“What do you think they’re talking about?” Andrea whispered to me.

Following her nosy gaze, my eyes fell onto Pablo and Juan, standing on the other side of the pool, far away from the small group of people that had gathered around the table just on time for dinner.

“No idea,” I shrugged. “Probably women.”

“Huh, I’m not sure,” she mumbled. “Looks serious.”

Pablo was frowning, and Juan kept throwing nervous glances in my direction. I could have been worried, but I wasn’t. I knew what was happening – things were going according to plan. To my plan.

“Women are a serious subject for these guys,” I chuckled nonchalantly.

She nodded slowly, as her desperate urge to gossip seeped through the cheeky sparkle in her pretty eyes.

“Who do you think is the lucky girl?” she gloated.

“What?”

“Like, who do you think they’re talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I scoffed, “but I wouldn’t call her lucky.”

Andrea let out a disappointed grunt as she realized she wouldn’t be getting any information out of me. She turned her attention to someone else, while I watched as Juan and Pablo concluded their conversation with an understanding nod and a warm, friendly handshake. A sly smirk drew on Juan’s face as he walked by the table. I knew that evil grin of his would have unsettled me, if only I hadn’t known exactly what Pablo had been telling him.

It felt good to be in the loop, and to know that –for once– I wasn’t the one Pablo was manipulating. For a while, it was even elating. I felt in control, like I was in charge of everything. I was the one who’d come up with the idea for our plan, and had advised Pablo on what he should tell Juan so he’d keep quiet about his suspicions.

The whole cartel’s survival rested on my shoulders, and when I remembered that small detail, I went from feeling powerful, to utterly helpless. If anything went wrong, I’d be the one to blame.

I leaned back in my chair and lifted my finger in the air, calling over the maid and her tray full of cocktails. I grabbed a drink from the silver platter faster than she could hand one to me, and downed half of it before I even put the glass down on the table.

I knew I’d need some strength to get through the night, and I figured a few cups of liquid courage would do the trick. But the more booze I drank, the more I needed.

Maybe I should draw the line here, I thought to myself, because the lines were starting to get pretty blurry. But as soon as I’d convinced myself I should try to slow down on the drinking, someone slipped a champagne flute between my fingers.

“I’d like to raise a toast to my Gordita,” announced Pablo as he lifted his glass with one hand, and settled the other on my shoulder. “May our love forever be as strong as Hernan’s mandible.”

The whole table laughed, and Pablo left a soft kiss on my blushing cheek. I smiled, and raised my drink in the air, just like the others did. But through the tangled maze of cheering arms and clinking glasses, I could still feel the heat of Juan Sandoval’s searing glare.

By the time the guests had put their drinks down, mine was half-empty. And quickly enough, when the conversations and mindless chatter took over the atmosphere again, I’d already guzzled down the last few drops of my champagne.

“Stop it,” Pablo hissed discreetly.

He frowned, and pressed his finger down on the foot of my glass, pinning it to the table.

“Stop drinking so much, Gordita,” he muttered. “You’re going to end up like Andrea.”

“What, extremely hot and super happy?” I snorted. “Cool.”

He rolled his eyes, and was just about to spit out another snarky answer when Oscar, who was sitting on his left, tugged on his elbow to say something in his ear. I made the most of the short distraction to lean over and snatch the bottle from the ice bucket in front of him, and treated myself to another drink.

Juan was still staring, his head sliding left and right as he followed my every move, like a feline on the hunt. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. It made me feel uncomfortable. Not like when you worry someone might be staring at a piece of salad on your teeth or a smudge of tomato sauce on your nose. Something even more uncomfortable. Like when you’re pretty convinced that someone might have tried to strangle you if you weren’t separated by a large dinner table.

There was something in the way his nostrils flared with every breath, something in the way he was grinding his jaw. How he barely ever blinked, and when he did, it almost felt strategic, like he didn’t want to miss something important, not a single microsecond. How his fingers caressed his fork’s handle as if he would have stabbed me in a second. How his dark, black eyes seemed to want to swallow me whole.

I slumped in my chair, wondering whether if I slid down slowly enough, I could slip under the table without him noticing. Pablo wrapped his arm around me, and pulled me a little closer. He gently stroked my shoulder, as I pressed my cheek against his. I smiled. I felt safer in Pablo’s arms, cradled by his calloused fingers brushing against my skin, and the soft purr of his deep voice echoing in his chest.

The look on Juan’s face was that of ever-growing concern. Maybe that should have been a delightful sight, because messing with Juan’s head was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

But Juan was too nervous. He kept dabbing sweat off of his forehead with his napkin, his knuckles turned pale as he furiously scrunched the delicate piece of cloth. His eyes swept across the table, trying to meet anyone’s gaze, and his mouth hung half open as if he wanted to blurt out a secret he was supposed to carry to his grave.

