Night fell, and I still wasn’t dead.

The afternoon had been long, frightening, and terribly lonely. It felt like I’d gone back in time to my first few days here, back to when I was torn between craving human contact and dreading the moment the door would open again and Pablo would walk in, eager to either torment or kill me.

The only difference was that now, the door was unlocked. I’d checked if I could still open it, and it did. The corridor outside was quiet and empty, but I didn’t dare step out of my room.

I also had a few more things to keep me busy. Piles of clothes to sort out and fold, cigarettes I could chain-smoke by the window, and the back cover of a Shrek DVD that I could read over and over until I felt myself slipping back into insanity.

And then, I had Ana’s necklace, still hanging around my neck. I twirled its little pink stone between my fingers every time I thought of her, which meant every other minute.

The Sun set on a dreadful day, and I was still standing. Pablo didn’t seem to have changed his mind, and it seemed I’d still be expected at the party. I put some makeup on, and a nice red dress. I hoped I’d be pretty enough to call for Pablo’s forgiveness, even though it was for a mistake I’d never made.

It wasn’t worth arguing with him over who was to blame or who was at fault. It would just make things worse, and I’d rather kill myself now than keep on strumming Pablo’s last nerve. I was better off obeying Pablo’s order to pretend nothing ever happened, and spending my night sitting with my legs crossed and my mouth shut.

Downstairs, on the patio, Pablo sat at a table with Oscar, Gustavo, Hernan and Beto. The Big Five quietly sipped on their glasses of rum, either puffing on cigars or a joint, nibbling away at the discarded pills and leftovers of powder stranded across the table.

“Hey,” I said softly.

They all lifted their heads up, except for Pablo, whose eyes softly batted at the idea of taking another swig from a bottle.

“Hi, Emilia,” answered the other four, and the awkward smiles on their faces told me everything I needed to know.

“You look beautiful,” added Gustavo. He side-eyed Pablo as if he expected him to look up, but all he did was silently scoff as he kept staring at the table.

Oscar stood up and grabbed me by the arm, and gently dragged me to the pool-side of the garden.

“You okay?” he asked once we’d walked far enough to be out of earshot.

“He’s still mad, isn’t he.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed. “It’s best if you just leave him alone.”

“Is Oso okay?”

“Oso’s fine. Gustavo gave him the day off, so he can stay out of the way. But anyway, Pablo trusts him a lot. So really, Em, don’t worry about Oso.”

I looked over my shoulder before we turned around the corner, and caught a quick glimpse of the other men still sitting in sinister silence.

“I thought we were supposed to pretend nothing happened,” I muttered.

“You stick to that,” said Oscar, as he ushered me along. “What he does is his own problem. Just let him throw his tantrum. He’ll get over it.”

“This is more than a tantrum, Oscar,” I hissed. “He almost killed me. He pointed his gun at me.”

“He wouldn’t kill you, Emilia,” he answered. “He wouldn’t kill someone just for that.”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, nervously biting my lip. “He’s fucking scary, sometimes.”

“I know, Em. I’ve been on the wrong side of Pablo’s gun more times than I can count. He won’t pull the trigger, especially not on someone he cares for. I talked him into giving his gun to me for tonight, just so you can feel more comfortable, but just know it’s highly unlikely that you will ever be shot by Pablo.”

We walked past a small group of people who were playing beer pong by the pool. Among them were Andrea, Manée, and of course, Juan Sandoval, who seemed to either live in Pablo’s house or have made it his life’s mission to follow me around like a shadow. I greeted them as I walked by, with a polite nod and a faint smile, and followed Oscar to the pool bar.

“Are you going to drink?” he asked, tapping the top of a barstool to show me where to sit.

“Am I allowed to?”

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, Em,” he shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve got enough on your plate already without having to worry about what he’ll let you eat and drink. No pun intended.”

“Alright,” I chortled softly. “Sure, then. I’ll have a drink.”

Oscar grinned, and I let my shoulders down a little. Still, I kept looking around the garden to see if Pablo was around. Behind me, Juan and his friends downed their drinks and sang along to the reggaeton songs that the loudspeakers spat out.

I knew a few of those songs, which used to be played late at night at Ana’s family cookouts, once her tías had gone home or dozed off at a table. Once again, I caught myself stroking the little stone on my necklace with the tip of my thumb.

“Emilia!” cheered Andrea as she popped up by my side. “How are you feeling today?”

“Hey Andrea,” I said. “I’m good, how are you?”

“Is everything fine?” she asked. “What happened with Pablo?”

