style, Alaska—none of that ugly drama."
I hang up and look at the card. Is this my VIP pass to a train wreck or just another work date? This week could not get any weirder, and yet here I am, ready to stick my head in the wolf’s mouth, as always.
I step into the elevator and the second the doors close, it feels like a vault. I’m clutching the room key like it’s the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory, but really it’s the entrance to a grown-up scare park: Mysterious Hotel who knows, maybe she’s just thinking about what to order for dinner later.
She’s got her hair wrapped in a silk scarf and wears a kind of distance like a force field. I can’t tell if she’s about to share a secret or deport me.
“Sit down, please,” she says, and that “please” lands more like an order than a suggestion; her accent’s impossible to place, and I’m sure she learned languages just to scold people in them. “I don’t have much time and I need to be direct.”