Chapter 2
The world won’t stop spinning, and there’s a soldier in my car.
I press my forehead against the cool leather and giggle. Actually giggle. Because this is absurd. This whole night is absurd. I went to my club to forget my problems and now I'm being kidnapped by a man who looks like he's never smiled in his entire life.
"You're not kidnapping me," I say out loud, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has fully dissolved. "You're… reverse kidnapping. Taking me TO my home. Against my will. That's a thing, right?"
Nico doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't. Talking to him is like talking to a very judgmental wall. A tall, muscled wall with short dark hair.
"Carlos!" I tap the partition. "Carlos, am I being kidnapped?"
"No, Ms. Delgado." Carlos has seen me much worse than this. Carlos is a saint. "You're going home."
"See?" I turn to Nico triumphantly, which is a mistake because turning makes the world lurch. "Not kidnapped. Just… escorted. Like a princess. A very drunk princess with a really angry prince."
"I'm not a prince."
"Oh my God, he speaks! Carlos, write this down. The statue spoke."
My bare feet are freezing. When did I lose my shoes? I loved those shoes. They were Louboutins. They made my legs look incredible. Now they're probably being worn by some cocktail waitress with better life choices than me.
"RIP, shoes," I say solemnly, pressing my hand to my heart. "You were too beautiful for this world."
"You left them on the mezzanine level." Nico's voice is flat. "At approximately 9:40 PM."
I stare at him. There’s a deep line between his dark, furry eyebrows. "You… timed when I lost my shoes?"
"I noted when you stopped wearing them."
"That's—" I search for the word. "Creepy? Impressive? Creepressive?"
"Surveillance."
"Same thing!" I try to point at him accusingly but my finger doesn't quite go where I want it to. "You're creepressive and I don't like you."
Whatever I took in the bathroom is hitting weird now.
The champagne was the foundation; this is the building doing a fun little dance.
Molly? Something sparkly that someone handed me.
Their face is already gone. Doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except that my mouth tastes like a nightclub floor and there's a very large, very silent man cataloging my every failure.
"You're going to be sick," he says.
"I am NOT." I sit up straighter, which is a mistake. The world tilts. I grab the door handle. "I am the picture of grace and elegance."
"You have champagne in your hair."
My hand flies to my head. Oh God, I do. It's sticky. When did that happen? Did I pour champagne on my own head? That seems like something I would do. Past Marisol makes terrible choices and Present Marisol has to deal with the consequences.
"It's a new beauty treatment," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. "Very expensive. You wouldn't understand."
The car stops. We're home. My building rises up all glass and steel and quiet judgment, just like Nico Rosetti.
"You two should be friends," I tell him, gesturing at the building. "You have the same personality."
Getting out of the car is an adventure. My legs have apparently decided they don't work anymore. I lurch sideways, catch myself on the door, lurch the other way, and suddenly there's a warm hand under my elbow, steadying me before I eat concrete.
"I'm fine," I announce. "Totally fine. The ground is just… aggressive tonight."
"The ground is stationary."
"The ground is a LIAR."
Eduardo the doorman greets me with perfect professional blindness. "Good evening, Ms. Delgado."
"Eduardo! Light of my life! Have you met my new shadow? He's allergic to joy."
Eduardo's face doesn't flicker. God, I love Eduardo. I should give him a raise. I should give everyone a raise. I'm going to buy everyone presents and throw a party and—
The elevator doors open and Nico practically shoves me inside. Rude.
"You're rude," I inform him.
"You're intoxicated, ma’am."
"I'm FESTIVE. There's a difference." I slump against the mirrored wall and immediately regret it, because now I can see myself from seventeen angles and I look like a raccoon that fell into a champagne fountain. "Oh no."
"What?"
"I'm hideous. Don't look at me. I'm a swamp creature."
"I've seen worse."
"That's not comforting! That's the opposite of comforting!" I try to fix my hair but it's hopeless. There's definitely champagne in it. And is that… glitter? Where did glitter come from? "I'm a swamp creature covered in glitter. I'm a DISCO swamp creature."
The elevator doors open. I fumble with my clutch, which is a mistake because everything spills out. Lipstick rolls across the marble. My keys clatter. A little bag I shouldn't have skitters toward his feet.
We both look at it.
"That's not mine," I say.
He picks up my keys without a word. Doesn't hand them back. Just holds them like he's confiscating contraband from a toddler.
"That IS mine," I say, pointing at the keys. "Give them back."
"Which floor?"
"You already know which floor, you creepy creepressive stalker person."
Something almost like amusement crosses his face. Almost. Like a ghost of a human expression. Then it's gone.
He opens my door. Walks in before me. Starts checking rooms like we're in a spy movie and assassins might be hiding behind my collection of designer throw pillows.
"Are you looking for ninjas?" I call after him, bracing myself in the doorway because standing unsupported seems ambitious. "I should warn you, I'm aligned with the ninjas. We have a pact."
"Clear," he says from my living room.
"The ninjas are in the bathroom!"
He ignores me. Checks the bathroom anyway. Comes back stone-faced.
"No ninjas."
"They're very sneaky. It's kind of their whole thing."