“Just Pablo being Pablo, and doing Pablo things,” answered Oscar before I could say anything.

“Ugh,” she winced, and cocked her head to one side. “You’re not going to break up with him, are you?”

I gulped. As much as I wished I could leave him, I was stuck with Pablo forever, and that was something I was neither allowed nor capable of ever explaining to her.

“Of course not,” I answered softly. “We’re just having... a bad day.”

“Oh, good, because I would hate for you to leave,” she cooed, suddenly pulling my head against her voluptuous chest, trapping it into a tight hug. “I really love you so much.”

Oscar’s shoulders twitched with a silent laugh as I squirmed my way out of Andrea’s cleavage, trying my best to hide the bewildered look on my face.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I stuttered, “I love you too.”

“That’s such a cute dress,” she gushed, poking at my chest. “Where did you get it?”

“You were there,” I frowned. “You even picked it out for me.”

“Did I?”

“Andrea, are you already drunk?” asked Oscar.

“Just tipsy,” she answered, her cheeks tinted red from excessive amounts of either blush or alcohol.

"Ay princesa, you could at least wait for me,” her boyfriend whined. “Alright. Seems like we have a few shots to catch up on. Cheers, Em!”

I eagerly drank the small glass of rum, impatient to feel its buzz take over me, and chase away my racing thoughts. I just wanted to forget this day – the heinous look in Pablo’s eyes, the rageful roaring of his voice when he spoke to me, the dull pain in my wrist where he’d grabbed me, and all the painful memories that came running back once he’d left me alone. I’d drown them in a hellfire of burning liquor, and deal with them tomorrow.

“Do you wanna play Stacks?” asked Andrea.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a game where you have to bounce a ping-pong ball into a solo cup,” she explained, her words slurring ever so slightly as she spoke. “There are two cups going around the table and if your neighbor puts the ball in before you can, then you have to drink a shot from the cups in the middle of the table and stack the cup on top of yours. And then in the end it gets really, really high and it’s almost impossible to bounce the ball into the cup, and the last person who loses has to drink the putazo.”

“I’m not sure I understand the rules,” I muttered.

“That’s okay,” chirped Andrea as she spun around on her heels. “We’re playing right now, come on!”

“It’s not super hard,” shrugged Oscar. “I can shout the instructions out to you if you want. You either throw a ball or drink, it’s kinda simple.”

“But what does steak have to do with it?” I asked, as we walked over to the table around which people had gathered, and set up a few dozen cups filled with a bright green liquor.

"Putazo, Em, not puyazo," he chortled. “Steak is puyazo, and a putazo is a violent punch, but in this game, el putazo is a cup filled with five to ten shots of different kinds of liquor.”

“Sounds disgusting,” I winced.

“Oh, it is. Worst thing you’ll ever drink, second only to Gustavo’s attempts at homemade liquor.”

“Now it’s your turn,” said Oscar as he dropped a cup in front of me.

“Stop playing with your necklace, Emily Smith!” shouted Juan. “Concentrate, and stay ready, or you’ll end up as drunk as your boyfriend!”

Eight tries in, and I still hadn’t landed a hit. Oscar stacked a cup on top of mine, and grabbed me another.

“Sorry Em, now you have to drink,” he chuckled. “Make sure the table is dry. If it’s wet, the ball won’t bounce as well.”

It took a swift wipe of the table’s surface with the back of my hand, three more tries and a lot of encouragement for me to finally get the ball in the cup, but I did it.

“Attagirl, Emilia,” cheered Oscar as he slapped me on the back of the shoulder.

I smiled. The cups went around the table, and the excitement of the players grew with every lap. As the game’s tension rose, my stress levels lowered. No Pablo, no questions, just joyful screams and bouts of laughter. Even better, I absolutely sucked at the game, and got to drink more shots than I could count.

“First try!” whooped Juan, as he threw his stack of cups to my side of the table. “Emily Smith, it’s your turn.”

“Is he allowed to do that?” I cried.

“Yeah. If you put the ball in on the first go, you can pass your stack to anyone around the table,” chortled Oscar.

That motherfucker is targeting me, I seethed to myself.

“Emily Smith, just throw the damn ball!” shrilled Juan.

This time, I got it in on the second try. Oscar high fived me, but Manée turned around and glared at me as she grabbed a shot from the center of the table.

“Why the fuck did you do that, Juan?” she seethed, turning her attention to her beaming fiancé. “You fucked me over.”

“You’re less annoying when you’re drunk, Baby Girl,” he told her, and winked. “Now drink up, bitch.”

