22
Inside, it’s still a racket—clinking glasses, music, laughter—but out here the air is clean and I can finally breathe without rushing.
I light a cigarette I’m not going to smoke.
It keeps my hands busy so I don’t destroy my cuticles.
I fake two drags, leave it burning, and use it as an excuse to stand still for a minute.
I pocket the lighter for when my fingers get twitchy—I know myself.
The twins have already settled in. Their shoulders have dropped, they’ve let their hair down, and they sit loose, legs comfortable and backs at ease.
Vega has launched into a neighborhood story that’s pure gold, and Amaia plays along, laughing and tapping the table every other sentence.
Julia shows up with more snacks because she can’t help herself (she’s dangerously picking up my mom’s habits), and even Irina has that okay-this-is-working look.
Sabina and Luna whisper with conspiratorial smiles, Malagamba keeps watch without getting in the way, and the kids have already come and gone three times on any excuse.
Alaska relaxes too. She’s got a cold glass in her hand, touches her bangs, tosses out a quiet comment, and the table laughs at her joke.
She smiles and her whole face lights up.
Seeing her like that makes me happy, honestly—it calms me to see her okay.
And yeah, it stings a little that that smile isn’t for me; it puts a lump in my chest I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I take it on the chin, blow out smoke that isn’t there, and tell myself today I need to protect the vibe and add to it.
I’ll have time for my drama on the drive back. For now I watch them from the outside.
Ivan, the little smartass, doesn’t waste a second.
He plants himself next to Alaska, invades her personal bubble, and turns on the charm up close, low, with that smile he must practice in the mirror.
He moves his hands, leans in, holds her gaze for an eternity.
Listen, kid, what do you think, you’re the only one with a PhD in flirting?
Mikel does the same with Vega. He asks her stuff, laughs loud, shows her something on his phone, and offers her a drink without asking anyone. Two dudes, each working his conquest, all live, no commercial breaks.
I tense up; I hate this little act, this cheap testosterone display, but I’m not going to make a scene here.
I keep myself in check. I count to ten. I remind myself Alaska can handle herself; if she wants, she’ll shut it down.
But my feet are already moving on their own.
I step closer to the glass, radar on. And yeah, I’m the jealous wolf, so what?
I cringe at myself, but I’d hate it more if she thought I was made of stone.
I don’t know what pisses me off more right now: watching Alaska let out a laugh at whatever Ivan’s selling, or realizing that, fuck, I never asked if she’s into girls or one of those who plays for both teams. It never even crossed my mind.
Period. I always assumed her thing was women, but what if not?
Now the possibility itches at me, burns from the inside.
I adjust my jacket out of pure habit, because I can feel the heat climbing my neck. My throat tightens. I need a glass of water, the kind that cools a fever. And a calm-down protocol. I smile just enough, put on my nothing-to-see-here face, and plant my feet. I’m staying put.
Rashel materializes beside me, and it’s not that she’s quiet—I’m so deep in my own movie I don’t hear her come up.
"You’re going to catch a cold."
"I’m fine," I growl, a little defensive.
"No, you’re tense," she cuts me off, and fuck, she’s right. I feel it in my shoulders and even in my ass.
She gives me a smile that slows my pulse without even trying. She sits next to me unhurried, with that patience of hers that calms me more than any talk. I end up speaking first, before it all spills out of my eyes.
"I can’t deal with this, Rash. I can’t."
"Want me to put a stop to those two?" she says with a half smile, already knowing the answer.
"I want to smash their faces in," I say so low I can’t even hear myself.
She lets out a soft laugh and sets a hand on my shoulder that centers me.
"Oh, Nat… I told you and I’ll say it again: play it cooler. You’re obvious from a mile away, and there are eyes everywhere."
"But why? Seriously, Rash. Why can’t I be with Alaska?"
I turn toward her, ready to crank it up and make a scene, but Rashel just stands there, calm as hell, waiting for me to cough up what’s stuck in my throat.
"You’ve got a reputation, you know," she finally says. "If your rep were all candlelight and romantic dinners, that’d be one thing. But around here everyone says you’re into rough kinky stuff, that you’re intense, that you boss people around…
all your little ‘things’." She winks at me, no malice—just a fact, not a judgment.
"So what?" I shoot back, no sugarcoating.
"And Irina is not going to be thrilled picturing you doing those ‘things’ to the ‘kid.’"
The word "kid" makes my stomach flip. Kid? What kid? Alaska is not a fucking kid. She’s a woman. And she turns me on. I shut my eyes for a second, breathe, get a grip.
