26
The bar’s in Vallecas. Long tables, flickering fluorescent tubes, walls blown up with photos of Rayo and signed jerseys. At the door it smells like fry grease, beer, and hookah smoke. It hits my throat and opens up my appetite and my bad ideas at the same time.
I go in behind everyone and instantly feel off.
Kids in flat-brim caps, thick chains that jingle, nails that make me think of scratch marks, knockoff designer tees, and sneakers so white they’ve never seen mud.
Loud voices, busted laughs, grimy reggaeton coming out of a cheap, tinny speaker. I keep my face straight and head in.
Alaska and Vega’s friends are already there. Around ten. The oldest barely looks twenty-three. They leap up the second they see them and the place goes loud. They touch their hair, their shoulders, their hands. Hugs everywhere and that neighborhood energy that shoves you forward.
"The twins!" a scrawny kid in a PSG tracksuit yells. "Damn, you two look fine as hell!"
A brunette with a nose ring launches at Vega and hugs her so hard her back pops. Two noisy cheek kisses, hands at her waist, a lifetime’s worth of fondness in her eyes.
"Girl, I can’t believe you’re alive," the brunette blurts, laughing nervously. "Where’ve you been hiding? How’s that whole thing going?"
The circle tightens. They pepper them with questions.
"What are you doing now?"
"Is all of it true?"
"How much cash you moving? You showed up looking fine, bitches."
Vega laughs with her same old softness and opens the umbrella of safe answers. Talks without giving up anything. Sits quick and flips it, asks about their stuff. She knows how to run a table. I respect it. It hits me with a stupid wave of tenderness.
Alaska, though, comes in sure and bossy.
She takes the hugs, takes the hands, blows kisses, grips the backs of necks, slaps backs.
I know her. She’s covering how pissed she is at me.
She doesn’t want anyone smelling the poison.
Her people live for this theater. They like seeing her in full hometown-star mode, no filter.
"Hey, look at her," says a guy with crappy knuckle tattoos. "She looks bougie."
"Me, bougie?" Alaska shoots back, head tipped, neck tight, killer smile. "Please. You’re still the same broke-ass deadbeats."
Laughter. They toast. They order another round. The bartender gives a brow-lift nod and brings sticky glasses. The ice clinks and my mouth goes dry.
I hang a little off to the side, next to Luna.
She needs two minutes to crown herself queen of the joint.
She fires off soccer jokes, throws a "legend" here and a "bro" there. They crowd in. Mikel’s just as loose, happy, keeping an eye on Vega with the gaze of a fully committed boyfriend.
The protective streak comes out, and it looks good on him.
"You’re the doctor’s kid, right? The one from TV," one of them tosses out, teasing.
Mikel doesn’t flinch. "Yeah. But tonight I’m not anybody’s kid. Tonight I’m Vega’s boyfriend."
The table explodes. Applause, good-natured boos. Mikel puffs up. Vega blushes and looks down. I let half a smile slip. Only half.
I’m still on alert. My eyes go door to window, hallway to bar. I know Anton and Alexei are outside covering me, that if anything moves, they’ll see it. Even so, I don’t drop my guard. My body hums. My hands sweat. I breathe through my nose. I’m coiled.
And then, Alaska. She side-eyes me. Thin smile. Soft poison. She raises her voice so it carries.
"And this one right here"—she jerks her chin at me—"is my babysitter. The one they stuck me with so I don’t misbehave."
Roars of laughter.
"The babysitter? That’s wild."
"How old are you, Alaska?"
"She’s got a bodyguard and everything. Big time."
I lock my fists under the table. My cheeks burn. She smiles and pins me with her eyes. I don’t move. I get pissed, and turned on, and hungry. All at once. It stings. More than I want to admit.
Alaska slides her tongue over her top lip and looks at me a beat too long.
Fruit lip gloss. Shiny. I light up. I want to grab her face and taste her mouth.
I can’t. That’s the red line I signed. I know it by heart.
I break it in my head, not with my body.
I press my thighs together and let out a small laugh to play it off.
She turns and keeps her show going. Whispers in a friend’s ear, drops a dirty joke, bends to pick up a lighter and gives me a view that heats me head to toe.
She asks for a sip with her eyes. I hand her my glass.
She sets her fingers on the rim where my mouth was.
Drinks. Hands it back without breaking eye contact. My fingers shake.
"Relax, babysitter," she murmurs, just for me. "I’m trouble, but tonight I’m gonna let you breathe."
A sound slips out of me that isn’t a laugh. I hold her gaze. I’m not going to jump. Not here. Not in front of this crowd. I bite my tongue and count to five. Then to ten. Then to nothing.
