4
Three hours later I walk out of the room with my hair wrecked, lipstick smeared across half my face, and my emotional panties worn like a crown.
I’m clenching the envelope of cash so hard my palms are sweating; I’m picturing a thief crouched behind the minibar cabinet, waiting to snatch my score of the week, and let me tell you, I’d fight tooth and nail for this wad if it came to that.
The sex? Guess the screenwriter of my life decided to take the day off.
The woman—maximum intensity, a piercing stare, and those hands…
I’m telling you: she-devil hands. Direct, sure.
It was one of those times you even forget the rate, and that’s saying something, because when they pay you six thousand euros, your subconscious does a conga line with little flags and a victory waltz, but not even that today.
Before I bailed, she gave me a real smile: soft, sweet, almost secret, and then she went and whispered “thank you” in my ear. Not some bland thanks—no, a thank-you that left me shaking.
I float down the hallway, ego swollen and legs jelly.
And I catch myself going all existential, thinking sometimes sex with an invoice and cash up front feels more real, more honest-to-God, than all those Sunday-afternoon rom-com hookups.
Or maybe I hit the client lottery… or I’m getting all mystical, who knows.
It’s two in the morning when I leave, cheeks still hot. The lobby’s empty. Just the front-desk guy, tie loosened, looking like he’s doing Sudoku to keep from passing out, giving me side-eye. I give him a polite smile, almost tempted to snap a salute.
I always think these guys know exactly what’s up.
I mean, who am I kidding? Young woman, alone, dressed up, coming out of the suite at this hour…
I just spent time with a client, period.
I used to obsess about that, about whether people were guessing my job.
Now… I don’t even bother with the “oops, I got lost looking for the elevator” face.
He knows it, I know it, the hotel ghosts know it too.
And I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks.
With what they pay him, it’s a miracle he’s not sleeping on his feet.
I step out onto the street and wham, a slap of night air.
That cool breeze mixed with the smell of baked asphalt and accumulated drama sobers me up faster than gas station coffee.
Madrid is a whole different beast at night, huh?
Hardly any cars, just orange streetlights throwing twisted shadows.
And the doorman, planted there pretending not to see me.
I stick to his orbit, just in case his brass-buttoned jacket does something besides look official.
In my head there’s a soundtrack, a secret chauffeur, a machine gun—very GTA ; in reality I just want the cab to show up before a serial killer, a jonesing ex-client, or, worse, my father, that unsolved mystery.
Ever since the blonde thing I’ve had that eyes-on-the-back-of-my-neck feeling. I spin around every two seconds and there’s nobody, not even a damn cat. Just the click-clack of my heels.
A doorman walks by. He looks at me for two seconds and goes back to his phone. That gesture screams he gets paid to stay awake and my soap opera isn’t in his contract.
I yawn, fix my hair, and swear if the cab doesn’t come in two minutes I’ll walk, and whatever happens happens.
Finally, a minor miracle: a cab in sight.
The second I sit, a weird relief rises up—half salvation, half let me just live right here.
The cab driver is a whole show: a woman who owns the road, fake-blonde hair, roots long enough to braid, red nails sharp enough to open mail, and a smile that says, “tell me your story, I definitely top your drama.” She turns, scans me, and goes:
“Where to, gorgeous?”
She says it in that divorced-mom tone that asks if you had a proper breakfast and whether the lube was any good. For a second I fantasize about telling her to take me to Las Vegas or a self-esteem workshop, but no—I give her the address and we settle in for confessions on the road.
She brakes at a light and studies me in the rearview—zero judgment, all warm gossip vibes.
“Romantic mess, work mess, or family mess chewing your nails down to nothing?”
“Combo. And a blonde who’s going to be the death of me.”
“Ah, blondes. I had a blonde friend once. Lost track of her. She still owes me twenty euros.”
“She doesn’t owe me money; she owes me peace. She can give that back and I’ll pay her the twenty.”
We laugh. I skip the gore, tempting as it is. She looks like the kind of lady who makes you soup and deletes your ex with a magic wand.
The ride is quick, but when we pull up to my building, my heart climbs into my throat. Platinum Barbie’s car is parked like one of those crappy horror movies where the girl with bangs always gets killed. I freeze with my hand on the door handle.