I glared at Pablo from the corner of my eye. His job was to calm Juan down and get him to shut up, and as it appeared, he’d done the exact opposite. I wished I could have asked Pablo what the hell he’d told Juan that had freaked him out so badly, but I couldn’t speak about the plan in public. So I sighed, and just poured myself another drink.

“I need to pee,” I mumbled, and Pablo let go of me.

I pushed myself away from the table, excused myself with a polite nod, and rushed back into the house. Once my back was turned to the small crowd, I bit my lower lip, sunk my teeth deep into my flesh, and let out a silent hiss of frustration. My heels clicked against the stone, dug into the glass, slipped on the kitchen tiles as I ran inside. I slammed the bathroom door shut, and finally exhaled.

“Ffffffuck.”

I shook my head at the girl in the mirror, with the dazed look on her face and a drop of champagne still dribbling down her chin.

“What are we doing, Emilia?” I whispered to her.

What was she doing, the reckless bitch? I frowned at my reflection, and she looked down in shame. You’d think six drinks in under two hours would trigger the opposite of a moment of clarity, but that’s when I finally felt lucid.

Emilia Kovács had taken control of my limbs and mind, and what had she done? She’d gone out of her way to find ways to stay trapped, and make sure no one saved her. She’d trusted the word of murderers and criminals, and fallen in love with a man who’d done nothing but hurt her.

And now she gambled with our life like it was a game of strip poker. She’d jumped straight into the blaze before she even played with the fire. It was easy to blame her and pretend we were different, but the truth was Emilia was me, and I was always her.

“What are we doing?” I sighed.

“You needed to pee,” she answered.

“Right,” I nodded.

I lifted my dress and sat down on the toilet, but I kept an awkward eye contact with Emilia in the mirror. We raised our eyebrows, then frowned, then pouted. We closed one eye, then the other, then pushed our chins into our necks, and giggled like an idiot. I smiled, and sniffed.

Usually, pulling faces at my reflection in the mirror while I peed alone in the bathroom was my telltale sign I’d drank enough. The moment I knew I needed to find Ana and stick with her until the night ended, because when I was drunk and alone, I had a tendency to walk up to any cute guy and tell him something really stupid.

But Ana wasn’t here. She was far away, in Goose Creek. At least she didn’t have to worry about me, widening her eyes every time I opened my maudlin mouth. She didn’t have to hold on tight to my hand, ready to yank my arm whenever I got too close to my crush. She didn’t have to stay sober to make sure I didn’t make a mess.

Ana could spend her evenings dancing carefree, waiting for Sarah to fade away from her memory. She could go home and go to bed rather than hold my hair as I leaned over a toilet bowl, and then she’d sleep tight, blissfully unaware that Emilia had ever existed.

“What are we doing, Emilia?” I asked again.

“Surviving,” she shrugged. “For as long as we can.”

“Smartass,” I muttered.

I fixed my makeup where it had smudged at the corners of my eyes. I leaned on the bathroom counter for a while. I felt like a tormented starlet, taking a last look at the Hollywood Mirror before she stepped out on set, ready to put on a face and pretend she was someone else. Except I wasn’t a movie star, and I had no stardom or glory to bask in. Just the threat of imminent death.

I stepped out of the bathroom, and back into my harsh reality. I walked through the garden, pushed along by the early night’s breeze, guided by spotlights half-buried in the dewy grass.

The dinner table sparkled in the distance, golden lights hitting the crystal glasses, diamond jewels flailing and drops of champagne flying through the air every time someone let out an exaggerated laugh. The pool’s cerulean blue glow framed the scene with a mystical aura.

“Hey, Emily Smith,” said a voice, hidden in the dark behind me.

I ignored it, and kept on walking. I wasn’t sober enough to deal with this.

“Emily,” Juan insisted. “Millie. Milli Vanilli.”

I could have pretended he wasn’t there. I could have cowered behind Pablo all night, and waited for another day to play my role in the plan. But Juan had me cornered the second he grabbed my elbow.

He spun me around, and I found myself face to face with my biggest problem. I put on a fake smile. Game on.

“John Glade, the Jungle Jew,” I answered.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“It rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?” I snickered, and Juan rolled his eyes.

“What were you doing?”

“I was in the bathroom, John Glade. I was peeing.”

“Oh, were you?” he asked, and arched an eyebrow.

“Yup,” I smiled. “Actually, I met your cousin there, Lavender Glade. Lovely girl.”

“You’re lying,” he frowned.

“It’s a joke, Juan,” I sighed. “Get it? Lavender Glade?”

“I know,” he retorted. “But you’re lying about being in the bathroom. Because the air fresheners they use here are apple-scented.”

“Well, I was in the bathroom. I just don’t go around smelling air fresheners every time I need to take a piss.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe I don’t sniff every toilet freshener I come across?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he groaned. “I don’t believe you were in the bathroom.”

