Chapter 7
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Luna
My phone buzzes just as I'm scrolling through Netflix, trying to pick something to watch on this Friday night.
“What's up, Roxy?” I answer, already smiling.
“You. Me. Mexican food. You in?” Her voice bubbles with energy, and I can picture her perfectly - still at her desk, not a hair out of place, designer outfit pristine, waiting for me to cave.
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” I laugh, her enthusiasm impossible to resist.
I throw on some jeans, a cozy sweater, and my trusty black boots. Before heading out, I pause at my perfume collection . What feels right tonight?
After a moment's deliberation, I reach for Givenchy L'interdit Rouge. Something about this scent always makes me feel like I could walk into a boardroom and own it.
Roxy texts me the address - some little taco joint downtown. I feel a tiny flutter of excitement as I head out, which is rare these days. Usually, I dodge social plans like bullets, but Roxy's different. She's one of the few who knows my whole story. She gets why I've become a hermit, and more importantly, she stuck around during my darkest days. If you'd told me a stalker would be the thing to sort my friend list into 'real' and 'gone' within months, I would've laughed. Funny how life works.
Can't really blame the ones who left - who wants to deal with someone jumping at shadows? Nobody. So now it's just Roxy, trying her best to pry me off my couch before I actually merge with it.
I pop in my earbuds, start up an audiobook, and make my way to the train. At least the restaurant's right by the station - small mercies.
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Los Amantes glows in neon against the night sky as I approach, Gloria Estefan's voice floating out onto the street. The scent hits me before I even reach the door - garlic, cumin, and spicy peppers dancing in the air.
Roxy shows up looking like she's auditioning for 'How to Get Proposed to in One Night.' We end up stuck at a table smack in the middle of the chaos, but beggars can't be choosers.
"So, heard about the buyout. Excited?" She's busy studying the sauces like they hold the secrets of the universe, her honey-colored eyes narrowing in concentration.
"Less excited, more slightly less broke," I try to joke.
It feels weird, this laughing thing. Sounds simple, right? But when you've spent months crying yourself to sleep and fighting panic attacks, something as basic as genuine laughter feels like discovering a new color. Like maybe normal isn't just something that happens to other people anymore.
"So I take it you're treating tonight?" she asks while taking a sip of her strawberry margarita.
"Count on it. Thanks for getting me out of the house, Roxy," I say, squeezing her hand.
Neither of us is sentimental, but Roxy knows that if she needed to bury someone at 3 a.m., I'd only ask if I should bring two shovels.
It's funny how desperation changes you. When you're alone, backed into a corner without friends or support, the smallest hint of kindness feels like winning the lottery. Roxy was my lottery ticket. She showed up for everything - every police report, every terrifying encounter with my stalker. She'd crash at my place, promising over and over that this nightmare would end.
Sometimes it still feels weird, waking up without a phone screaming with missed calls.
Don't get too comfortable , whispers that paranoid voice that never quite shuts up.
"Someone's gotta drag you out of your cave," Roxy grins, "and I know good tacos are your weakness."
God, everyone needs a Roxy in their life.
The night flows with her endless stories about event planning disasters - she always has the best mishaps to share. I could never handle her job. The pressure of being responsible for someone's perfect day? No thanks. Sure, my work matters too, but at least I can test my code a hundred times before it goes near a patient. Roxy? She gets one shot, start to finish.
Twenty years of friendship, and it still amazes me how different we are yet somehow perfectly in sync. I know every quirk in her vocabulary, every breakup speech she's ever given, every pair of shoes that she swears will get her a rich husband.
Me? I'm your classic computer nerd - green eyes peering through round glasses, cinnamon-blonde curls that refuse to behave, and hips that have a life of their own. Then there's Roxy - looking like she walked off a Milan runway. She's got this angelic face, with brown eyes that turn honey gold when she's fired up. Always wearing those long gold earrings to 'fix' what she calls her 'moon face,' and perpetually dressed to kill.
Maybe that's what makes our friendship work so well - we're like opposite sides of the same coin. Though I'll admit, it's slightly unfair how she can demolish a burger and it vanishes into thin air, while I just have to look at one and my jeans get tighter.
God, I needed this - just feeling like a regular twenty-five-year-old with her life together. Good job, nice place, maybe even a shot at normal.
Don't get ahead of yourself , warns that ever-present voice of paranoia.
"Another round?" I push back from the table, desperate to outrun my thoughts. I'm feeling good tonight - actually good - and I'm not ready to let my demons drag me down.
"Claro que sí ," Roxy mumbles, already lost in her phone. Probably her assistant having another crisis.
I roll my eyes at her phone addiction and head for the bar. While the bartender works his magic, I take in the place - rustic Mexican vibes everywhere. Agave field murals, sequined sombreros scattered across the walls, terra cotta vases in each corner. I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me, when a deep voice cuts through everything.
"Too much tequila?"
It takes me a few seconds to realize he's talking to me, so I turn slowly.
"Sorry?" I ask timidly.
The moment our eyes meet, I instinctively shrink into myself. He's massive - a human mountain with an unkempt beard and eyes so dark they seem to swallow light.
“Looking a little wobbly there, bonita,” he drawls.
He hasn't done anything - not yet - but something in his tone makes my skin crawl. I glance desperately at the bartender, willing him to move faster, but it's peak Friday night and he's already working at lightning speed.
“Just enjoying the music,” I mutter, turning back to the bar, praying he'll take the hint. Ever since Aidan, any male attention feels like needles under my skin.
My message doesn't seem to register in his probably alcohol-soaked brain because I feel him entering my personal space, having no place to sit beside me.
“Music's better with a dance partner,” he purrs, words smooth as oil and just as slick. My stomach churns. I know I can't hide from men forever, can't expect to never be flirted with, but something about his presence sets off every alarm in my body. My shoulders bunch up to my ears; my hands start to shake.
Breathe, Luna. Roxy's right there. The place is packed. But I know better than most - crowds don't mean safety. Nobody wants to play hero for a stranger, not when it might ruin their Friday night.
The bartender finally slides over our margaritas with a smile. I grab them and bolt, not bothering with niceties. Roxy's still glued to her phone when I reach our table, but before I can even set the drinks down, a hand clamps around my wrist like a vise.
“Didn't your mama teach you manners?” the mountain growls, fury rolling off him in waves.
I'm frozen, his grip crushing my wrist. The air turns thick, my chest constricting. Oh God, not here . Please don't let me have a panic attack in front of all these people.
brEATHE, Luna!
But I can't move. Can't think. It's like my soul's checked out, leaving my body to deal with this mess alone.
Roxy launches herself from her chair, shoving him hard, but she might as well try to move a brick wall. Pain shoots through my arm, but I'm trapped in my own head, flashing back to that night months ago when pain and fear paralyzed me just like this.
Then suddenly he's yanked away from me, and I hear the solid thud of a fist connecting with his jaw.
"Learn to take a hint when a woman's not interested, pal."
That voice - smooth as aged whiskey and just as potent - pulls my attention upward.
The man who stepped in lands another hit, and the crack of ribs echoes through the restaurant. But I'm mesmerized, can't look away from my rescuer. He's dressed in a black suit that screams charity galas and champagne toasts. Those eyes though - storm-cloud gray and intense - hold me captive for what feels like forever.
When I finally take in his whole face, the shock hits like a punch to the gut. Because Roman Borisov, my soon-to-be boss, was the absolute last person I needed playing hero tonight.