“How did I never notice you had dimples, Em?” squealed Andrea as she leaned over to stare at me. “They’re so cute.”

“Thanks,” I answered timidly.

“I’m so happy to see you happy,” she slurred, as Oscar brushed back the strands of her hair she’d accidentally dipped in a puddle of spilled liquor.

The game ended when a guy I didn’t know got to drink the putazo. And although the mass euphoria quickly died down, my heartbeat went up. For once, not because of anxiety, but rather because, as Andrea had noticed, I was genuinely happy. Pablo was out of sight and out of mind, and I fit in comfortably as an invisible part of a group of young, joyful people who neither cared for, nor hated me.

As people scattered around the pool area, I walked over to the bar. I poured myself a glass of water to wash away the sour taste of the apple-flavored liquor.

“Emily Smith.”

I rolled my eyes at the sound of Juan’s voice, and sighed at the sight of his smoldering gaze.

“What’s up?” I answered, as casually as possible.

I had to act normal, which was already a challenge for my awkward self in any given situation. Oso said spies had to act normal, and although my plan wasn’t yet in full action, I could still try to lay down its foundations.

“I like your dress. Red suits you,” he smirked. “Also, it won’t be too see-through when I throw you in the pool.”

“Can you try not to?” I groaned, as I pointed to my left arm. “I can’t wet my bandage. Doctor said my cut might get infected.”

“Oh fuck, I hadn’t thought about that,” he answered, and his haughty smirk turned into a concerned frown. “I’m really sorry, Emilia. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve been taking antibiotics,” I shrugged with a faint smile. “How about you? How’s your face, not too bashed up after your fall?”

“My face is fine, thank you,” he chortled, leaning back onto the bar’s counter. “The sand from the arena exfoliated it. It’s very smooth now. Touch it.”

He grabbed my hand before I could react, and brought it to his cheek. The touch of his warm hand on mine, his perfect skin under my fingertips, the sight of his mesmerizing eyes diving into mine, and the booze that ran through my veins combined into a deadly cocktail, and for a moment, Juan had me tamed.

“Wow. soft like a baby’s butt,” I giggled like an idiot.

All it took was a quick glance to the side, and I noticed Manée’s glare in the distance. My hand recoiled and my back straightened, and I snapped out of the spell Juan’s black eyes had put me under.

“Feels kinda gross, honestly,” I added. “I’m sorry, Juan, but I prefer manly men with facial hair and a nice mustache.”

“I bet you do,” he smirked, and licked his lips. “I’ve been told women enjoy the extra texture when we’re down there.”

“First of all, ew,” I winced. “Second of all, who told you that? Was it Majo the maid?”

“Be careful, Emily Smith,” he tutted. “I might not be allowed to throw you in the pool, but I can still waterboard you on a garden table. Have you ever been waterboarded, Emily Smith? Trust me, it doesn’t feel very nice.”

I stared at Juan in silence, wondering whether he meant it as a threat or a joke. There wasn’t a line on his face that could tell me whether he was smiling or frowning, not a hint of an expression. Maybe a faint look of smugness hidden where his upper lip curled up a little, but aside from that, nothing at all.

“Guys, we’re going to play another game of Stacks,” Andrea called out to us. “Are you coming?”

I walked back over to the table, and Juan followed. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved I’d been pulled out of that conversation, or frustrated that I’d probably never get closure over Juan’s intentions.

I was quickly distracted by the small crowd that had gathered around to join in the drinking game. More people had arrived, including Beto Arias, Gustavo, and Hernan, who stood just by my right hand side. I was tipsy enough that I didn’t really mind being stuck between Juan and his father. I even managed to giggle a bit at a dumb joke I’d told myself about being the ham in a Sandoval sandwich.

What did bother me was that, even though most of the guests seemed to have gathered in the same spot, there was still someone missing.

“Where’s Pablo?” I asked.

“Laying face down in the grass,” shrugged Gustavo. “I’ll pick him up when we’re done with this game.”

“Is he alright?” I fretted.

“He’s just napping, don’t worry,” he smiled.

The game began, and everything went well. About twenty-five shots later, four of which were for me, the game approached to an end. There were only a few cups left in the center of the table, and the tower of stacked cups was getting so vertiginous that the ping-pong balls could barely bounce high enough to get in.

Anyone who knew how to count to three would have known the dreaded putazo was going to be for my dark-eyed neighbor.

“It’s coming for you, Juan,” I snickered.

“You underestimate me, Baby Girl,” he whispered, leaning closer to my ear so that I could hear him. “I’ll get it in on the first try, and then the putazo will be for you.”