"She’s not a kid. She’s an escort, for God’s sake. She charges, sets boundaries, chooses, takes care of herself. And I didn’t teach her, I swear. She knows more than me—truth is she runs the show more than I do, Rash. I’m telling you."
"She’s twenty," she cuts in, still smiling. "To you, she’s an adult. To Irina, they’re babies. And you’re twenty-seven, Nat. You’re still a rookie at some things and, at the same time, she’ll see you as way too experienced for Alaska. That combo won’t compute for her."
"Then she can get with the times," I mutter. "Alaska’s not a puppy. She’s got a brain, a job, drive, a spine… and if she wants to be with me, that’s her call. I’m not hunting anyone down, I’m not chasing after girls."
"I know," she nods. "I know you, I don’t paint you as the villain. But your rep precedes you. And with them just arriving, everything’s under a microscope. Irina won’t read nuance. She’ll jump straight to ‘off-limits.’"
"Fine, I’ve got a reputation," I admit, because it’s true.
"But I’ve also got control. Always. I’ve been clear with Alaska—crystal.
No wild shit, no crossing lines without talking first. Consent, communication, care.
And if she says no, it’s no. I’m not a goddamn people vacuum.
Especially not with her. She turns me on, yeah, but I don’t force her.
And she knows that. Always. It’s been that way since the beginning, when she didn’t know who I was. "
"I believe you," she says, calm. "But wait for the right moment, Nat. Let them settle in, let Irina breathe, let the house wrap around them. Then you do your thing—slow and with a plan."
"I don’t love waiting."
"So practice for ten days." She smiles. "And if you can’t, go to the kitchen and peel potatoes with your mother until the anxiety passes. Free, therapy included."
I bite my tongue. I know she means well, but it burns.
"I’m the one who found them."
"Which is why Irina rewarded you. But don’t mix things up. Don’t screw up everything you’ve pulled off."
I let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"I’m not playing with Alaska. This is really fucked up."
"I know." Rashel runs a hand down my arm, slow. "I’ll talk to Irina, I promise. Not today, not in the heat."
"Ten days," I repeat, without enthusiasm.
"Ten is just a number—we’ll see, Nat. But I swear I’ll make a move. Meanwhile, no scenes. If you need to vent, text me. Or come over and I’ll make you study Russian until it shakes it out of your system."
"Okay."
Rashel sizes me up for a second.
"Think you can do it?"
"I don’t know. But I’m going to try."
"Good. That already helps."
I look back at Alaska. Ivan leans in by her side and says something in her ear. She tilts her head and gives a tiny smile.
"The kid," I blurt, with my tragedy face on.
Rashel turns my face with a finger, a warning.
"The kid is my son, remember?" she asks, mock-serious.
"Exactly. And my nephew, remember?" I say, giving her shoulder a little tap.
She laughs without sound, that thing she does when she’s got my number.
"Relax. He’ll do his little act for five minutes and then he’s over it."
"I’m not relaxed. I tense up, heat climbs, and I want to shove him out of the way. And I don’t even know what right I have to say anything."
Rashel holds my gaze.
"Do you really care?"
"What do you think?" I don’t look away. It’s all over my face and I’m done pretending.
She nods, slow, steady.
"Then, Nat. This isn’t one of your ‘I don’t care about anything, I’ll deal with it later’ phases?"
I laugh, but it comes out ugly, dry.
"No, fuck, I care. I want this to go well for her, I don’t want her walking out of here thinking we’re a zoo, I don’t want her getting into a mess because of me. And I’d really like the little dude not to be my opening act today, for fuck’s sake."
"Then do what you do best when your protective streak kicks in," she says softly. "Cool head, no dramatics, and if you need to burn off energy, take a lap around the garden and come back."
"Cool head, she says. I could use a shower and half a gallon of water. Talk to her. Don't sell me out. But talk to Irina if you don't want me to lose my mind, Rash."
"I'm going to run interference for you, not sell you out." She tips her chin at Ivan. "And I'll explain the protocol to him."
"Thanks. And hey, tell Alaska that if I look serious, it's not that I'm mad at her. I'm trying not to mess this up. But don't tell her I told you to tell her. You know what I mean."
"Noted." She chuckles under her breath and squeezes my arm—warm, dry, very her. "Ghost message. Received."
"And another thing… you guys think I can't have a normal romantic relationship with anyone?" I blow out smoke and roll the cold filter between my fingers. "That I only want dirty sex and that's it, or what?"