27
We ride the subway across half of Madrid, and by the time we hit the street my nerves are jacked.
The night’s on autopilot—people partying everywhere, screams, laughter, cabs blasting cheesy music.
The little punks surge ahead and I just trail after them, chewing on that “I don’t feel like this at all” and trying not to say it out loud.
Berta’s bar sign appears and I feel the bass humming in my sternum.
Packed to the gills. Long lines, bouncers in pressed suits with Monday faces, blinking lights, and a constant stream of people slipping in and out without looking at anyone.
Too many doors, too many people, too much shadow, and my neck is tight.
I run hot, that weird live current plugging into my whole body.
“Relax, Nat, you’ve got that ‘here’s your ticket’ face.” Luna laughs, shakes out her pink hair, and gets in line with a confidence I envy.
“You don’t see a damn thing,” I tell her, half joking, rolling my neck so I don’t lock up.
“I see you need a shot,” she says, winking. “And maybe two fingers.”
“Idiot.” I elbow her and smile without showing teeth.
“Of gin, girl. Gin.”
I keep scanning. To the left, a little pack of boys in hoodies smoke and crack up.
To the right, a black car clings to the curb with its lights off.
Two guys posted at the door, talking without moving.
Cameras up high, security on every corner.
All of it pings my radar. It’s not paranoia, and they’re not catching me off guard tonight.
We go in. A blast of heat and a blast of music.
The floor is packed with bodies pressed together, strobe lights, cheap perfume, and spilled gin.
I don’t even have time to take it in, because Alaska is already in the middle.
She doesn’t ask permission. She cuts through and everything orients around her hips.
She’s good and drunk, that crooked smile that wrecks me, and the shine in her eyes I can spot from miles away.
Gorgeous and fucking sexy. My tongue itches to tell her to come with me, my palm burns with the thought of hiking up her dress and stealing her breath in a doorway.
I can’t. I repeat it in a warden’s voice. I can’t. I shouldn’t. I suck it up.
Vega and Mikel are already making out in a corner. I go to Luna and we don’t even have to talk.
“You watch Vega,” I shout in her ear.
“And you watch the witch,” she shoots back, play-mean, with a wink.
“Bad girl,” I correct her, biting back a laugh.
“I’ll text if she pukes or vanishes,” she says, lifting her phone.
“And I will if I lose my patience,” I say.
“Don’t lose it. Or do. Tell me later.” And she smacks me upside the head, and I’m tempted to return it.
I plant myself at a distance, locked on Alaska. She shrugs off the bottle-blonde who’d been pawing at her since dinner. I breathe. A quick slice of relief. Good, one down.
It lasts two seconds. She turns and hooks onto another.
Petite brunette, ridiculous skirt, sparkly top hanging on by a miracle, suicidal heels.
Pretty in that club way, a shrill laugh, huge lashes.
She presses up shamelessly and I feel the pulse in my neck.
The girl doesn’t even pretend. She’s here for the prize.
She slides her hands up Alaska’s waist, pulls her closer, grinds on her thigh. Rage climbs.
Alaska lets her. She laughs, moves to the beat, arms around the neck, a dirty, playful look that drills me. She cuts me a sidelong glance. She knows I’m watching. She wants me to watch. She wants a war. She tempts me. Provokes me. Punishes me. And me, after days of behaving, I’m actually sweating.
I move closer without touching anyone, slip past the shoves, the music rattling my teeth. I don’t drink, don’t dance. I watch. The brunette says something in her ear. Alaska barks a laugh that punches through me and bites the girl’s lip, bold. I clamp my mouth shut. My molars ache.
The floor spins, bodies brush, the floor is sticky, the DJ cranks it, a glass shatters close by and no one even flinches. My gaze doesn’t move.
The brunette gets handsy with Alaska without shame, sliding her fingers up her back, mapping every curve, and Alaska answers with those hips I know too well.
She does it for me. She does it because she knows it fucks with me.
I take another step. My hand shakes. Instinct wants me to grab her by the nape and tell her enough, that’s it, show’s over.
It wants me to give orders in a low voice, breath in her ear.
Be still. Surrender. With me. Reason slaps me.
I’m her bodyguard. I’m here to keep her safe.
I’m not her girlfriend. I’m her nothing.
Tonight I’m the club cop with a soft heart and panties at war.
I text Luna with one hand, without looking away.
Me: You okay?
She answers in a second.
Luna: Vega good
Mikel good
Me good
You a mess
Me: Shut up ? ? ??
I laugh to myself. A little.
Alaska looks back at me. The bitch smiles, sticks her tongue out at me for barely a second.
