33 #2
"Plan B: if it’s a snoozefest, I’m taking a nap," I say. "And if anybody wakes me up, I’m reporting you to Irina. Pretty sure she’ll convene a kangaroo court and sentence you to life in bad-movie prison."
Vega laughs. Mikel shushes us like he’s the adult—poor guy, with that face that looks like one stray hair would wreck his whole hairstyle. Behind us, the bodyguards flash an all-clear, like they’ve checked every corner, every seat, and even the air.
The movie’s a drag. Flat script, dull dialogue, and a hero who—fuck—makes me hate him for being so goddamn perfect. And the twist… you can smell it from a mile away, back in the line where they’re already ripping you off for the popcorn.
Nat’s in radar mode, but her hand is on my thigh. Nobody’s looking, obviously—nobody looks at anything when the lead on-screen says for the third time that he has a plan. I laugh to myself: the Care Bear’s got velvet claws today.
Her finger follows a path it knows by heart. One touch and my skin flips to yes, all lights green and the emergency sirens wailing.
I lean into her shoulder, breathe in her hoodie—expensive fabric softener mixed with the wood smell of her treehouse, which is my personal paradise.
My thighs team up and part on their own.
The screen decides to blow up in flames, explosions and all.
So do I, but because of the war I’ve got going on down here.
Nat shushes me with a gesture. Her index finger grazes me through the dress, just enough to draw a quiet moan out of me. She laughs without a sound; her eyes glinting in the dark make me feel alive and ridiculous.
Vega clears her throat. Once. Twice.
"Can you not?" she mutters, pissed. "I need to use the bathroom."
"Now?" I whisper, not in the mood for now. What a buzzkill.
"Now," she says, with that don’t-argue-with-me tone of someone carrying the cherry. And yeah, the cherry is the baby, but it’s also her bad temper when she feels like it.
Nat pulls her hand back in a heartbeat; her posture flips—back straight, neck alert, bodyguard mode on. I see the click: lover to security in no time flat. She leans toward Mikel.
"Let’s all go," she whispers.
"All of you?" someone in the row behind gripes. "What is this, an AARP field trip or what?"
"Shhh," another one hisses. "Be quiet."
People hiss; we stand. Vega heads down the aisle like a dignified pregnant woman who can’t decide if she’s mad at the movie, at me, at the universe, or at the dude who won’t shut up. Mikel offers his arm, full knight-in-shining-armor. She takes it. Nat hangs back; I’m at her side—her sexy shadow.
On the way out, a guy in glasses throws, "You come to the movies to watch the movie!" at us, and I want to frame it and hang it in my living room, right next to my escort diploma.
We spill into the corridors of Kinépolis Ciudad de la Imagen, and I swear this is the closest thing Madrid’s entertainment scene has to an airport.
Endless carpets that seem to swallow sound and the will to live, high ceilings, glowing signs, and twenty-five theaters where you could lose yourself forever.
Snack bars with giant buckets of popcorn and people moving around in search of their next hit of entertainment.
Nat, of course, gets map-hungry—she’s the type who needs everything under control down to the last inch.
"Restrooms in the central wing." She points left. "You two up front."
And me, knowing the protocol by now, I watch the two bodyguards link up with us from another exit, perfectly in sync.
Something crackles in her earpiece and Nat answers, "Don’t call me boss. Cover the other side."
Inside, I’m dying: she’s the boss, sure, but she’s embarrassed to hear it out loud. Security professionals and their melodramas.
"Come on, five minutes—the girl pees, and we go back to the movie."
"Don’t say 'pee.' Say 'use the bathroom' and be done," she whispers, little Miss Fancy.
"Sorry, Your Royal Highness—I didn’t realize we were at court. Look how refined my sister’s gotten now that she’s decided to be a fairy-tale princess."
And then Nat goes still. I follow her gaze.
A guy, about forty feet away, cap pulled low over half his face and tattoos crawling up his arms. Maybe it’s my biases, the bad movie I’ve got looping in my head, or too many gangland shows, but my brain slaps a “gang” label on him. We did not see this coming.
Behind him, another one, trying to play it cool at the vending machine, but he wouldn’t fool a blind bat. And then another, hiding behind a nachos sign.
"Switch," Nat says, barely moving her lips, voice dragged up from a tunnel.
"What?" I say, because at this point my brain’s in survival mode and only catching the basics.
"New route. Bathrooms on the far side. Stay tight."
Me, I’m very obedient when things get ugly, so I nod. We turn around with fake nonchalance. Vega stops short, of course.
"What’s going on?" she asks, all confusion.
"Your plans can wait, Vega. Do what you’re told."
The guy in the hoodie moves—not much, just enough to pace us, a shadow with bad intentions. The second one does too. And my bravado drains right out of me.
Nat puts a hand on my back, a tiny steer that makes it clear this is serious.
"Alpha and Beta, take positions," she says into her earpiece, in that voice that calms me as much as it rattles me. "Los Trueno, three in sight. Clear the exit to the car."
Nat picks up the pace down a side aisle. Her hand is in her bag. I know what’s in there, and it’s not that I’m scared she’ll pull it—I’m scared she’ll have to.
Footsteps multiply behind us; they don’t run, they speed up just enough.
"Do you see them?" she asks under her breath, without looking at me.
"Yeah."
"I’m going to the bathroom NOW," Vega bellows. She still hasn’t realized the mess we’ve kicked up.
Nat looks at her, ignores her, and makes the call.
Not toward the bathrooms. Toward the emergency stairs.
She shoves a gray door with the little stick figure walking down.
It opens with a metallic groan. Cold hits.
The smell shifts—cleaner, concrete. Buzzing fluorescents, bare walls, echo.
I don’t get Nat’s decision—shouldn’t we head where there are more people?
And now I get serious, because I finally understand this is real danger.