The reggaeton goes up. Someone pulls out a phone and records. The waiter brings garlic aioli potatoes and spicy potatoes. Hookah smoke curls. I stay put. I’m whole and I’m wrecked. Nobody notices. Good.
Alaska shifts at the table, moves across from me, and looks at me again. She winks. That wink makes my day and fucks up my night.
I say nothing. I straighten my jacket, push my sleeves up a little, and promise myself I’ll survive this dinner without losing my mind. There’ll be time to lose myself later. Or not.
And then one of her friends, a peroxide blonde in impossibly short shorts, sits beside her and touches her arm, then her thigh, like she owns it. And Alaska lets her, even laughs.
Everything in me flares. Luna clocks it right away. She elbows me, leans in, and whispers in my ear:
“Babe, relax. You’re gonna have a meltdown.”
“She’s letting her feel her up, you seeing this?” I hiss, digging my nails into the napkin.
“Of course.” Luna snickers. “She’s heating you up to watch you sweat. She wants your eyes on her. She wants you riled. Don’t be basic.”
“It’s not fucking funny, Gata. Don’t laugh.”
“It’s hilarious. And it makes you gorgeous when the jealousy hits. Your eyes even shine.”
I shoot her a death glare and she cackles, happy as can be. Then she drops her voice and squeezes my hand for a second, hard:
“Don’t spiral. Look. If the blonde thinks she can walk all over you, she has no clue. Alaska is fucking you with her eyes. And she isn’t into Blondie; she’s putting on a show. Look close. Those two aren’t flirting—they’re talking about something serious.”
I don’t answer. I’m scared to believe her. I’m scared to let go of control. Because I love her and I can’t touch her. Because I love her and I shouldn’t. And I love her. And I love her. And I shut up.
Someone yells from the other end of the table:
“Hey, the twins are millionaires now! Pay up!”
It all turns into a joke-fest, noise, longnecks clinking. Vega tries to rein it in, says no, everyone’s invited, but don’t go nuts. Alaska raises a hand and goes, “Yeah, yeah, it’s on me,” with a bad-girl smile, and everyone claps.
I stay mute, swallow the acid and the anxiety, and thank God Luna’s at my side, keeping the jokes going and defusing things. Otherwise I’d have bailed. Well, no, because I can’t. Because I’m the shadow that protects. Because I just have to suck it up.
I cut a glance at the door. Outside, Alexei and Anton are still on watch. Inside, I’m the ghost in the corner, the one who keeps an eye, who breathes deep and grinds her teeth, the babysitter with an invisible badge.
And when Alaska sits and keeps talking in the peroxide blonde’s ear, I get that my hardest job tonight isn’t the door. It’s my face. It’s not letting anything show. It’s hanging on. It’s not smashing my glass. It’s not biting her lip in front of everybody.
Dinner drags and twists. The waiter doesn’t even ask anymore—drops full rounds and bails. It reeks of deep-fried grease so bad it makes me nauseous.
And Alaska in the middle, queen of the noise, glass in hand, eyes lit in a way I’d never seen before, a laugh that sounds fake to me.
The blonde presses in closer, slides a hand around her waist, touches her hair, grazes her thigh.
I lock my jaw; I can feel the pulse in my gums. I can’t stop looking.
I poison myself. And I keep looking. Once. Again.
There are two voices in me that won’t shut up.
One tells me to get up, take her by the wrist, drag her to the bathroom, and mark her neck.
Take her down a notch, stop the game, remind her how she goes quiet when I press her.
Be the Nat who left her shaking and happy.
The other orders me to sit still, breathe, don’t make a scene.
Get a grip, Nat—the boss will have your head. Hold or you lose her. Hold or you lose yourself. One, two, three, breathe.
Alaska raises her glass again, voice up, smile dangerous: “Long live the bad life!”
Everyone repeats it, glasses clink, din. I move in. I take her wrist, calm, firm, heat under my fingers.
“You’ve had enough, right?” I murmur, for her and for me.
She laughs, sweet and poisonous, eyes on my mouth: “What’s the matter, babysitter? You gonna send me to bed without dessert?”
The whole table cracks up. I shut up and wait them out. She taps me with her fingertips, slips her wrist free, and downs her drink, thrilled with her drama.
I close my eyes for a second. I’m dying to grab her face and end the show. Slide my hand under her skirt, pin her to the wall, shut that laugh with my tongue, and make it crystal who’s who. It doesn’t go away. The body doesn’t forget. I don’t forget.
I breathe. One. Two. Three. Luna steps on my foot under the table and returns me to my chair.
“Easy, wolf,” she says, toasting. “Night’s not over.”
I rake my fingers through my hair. I hold Alaska’s gaze. She gets it. She bites her lip. Dips her chin. Laughs. Kills me. And I hold.