The brunette thinks it’s for her. Poor thing.
She doesn’t get it. I do. Alaska says, "Come.
" Alaska says, "I dare you." Alaska says, "Burn.
" And I burn, but I don’t move. I stay. I watch her. I love her. I want her.
The brunette lowers her hand, Alaska blocks her with her wrist and sets the rhythm with a firmness that fires my imagination. I swallow a moan. I want her wrist on me. I want that control. I want to be the only one who touches her. Torture.
The bass pounds, red light drops, blue rises, the heat presses, Alaska’s dress rides up a little, her skin gleams, and I watch her with rage and with laughter. I’m alive. I’m horny. I’m on the clock. All at once. All wrong. All right.
I promise myself one thing: if she crosses a line, I’m dragging her out of here. And if she doesn’t, I’ll make one up. Because I can’t take it anymore.
An hour goes by and I’m losing it. Alaska isn’t walking now, she’s swaying.
Folded over, pretty and dangerously drunk, with that crooked half-smile that’s her signature, eyes wet, hips doing that sway that’s not dancing—it’s straight vertigo.
The brunette in the miniskirt plasters herself to her side with red nails and a smart-girl face, hooks her hand, and pulls her toward the edge of the floor.
I see it crystal clear. No doubt. She wants to take her to the bathroom.
I elbow my way through, eyes locked on that black mane swinging. The other girl’s got her by the wrist, possessive, staking a claim. I ignite inside. People jump, scream, shove me, the music jackhammers my brain and, suddenly, I lose her.
"Fuck," I spit, shoving aside a pack of guys with rum and Cokes. "Move, dude."
"Hey, relax," one of them throws at me, cutting me off.
No time. I shoulder him out of the way and he bounces off a pillar. I don’t even turn. I keep going.
I spot them again, at the back, slipping through the bathroom door. My blood boils and I speed up. Hallway, sweat, elbows, protests. A girl snaps at me to watch where I’m going. Another grabs my arm to give me a lecture. I pin him with a look and he lets go. I keep moving. Nobody stops me.
I step into the bathroom and the smell hits me: perfume, smoke, bleach. Unforgiving white light. There they are.
Alaska with a loose little giggle, blinking slow. The brunette shoving her into a stall. They’re about to shut it. I stick my foot in. The slam echoes. They both turn.
"Not a chance," I say, voice low, tight, no doubt.
The brunette drags her eyes over me, cocky as hell.
"What’s up? You want in too, sweetheart?"
She leans into me and it riles me up. I take a step, into her air, no smiles.
"Let go of the door. Now."
"Nat…" Alaska draws out the syllables, a dumb little laugh slipping out, and that pisses me off more. "Leave her alone, it’s no big deal."
No big deal? Tension bites my neck. I know my blood’s boiling from jealousy, but I can’t drop that truth here.
"Nothing’s happening?" I look at her; my chest burns. "You’re falling over, and I’m the one who takes care of you. Period."
The brunette clicks her tongue, theatrical.
"Listen, tough girl, if she wants to have fun with me, what the hell are you doing here?"
I don’t think. I move on possessive instinct and Irina’s standing order—I know it by heart: protect. I give her a sharp shove and peel her off Alaska. I put her against the wall, just enough for her to understand the party’s over.
"Get out," I tell her, steady.
A strange silence falls. The mirror girls crane their necks—free drama. One breathes a quiet "oh shit" and covers her mouth to hide her smile.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" the brunette spits, red with rage and embarrassment.
"I’m the one telling you to walk away before I break your face.
I’m her bodyguard, and I’m not risking her locking herself in there drunk with a stranger.
Don’t complicate my security protocol." I lay it down with that sleek, lethal calm Irina taught me, even if the excuse makes me want to laugh inside.
She loosens half an inch. Tries to cover it with a snort and a couple of weak insults, and leaves. Good.
"Are you out of your mind or what?!" Alaska barks, voice thick, bumping into the stall door. "Who asked you to come screw this up for me, huh?!"
"Don’t ask me to," I say, close, low, for her and only her. "You know why I’m here, and that I can’t have anything with you right now. But I’m not leaving you alone with just anyone. Not drunk. Not ever."
I shove the door, slip in with her, and flip the latch. The hard click echoes. The stall is small, it smells bad—and like her. Alaska looks at me with bright eyes, furious, drunk, gorgeous.
"Don’t get cute with me, Blondie…" Her voice is a whisper loaded with reproach, but there’s something else in it too, something that punches the air out of my lungs. "You don’t get to decide for me."