Chapter 4 - Marisol #2
I drift to the main stage where the piano sits, polished and perfect. Mom's piano, though no one plays it now except the occasional performer. I sit on the bench, not to play. I don't remember how anymore. Just to be still.
My fingers hover over the keys. Mom taught me 'Clair de Lune' on this bench, her hands guiding mine. Now I can't even remember which key is middle C. Another thing I've drowned in Dom Perignon. Muscle memory of beauty, gone.
The club is quiet this time of day. Just staff prep and the distant sound of the city beyond these walls. My eyes drift up to the mezzanine level, to the doors I can see from here.
The private rooms.
Third door on the left.
The Calypso Room.
My pulse kicks up, remembering. Eight years since I've been up there.
Eight years since I found Gabriel with her body, since I helped him clean up the blood, since I made myself complicit in something I still don't fully understand.
Those rooms have stayed sealed on my orders. Even Logan doesn't question it.
Even from here, I swear I can smell phantom jasmine, taste copper fear in my mouth.
The feeling hits suddenly: eyes on me. Watching. Calculating.
Not Nico. I know where he is now, some new awareness that tells me he's ten feet to my left without looking. Not staff. Something else. Someone else.
The sensation crawls over my skin like ice water, raising goosebumps despite Miami's oppressive heat. This is familiar. The same feeling from when I was eighteen, right before I found Gabriel with her body. My body remembers danger even when my mind pretends to forget.
I scan the empty tables, the shadows between booths. Nothing. Just my imagination running wild again, paranoia from too many substances leaving my system at once.
But the feeling persists. That crawling sensation of being studied, hunted.
My skin prickles, and I look up at the Calypso Room door again. Closed, like always. Sealed for eight years.
Still, the sensation of being watched inhabits my body.
"I want to go home."
The words come out sharper than intended. I'm standing abruptly, the piano bench scraping against the floor. Nico materializes beside me, reading the shift in my energy.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm tired."
He studies my face, and I know he doesn't believe me. But he doesn't push. "Okay. Let's go."
The car ride is silent at first. I stare out the window at Miami blazing by, all sunshine and possibility that feels suddenly false. My skin still crawls with that feeling of invisible eyes.
He shifts in his seat, and his thigh brushes mine. The contact is brief, accidental, but heat pools low in my belly anyway. I press my legs together and stare harder out the window.
"You were good today."
I turn, certain I've misheard. "What?"
"The meetings. The staff. You know what you're doing."
A compliment. From the storm cloud. I don't know what to do with it.
"I own the place. I should know what I'm doing."
"Owning something and understanding it aren't the same thing."
The words sit between us while I process. He's right, of course. Plenty of people inherit things they don't understand, can't handle. But I know every inch of La Sirena, every employee's name, every vendor's margin.
"Are you feeling okay?" I aim for levity but miss. "Do you have a fever? Should I call a doctor?"
"I'm capable of observation."
"Observation that isn't criticism? That's definitely a symptom of something."
His mouth does that almost-twitch thing again. Then his voice drops, gentle but insistent: "Something spooked you. In the club. Before you wanted to leave."
I try deflection. "I told you. Tired."
"You were pale. Different than this morning. Not chemicals wearing off. Fear."
"How can you possibly…"
"I've seen fear. I know what it looks like."
He's not going to let this go. And maybe that's what Rule Four was about. Telling him when something feels wrong, even when I don't trust my own instincts anymore.
"You ever feel like someone's watching you? Even when no one's there?"
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. "Yes."
"Does it mean something? Or is it just… paranoia? Broken brain stuff?"
"In my experience, the body knows before the mind does. If you felt watched, you probably were."
A shiver runs through me despite the Miami heat. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.
"It was probably nothing. The club's old. I'm tired. Too many ghosts in that place."
"Maybe. But you'll tell me if it happens again."
Not a question. I nod, too tired to argue. The weight of being watched still sits heavy on my shoulders, making me want to check the mirrors, the windows, anywhere eyes might hide.
We arrive at my building, and the driver lets us out at the curb.
Through the glass doors, I can see Eduardo at his post in the lobby, and he greets us with his usual professional blindness to my state as we pass through.
The elevator ride feels endless. When we finally reach my apartment, I head straight for my room.
"Goodnight," I say without looking back.
"It's six PM."
"Goodnight, Nico."
I lie on my bed, still in my dress, staring at the ceiling.
Usually by now I'd be three glasses deep in champagne, maybe a Xanax for dessert.
But something about today, about Nico's compliment, about proving I can handle my business even when my hands shake, makes me want to try something different.
One night. I can do one night sober.
It's harder than it should be. Every sound feels too loud. Every thought too clear. This is why I drink, why I take pills, why I stay in motion. Because in the stillness, in the clarity, the ghosts come calling.
I close my eyes, willing sleep without chemical assistance. For the first time in months, it actually comes.
The dream is vivid, visceral.
I'm eighteen again, standing in the doorway of the Calypso Room. The blue wallpaper with silver patterns. The white carpet. Gabriel on his knees beside her body, his face a mask of horror I've never seen before or since.
"Mari." His voice breaks. "I didn't mean… she just stopped breathing… I don't know what happened…"
Her lips blue. The way her body lies twisted, one arm thrown out like she was reaching for something. For air. For help. For life.
"I'll help you," I hear myself say. My voice sounds far away, belonging to someone else. "It's okay. I'll help you. We'll fix this."
But we didn't fix it. We covered it up. Gabriel fled to the priesthood, and I started drowning myself nightly, and the Calypso Room stayed sealed with its secrets.
I wake gasping at 3 AM, sheets soaked with sweat, heart racing like I've been running. The darkness presses in, and for a moment I can't remember where I am. When I am.
Then I hear it. Movement through the wall. Footsteps, deliberate and measured. Nico, awake in the darkness.
He's keeping watch.
The tactical banana who counts my drinks and catches me when I stumble and covers for my shaking hands is awake at 3 AM, keeping watch over a disaster who doesn't deserve it.
I should find this creepy. Instead, I pull my pillow closer and let the sound of his footsteps lull me back toward sleep. For the first time in eight years, I don't feel completely alone with my ghosts.