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. “Just get out of my way. I need to see Pablo.”

“What for?” he asked, stretching his arm out to block me as I tried to walk away. “Why do you need to see him?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend, duh.”

“What do you want from him?”

“What are you, the Spanish Inquisition?” I chuckled nervously.

“I just want to make sure you’re here for the right reasons,” he answered. “Pablo’s like family to me. I’m just looking out for him.”

“He’s a big boy, he can look out for himself,” I muttered. I tried to take another step, just for Juan to hold me back again.

“Answer my question. What do you want from Pablo?”

“Attention, affection, and lots of sex,” I replied.

“Nothing else?”

“Alright. Maybe a little bit of money,” I sneered.

Juan gritted his teeth, and shook his head. My heartbeat rose for a second. It was obvious he didn’t believe a word I said. And then I remembered – that was a good thing. I wanted him to think I was lying. I was a spy. I wasn’t here for money. I was here for intel.

Drunk or not, whatever I was doing, I had to keep doing it. The plan was working. He was taking the bait. I bit my tongue and clenched my jaw to conceal the uncontrollable smile that was tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“So you’re just a sugar baby, then?” he scoffed, as an unconvinced pout drew on his lips.

“You’re asking a lot of questions, John Glade.”

“I have many more.”

“So do I. First of all, why did you follow me to the bathroom?” I asked, and lifted a finger to quiet him down as he opened his mouth to answer. “Second of all, why the fuck do you remember the smell of Pablo’s toilet’s air freshener? Do you systematically give the sprays a sniff every time you go to the bathroom? Is it like a hobby? Does it get you high?”

“You’re wasting my time,” he mumbled.

“Glad to see we’re on the same page, for once,” I grinned. “Smell ya’ later, John Glade.”

I reached the dinner table just as the main course was being served. Pablo politely pulled out my chair and watched me as I sat down, a discreet and slightly confused smile tugging at his lips.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Why do you look so happy?” he said.

“Am I not allowed to?” I scoffed.

Pablo threw a side-eyed glance at Juan, and I understood what he meant. Emilia was a spy, and being confronted by someone would make her nervous, not delighted. So I got back into my role, and faked an anxious gulp.

“Everything’s fine,” I mumbled, and I pinched my lips.

“Everything?” Pablo whispered.

“Yup.”

His hand searched for mine under the table. He gently stretched out my fingers with a stroke of his thumb, and when my hand laid flat, he gave me a secret high-five.

No matter how much I tried to stop it, a smirk made it through my tight lips. I hid my face in a glass of wine and prayed no one would notice.

The dinner went well. The food was delicious, the conversations pleasant, and the wine flowed endlessly. But the best ingredient for the perfect meal was to be able to watch Juan slowly lose his composure. For once, he was unsettled, and I was in control. He didn’t seem in the mood to sing Spongebob parodies anymore. Meanwhile, I could have won an Oscar for my outstanding performance in acting.

Emilia was a spy, and she had to make sure she’d hear everything Pablo said. So I leaned towards him every time he spoke, and carefully watched his lips whenever he talked, even though I didn’t really care about anything he said.

With every sentence I pretended to hear, Juan’s anger grew a little more. His dark eyes would widen in disbelief, yet it seemed like he understood more and more.

And Emilia was a spy, so she’d be wary of Juan. So I kept an eye on him, and often threw brief, nervous glances in his direction.

As a past –and maybe present– victim of Pablo’s manipulations, I maybe should have felt a little more compassion for Juan. But watching him suffer in silence was a pleasure I relished in, almost like a bloodthirst for revenge.

I just wished I’d brought my gadgets, things like my clicky pen and my compowder. Sure, my facial expressions were almost flawless, since I’d practiced them for years in my random daydreams, but any great show needs a few props.

“Where are you going now?” Pablo muttered as I stood up.

“Bathroom,” I whispered.

“Again?”

“I’ve been drinking a lot.”

Pablo grunted, and I scuttled away from the table and back inside the house. Even when I found myself alone in the corridors, I kept the appearances up.

Emilia was a spy, and I was a method actor. So I hugged the walls, skulked in the shadows, and looked over my shoulder before I turned around every corner.

By the time I reached my bedroom, adrenaline was pumping through my veins as if I really was on a mission. My breaths were quick, and all my moves, strategic.

I didn’t switch on the lights, just swept my fingers across the vanity, hoping to come across one of my gadgets. I found the blusher, but not the pen, and decided that was good enough. As if I was racing against time, I hastened my steps, and headed back down.

Almost to my disappointment, this time, Juan hadn’t followed me. He’d sat down in my chair, right next to Pablo, and looked up at me with a smug grin.

“I was sitting here, John Glade,” I hissed.