The cabbie, who was about to put it in gear and head home to catch up on Real Housewives, rolls down the window and goes, with that neighborhood accent that makes you feel protected and in danger at the same time:
“What’s up, queen? You gonna pass out on me?”
I sashay up to her window in the nosiest little parade of my life and confess my drama in a whisper: "Ma'am, I don’t show up on Unsolved Mysteries and I don’t see the Virgin Mary on toast, but that car has been tailing me for days.
It belongs to a woman who scares you just by resting her elbow.
I don’t know if she’s inside it or lurking around waiting to yank my hair. "
The lady’s eyes go wide. "Oh, honey, now this is juicy. A stalker? This has more promise than a reality-star wedding! So what do we do, sweetheart?"
"Can we stay here a bit?" I ask, gripping the door like the cab is already part of my inheritance. "Because if I go into the building right now, it’s the cold open of a true-crime episode. I’m not about to end up blurred on TV later, ma’am."
She clicks off the meter with the skill of someone who’s done this a thousand times, then swivels around, ready for a night of fine-grade gossip.
"Listen to me, I’ve spent more hours on these streets than a traffic light.
The other day I caught a guy dressed as a superhero stealing mailboxes and didn’t even blink.
Roll up the window and we’ll keep watch. "
Here we are: Remedios the cabbie and me, the Sherlock and Watson of Malasana, past midnight and smelling like cheap cigarettes.
I’ve got my phone open to 911, ready to call the cops, my sister, my fifth-floor neighbor, and the guy at the corner bodega downstairs if I start spiraling.
She’s got the headlights off, Mrs.-fix-it advice, and a glorious thirst for other people’s drama.
"Anything at all, you jab me with your elbow," she murmurs. "I’ve got my phone handy and, if you push me, I’ll whip out that aerosol air freshener that burns worse than pepper spray. No one gets in here without me knowing."
"The windows are tinted; you can’t see a thing. If she were inside, she’d have made a move already. People like that give themselves away."
"I’ll do a soft sweep," she offers. "I’ll roll up, creep a little, and if someone’s in there I hit them with the brights—she’ll freeze."
"Don’t you move or I’ll panic," I answer. "Give me two minutes and a sign from the universe. I don’t know… the entryway light comes on and the neighbor from the fifth floor, the one who teaches ukulele, steps out—that man scares anybody off."
Silence. Somewhere, a dog barks without conviction.
The black car sits still. No blinker, no door slam, nothing.
Remedios cracks open a bottle of water with that little sound that brings you back to life, and I wonder if the blonde is asleep or sitting there with her eyes open like a demonic doll, lashless, a tattooed eyebrow judging me.
"I’ve got ham-flavored Ruffles," Remedios says. "And a flashlight bright enough to light up half the block. If necessary, I swing the car around and snap a photo of the plate. I’ve got surgeon-steady hands."
"I’m in for the chips. If this goes well, churros on me."
Halfway through my third life recap, Remedios jams an elbow into my side hard enough to leave a mark and whispers, thrilled, "Look! Something moved in there!"
We both lean in, and there she is—no mistaking it.
In the car. Sitting. The blonde, still but with that eerie little edge.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding since the Stone Age and want to smack my own forehead because what a stupid relief—doesn’t solve anything, but at least she’s not planted in the doorway or behind the dumpster; she’s in there, ironing the seat flat with all the patience in the world.
"Remedios, I’m going," I tell her as I zip up my jacket. "This is my moment. If I make it, I’ll bring churros and you make coffee; if I don’t come back, look for me on Unsolved Mysteries —neighborhood ghost edition with a crappy ponytail."
"Less drama, more stride. If I see anything weird, I lay on the horn so hard even the ukulele guy hears it.
And take this." She plants a can of hairspray in my hand, the kind that shellacs your lashes and, if you push it, probably doubles as a can opener.
I laugh, but I pocket it. This is no time to play hero.
"If it goes sideways, you do the signal we agreed on."
"What signal?" she asks, very serious.
"The one we just invented. I scream and you unleash the Apocalypse."
"Go on, kid, you’re getting on my nerves." She pulls me into a tight hug, the "no one’s dying today" kind. "And be careful, okay?"