“If you do that, I will slap you,” I promised.

“Slapping a baby’s butt is child abuse, Emily Smith,” he frowned. “If you hit me I’ll report you to the cops.”

“You’re the least funny person I’ve ever met,” I sighed. “And God knows how hard you try.”

“That was the second to last shot,” screamed Andrea, waving her arms in the air like a madwoman. “Juan, the putazo is yours!”

With an arrogant wink, and a flick of his wrist, Juan bounced the ping-pong ball off the table, and landed it in the stack of cups on the very first try.

“I’m a motherfucking God, Emily Smith,” Juan grinned as he handed me the ping-pong ball. “I told you.”

“I hate you,” I seethed.

“Emilia, play!” screeched Oscar.

Amidst the screams and cheers, and all the ecstatic madness, Juan proudly dropped his cup on top of the tower with a shit-eating grin.

“Too late, Emily Smith, you lose,” he sneered.

“Seriously, Juan,” I muttered, “you could have given that drink to anyone.”

“Yes, but I really wanted to give it to you.”

I huffed at him, and winced as I caught a whiff of the nauseating drink.

“You have to drink it all in one go,” added Juan.

I pinched my nose, tilted my head back, and poured the contents of the cursed glass down my throat. My eyes turned red, and I gasped for air, both crying at the dreadful taste and laughing along with the rest of the guests.

It took a few seconds for the alcohol to hit. My head spun around for a bit, and I tried to hold back a burp. I faltered a little, tripped on my own heels, and tumbled backwards for a step or two.

Hernan Sandoval caught me before I fell, by putting his hand on my lower back.

Maybe a little too low.

Out of nowhere, like a rogue wave in a millpond, Pablo’s fist barreled through the air. I felt it whooshing past my face, right before the hit landed square on Hernan’s jaw.

Time stood still as I turned around to face Pablo. His eyes were blood-shot red, and his veins popped out of his neck, as anger dripped from his brow and frothed at his mouth.

The happy cheers stopped and were replaced with panicked screams. The girls ran away from the table, and the men threw themselves at us before Hernan could return a punch.

A mass of brawling limbs tore the two men away from each other, and hastily shoved me away from the short-lived battle.

In the blink of an eye, I was alone again. All by myself in the dead of night and the fairy light’s faint glow, I struggled to stand as my hands slipped in the puddles of liquor spilled across the table, and to understand what had happened, and whether I was responsible.

Someone approached, and through my blurry tears, I couldn’t tell who. I hoped and prayed it wasn’t Pablo. I heaved and whimpered, desperately trying to control my breaths, as I found myself suddenly incapable of counting up to four.

“It’s okay, Emilia– Emilia. It’s not your fault,” murmured Gustavo as he held tight onto my trembling hands. “They’ve fought before. It happens. You’re not in trouble.”

“I don’t even know what happened,” I stuttered. “I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything, don’t worry,” he said softly. “Come on, let me take you back to your room.”

“Okay,” I breathed. “Just give me a minute.”

The tension settled down eventually, even though the wait felt painfully slow. A minute turned into fifteen, maybe even more, and Gustavo stood with me the whole time, gently squeezing my fingers as he waited for my panic attack to blow over.

By the time I felt I was able to walk, the garden had been deserted by the guests, and the party was over.

“Alright. Let’s go,” I whispered to Gustavo.

“Emilia,” called Oscar from the patio. “Pablo wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to see him,” I mumbled, stopping in my tracks.

“I know, Em,” he sighed, his shoulders dropping under the weight of despair. “But he’s asking for you.”

“Oscar, this is nonsense,” intervened Gustavo. “She can’t go. He’s too fucked up, it’s too dangerous. They’ll talk tomorrow.”

He gently patted the back of my shoulder to usher me along, but Oscar stood in our way, joining his hands together as if he was pleading.

“I understand, but Em, please, I’ve never seen him like this,” he cried. “Besides, he can’t hurt you, because he can’t move. We had to restrain him.”

“You what?” blurted Gustavo. “You restrained Pablo?”

“Yeah. He knocked out two bodyguards before we could get him under control. I don’t know how we got to that point, but yeah, we restrained him,” Oscar chortled nervously. “With fluffy handcuffs. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.”

Gustavo let out a long sigh, and rubbed his forehead as he turned around.

“Think you can handle it?” he asked me.

“Fuck no,” I answered.

“We can wait outside, if you want,” added Oscar.

“You can’t come in with me?” I blubbered.

“He asked to see you alone.”

El Putazo

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