25 #2
In the back seat, Vega and Mikel are in their own world, half tangled. Laughter, whispers, a “wanna try this?” with a bag of candy between them and hands groping blindly.
And Alaska—fuck—Alaska is right behind me. I feel her eyes on my nape, a tingle that flips my body into alert. My pulse ticks up. I know she’s about to poke. I’ve got her number. I’m not giving her the satisfaction; keeping it professional with her is a joke only I buy.
“You drive like my grandma,” she tosses out in that I’m-gonna-ruin-your-afternoon tone that grates. “And my grandma’s dead.”
Mikel barks out a laugh and almost chokes on a marshmallow. He coughs, motions for water. I don’t give him anything. He can deal.
“Well, great, because today I’d like us to arrive alive,” I say. “If you’re bored, I’ll let you drive and I’ll film you for TikTok when the traffic cops pull us over.”
“You’re so harsh, Alaska,” Mikel says, the marshmallow still glued to the roof of his mouth.
“Harsh?” Alaska doesn’t ease up. “If we slam into the roundabout because Miss wannabe race car driver won’t touch the left lane, who am I going to blame?”
You, for fuck’s sake. I bite my lip. My tongue wants a fight. I don’t.
“You, for running your mouth,” I shoot back, not looking at her. I squeeze the wheel. White-knuckled.
“‘Running your mouth,’ she says.” Quick. “At least I manage full sentences. You grunt and think you’re mysterious.”
Luna arches a brow and side-eyes me. My stomach tightens. I hold her gaze for a beat, neutral. Bureaucrat face. Inside is noise. It doesn’t show. Or so I hope.
“Relax, Alaska,” I say, flat. “I was at home on my console and now I’m your free chauffeur to take you on a shopping spree. I’m being pretty zen about it.”
“You’re just missing a bed of nails to round out the package,” she mutters, not remotely discreet. The whole car hears it.
I breathe in the cold air from the vent. It smells like strawberry gum and her perfume. Like her. My face goes hot. No. Cut it. Reset.
“You put on cologne for the ride,” she says. “Very proper.”
“I was already wearing it,” I say. Half a lie.
“Sure.” Click of her tongue.
Vega laughs at something Mikel whispers in her ear. He offers her the bag of candy and she fishes out the red ones without looking. Two-person show. They think they’re invisible. I’d rather not watch, but I catch it in the mirror. Alaska taps the back of my seat with the toe of her shoe.
“Do your hands always shake or only when I talk to you?” she drills in. “Asking for road safety.”
“They’re shaking because you’re tapping my seat, sweetheart,” I tell her. “And because you won’t shut up.”
“Oh, sorry, boss. I’ll be quiet.” She doesn’t. “Anyway, if you get nervous, say so and I’ll talk you through it. Though you’re better at taking the lead.”
Luna turns her head a little more. Way more. Smiles, intrigued.
“I don’t need a guide,” I say. “I need silence. Or music.”
I crank up the radio. Crappy pop. Alaska huffs.
“Put on something that doesn’t make me want to jump, Nat.”
“You feel like jumping?” I ask, and regret it a second later.
“Depends on the place,” she answers, low. You can hear her just fine.
The wheel leaves my palms damp. Alaska leans in and skims the back of my neck with her breath. Skin on alert. I don’t look at her. Not once.
“I will give you one point, though,” she says, sugar-coated poison. She’s found the opening.
Luna tilts her head, attentive. She can smell the tension. Damn it.
“Oh yeah?” I murmur. I don’t even give her the mirror. Eyes forward.
“If we crash, I won’t have to be bored. I’ll have someone to argue with in hell. Silence exhausts me.”
She laughs. Short, dangerous, right by my ear. I swallow a curse and a kiss. Both.
“In hell they sit you by the window and hand you a megaphone,” I tell her. “With luck I can’t hear you.”
“They’ll yank your license. For emotional reckless driving,” she finishes.
Mikel claps at a joke he didn’t get. Vega steals another marshmallow and Luna looks at me again. I meet it, no drama.
The car rolls on. Exit sign. I tap the gas a notch. Getting there faster won’t fix anything, but it gives my foot something to do. I resettle in the seat. Shoulders down. Air on full blast.
"Buckle up tight," I say at last. "If I hit the brakes, you'll go flying, and I’m not picking up pieces."
"Don’t worry," they say. "I can take more than you think."
And sure she can. So can I. Sometimes.
I nudge the radio up. A bit more. Mikel hums terribly—can’t carry a tune. Luna dances with her shoulders. I count signs. I don’t blow through any. Not yet.