I watch him catalog my apartment. The champagne bottles. The clothes everywhere. The general chaos that is my natural habitat. He doesn't react. His face is just… face. Neutral. Like he's recording data for his little soldier brain to analyze later.
"You're judging me," I say.
"I'm assessing."
"Same thing." I push off from the doorway and make my way to the kitchen, using furniture as stepping stones. Couch. Chair. Counter. Victory. "You're standing in my kitchen thinking 'what a mess, what a disaster, why do I have to babysit this human tornado.'"
"I don't think in those terms."
"What terms do you think in?"
"Tactical."
I find the vodka in the freezer. Pour a glass with hands that are only a little shaky. Turn around to face him, raising the glass like a toast.
"To tactics," I say, and drink.
He doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't lecture. Just watches with those hazel eyes that see everything.
"You should drink water," he says.
"You should drink vodka. It would help with your…" I gesture vaguely at his whole situation. "Everything."
"I don't drink on duty."
"You're ALWAYS on duty. That's your problem." I take another sip. The burn is good. Familiar. "You need to learn to relax. Have fun. Let your hair down." I squint at his military-short cut. "Grow hair first, then let it down."
"I'll consider it."
"Was that a joke? Oh my God. Write this down. 4 AM, the soldier made a joke. Sort of. Almost. It was joke-adjacent."
I slide off the barstool to grab my phone because I need music, I need noise, I need something other than this oppressive silence and his oppressive presence and my own oppressive brain—
My foot catches on nothing. The world tips. Strong hands catch me, and for a second I'm pressed against a chest that's warm and solid and smells like cinnamon, and then I'm being set upright like a wobbling toy.
"Sorry," I say, and then immediately: "Wait, no. Not sorry. You're invading my home. I should be falling on you on PURPOSE as a protest."
"I'll keep that in mind."
My hands shake too hard to work the phone. I drop it. He picks it up, and I brace for him to confiscate this too, but he just hands it back. Our fingers brush. His are steady. Mine aren't.
Music fills the apartment. Loud. Bass-heavy. Something I can feel in my chest. The thoughts retreat, just a little.
"Too loud?" I ask, but it's not really a question.
"I've heard louder."
"Let me guess. War zones. Explosions. Very masculine things."
"Something like that."
I curl into my corner of the couch, vodka clutched like a teddy bear. He's still standing. Of course he's still standing. I don't think he knows how to sit. He probably sleeps standing up, like a horse.
"Are you a horse?"
"No."
"You stand like a horse. Very upright. Very… vertical."
"Most humans are vertical."
"I'm horizontal right now. I'm a rebel." I'm not horizontal; I'm sort of diagonal, slumped against the cushions like a discarded puppet. "Do you ever just… lie down? Be a mess? Exist without purpose?"
"No."
"That's sad." I drink more vodka. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. You should try it sometime. Being a mess. It's very freeing."
"I'll pass."
"Your loss." I yawn, enormous and unladylike.
The crash is coming. I can feel it—the edges of everything going fuzzy, the manic energy draining away, leaving just exhaustion and the familiar empty ache.
"I'm going to sleep. Or try to. You should…
also sleep. In the guest room. Which is where you're staying, I guess, since you won't leave. "
"Correct."
"You're very stubborn."
"So are you."
"Yeah, but I'm charming about it." I heave myself off the couch. The world sways, but I've got this. I've been navigating drunk since I was seventeen. Muscle memory. "Don't murder me in my sleep."
"No guarantees."
I stop. Turn. He almost—ALMOST—looks like he might be joking. It's hard to tell with Easter Island statues.
"Did you just make another joke?"
"Unlikely."
"You're a mystery, Nico Rosetti." I wave a hand vaguely in his direction. "An annoying, judgmental, creepressive mystery."
"Goodnight, Marisol."
It's the first time he's said my name. Just my name, without the surname, without the formality. It sounds different in his voice. Softer. Or maybe that's the drugs and alcohol finally pulling me under.
"Goodnight, Horse Man," I say, and retreat to my bedroom before I can embarrass myself further.
The Xanax is in my bathroom cabinet. Two pills. Maybe three. I've built up a tolerance. I take them with tap water, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Disco swamp creature. That about covers it.
I don't even take off the dress. Just fall face-first onto silk sheets that cost more than some people's cars and probably smell like champagne now because I definitely still have champagne in my hair.
The pills start to work. That familiar drift.
Through the fog, I hear him moving around my apartment. Not pacing—too purposeful for pacing. He's… doing something. Checking locks. Assessing. Being tactical.
I should be annoyed. I AM annoyed. But also…
There's someone awake in my space who isn't paid to ignore me. Who counted my drinks and timed my bathroom breaks and looked at me like I was a problem to be solved, yes, but also looked at me.
That's the thing about this city. Everyone looks away. The doorman, the staff, the people who party with me until 4 AM—they all look away from the mess. It's easier that way.
He didn't look away.
I don't know what to do with that.
The Xanax pulls me under before I can figure it out. The last thing I think is: Cinnamon. He smells like cinnamon.
And then, as I'm falling: Why does that matter?