Las Rozas Village—god, the place is a postcard, the kind of postcard a bougie friend would send you from a trip to nowhere.
Immaculate fake facades, wrought-iron lampposts that don’t light anything real, flowers perfectly placed on every corner, makes me want to step on them…
Even the air smells different—expensive.
Vega’s out front, walking all lit up. Every window steals an "oh, so pretty!" and a "holy crap, those prices." She still can’t wrap her head around the fact that she could take home half the mall if she felt like it.
"This bag is gorgeous…" she says, stroking one in the Gucci window. Then she sees the tag and jolts, a hop that makes me laugh inside. "Two thousand euros! Who spends that on a bag?"
Her voice comes out somewhere between pissed and amazed.
I bite my tongue not to burst out laughing, not to mess up her moment of wonder.
I could tell her, sure, that Irina would buy her ten if she smiled, and throw in the whole store.
But no, I like seeing her like this, counting every cent, weighing whether it’s worth it, with that humility that hasn’t rubbed off yet, the one that reminds me where they come from.
Mikel doesn’t give her even six inches. He sticks to her like a magnet. He touches her hair, takes her hand, looks at her with a joy he doesn’t bother to hide.
"You two are laying it on thick," Luna mutters next to me. Hands in her pockets, her usual half-smile, a look that says, I’m entertained, but I’ll never admit it.
"So what?" Mikel says, happy. "It works for me."
"Then dial down the sugar. It’s cloying, bro," Luna deadpans, no venom, very her.
Vega elbows Mikel. He lets out a laugh big enough to make a lady in a fur coat turn her head. Vega plants a quick kiss on him and he goes dopey. I’d laugh out loud, but I hold back. I keep straight. The corners of my mouth protest.
Behind me, Alaska huffs. The air around her hums. Her shoulders are rigid, hands in loose fists, that little click of tongue against tooth I know so well.
I know it’s not about Vega and Mikel. This place sits wrong with her.
The staring people, the prices in bold, the clerks sniffing for credit cards.
Maybe it also sits wrong that I’m two steps away. Maybe I deserve it. Two-for-one.
"And you, not going to look at anything?" I ask as we pass Dior. All glass and cold lights.
"What for?" she shoots back, dry, with that fine, pissed-off smile that gives her away from the doorway. "I wanted to go get my stuff, not play dress-up as an expensive mannequin."
I like her answer. I don’t say so.
"Then maybe say so before dragging us all the way out here."
Luna throws me a look, half amused, half lost. Her septum ring shifts and a little sideways smile slips out.
I’m giving myself away with every word I let loose.
No one knows I took her to bed and fucked her speechless.
No one knows I love her. Not even her. And now no one can find out.
I hold it in. I bite my tongue. I force myself to breathe.
Vega and Mikel vanish into the racks in ten seconds, dragging Luna, who’s already pawing sequins like a magpie. They disappear into a jungle of dresses glittering under the spotlights. I’m left with Alaska, rooted mid-aisle. Fantastic. Today’s plan is basic: endure and don’t screw up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I clock Alexei and Anton.
The first keeps watch from a distance, not in the mood for jokes.
The second tails the lovebirds with the energy of a bored fan.
Alaska doesn’t even clock him. I’m already building my mental map.
They pay me for that. I wish they paid me for thinking about her. I’d burn through the whole day.
"Happy now?" she says, with that scratchy little tone. "Watching me even when I breathe."
"Nothing personal. It’s my job," I shoot back, flat. Everything else stays locked up.
She steps in. Too close. Bad. Her smell hits me—mango and flowers. My pulse spikes. Not because of the mall air, cold and dry. Because of her. Because of what she stirs up inside.
"You could, I don’t know… pretend a little. Maybe even smile at me."
"Alaska." I step back on instinct. "Don’t play with me."
She laughs under her breath. Her eyes light up. My frosty bodyguard act amuses her. If I let her, she’ll push it. Another step. She brushes my finger and my whole body tightens, head to toe. I pull away immediately. Her smile drops. Her jaw locks.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she whispers, clean, sharp.
I don’t answer. I stare at the floor. My laces are a mess and I cling to that. I don’t look at her mouth. I don’t give myself that permission. She throws me a look sharp enough to cut. She turns and slips into a fitting room. Hips loose, and she leaves me hanging.
I hover at the entrance, pressed to the curtain, watching the warped reflection in the mirror beside it. The rasp of plastic hangers, fabric crackling as it slides up. My heart won’t slow.
"Come in," she says from inside, without raising her voice.
"No," I say, quiet.
"Come in," she repeats. There’s a pause. "Or talk out here, since you’re basically on guard duty anyway."