“And now I’m sitting here,” he replied. “You can sit in my chair. I won’t mind.”

“I do mind,” I muttered. “I’d like to sit with my boyfriend.”

“What for?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend.”

“Why don’t you socialize with other people?” snickered Juan. “You should talk to Manée.”

“Pablo,” I huffed. “Tell him he needs to move.”

“Please keep fighting over me.” Pablo grinned. “I love it.”

I rolled my eyes, and walked over to the other side of the table with my chin held up high, because I wasn’t defeated. It didn’t feel great to have to sit between Manée and Rodrigo, the cloud of cigar smoke in a Versace shirt that Juan called his friend, but Pablo was on my team, and maybe he had an idea.

A few minutes ticked by. Half an hour, at most. But as I sat stuck between Rodrigo’s awkward smiles and Manée’s cold glares, seconds felt like hours.

Emilia was a spy, and she was stalling, because she couldn’t hear anything Pablo was saying. So, after two drinks, a slice of lemon pie on a gold-trimmed plate, and lots and lots of fidgeting with the compact I’d hidden up the sleeve of my dress, I stood up, and walked away.

I didn’t look back to check out the puzzled look on Juan’s face. I headed straight to a dark, empty, and isolated corner of the garden. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be seen, and where it wouldn’t make sense for anyone to follow me. Anyone except Juan Sandoval, at least.

I pulled out the compact from my sleeve, opened it up and brought it to my ear. I started muttering a few sentences of nonsense.

“Falcon and Macaw might have intel about Operation... Magic Marlin,” I mumbled. “I suggest suspending operations until I can confirm. Lost track of the conversation. Pigeon Jr. got in the way.”

I burped up a few champagne bubbles, and tried my best not to giggle at the ridiculous situation. In Juan’s mind, in Pablo’s and in mine, Emilia was a spy, sending out urgent communications. In anyone else’s, she was a crazy, drunk chick, standing alone in the middle of the garden, speaking to her blusher.

It became downright impossible to keep a straight face once I noticed Juan’s head peeking around a corner. My cheeks blew up and my lips trembled from the laugh I was holding back. I took a deep breath as he walked up to me, and disguised it as a gasp.

“What are you doing here?” said Juan.

“Fixing my makeup,” I shrugged.

“In the middle of the garden?”

“Yup,” I answered. “I needed a little touch-up.”

“Why are you holding it like that?” he asked, staring right at my blusher.

“That’s how you’re supposed to do it -- you apply it to the cheeks.”

I slowly moved the compact away from my ear, closed it, and held it tight in the palm of my hand. Juan arched an eyebrow, and let a complacent smirk slip through his lips.

“Can I take a look at that thing?”

“No,” I muttered. “You’ll cover it in germs.”

“Give it to me,” he seethed, and swatted at my hand.

“Don’t you dare touch me, Juan,” I hissed, pulling my arm away before he could grab it. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Do you think I’m scared of you?” he scoffed.

Juan took a step towards me, and stuck his stiff chest against mine. I could feel his warm breath blowing on my face, and the intoxicating smell of the perfume on his neck had me in a chokehold. I didn’t have to feign my worry anymore.

“You should ask your Dad what happens when Pablo thinks you’re trying to feel me up,” I spat.

“Pablo wouldn’t punch me,” he sneered.

“Wanna bet?” I retorted. “Lay a single finger on me and we’ll find out.”

Despite my threats, Juan kept inching closer, waiting for me to let my guard down so that he could snatch the compact from between my fingers. I leaned backwards, all but crushed under his body, stuck in a deadly tango.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” he growled.

“I don’t think I’m untouchable,” I snickered. “I know I am.”

“It won’t last, Emily Smith. Trust me.”

“Is that a threat, John Glade?” I teased.

“I wouldn’t dare threaten Pablo’s pretty, sweet, innocent little girlfriend.”

The devilish smile that stretched across his face as he uttered the word “innocent” told me everything I needed to know. My plan was working. Juan saw me as a threat. He was miles away from thinking I was the poor, helpless hostage that Sarah Kennedy once was.

Emilia Kovács was a spy, and Juan Sandoval knew it.

“Clever boy,” I whispered. “Now fuck off. Also, shave your mustache. You look like Waluigi.”

He glared at me, eyes darker than ever. Then, like a wild beast, he slowly retreated into the depths of the garden and disappeared, as if he’d been swallowed by the night.

My chest swelled with pride. I was winning. Maybe I’d already won. I finally let out the smile that was cramping up my cheeks, the laugh that was choking up my throat, and the breath that was gripping to my lungs. I slid the small compact between the bandaged wrist on my left arm, and the tight sleeve of my dress, and walked back to the pool and its flock of unheeding partygoers.

I stayed by Pablo’s side, comfortably tucked under his strong arm. I quietly sipped on my drink as I only haphazardly tuned into the conversation. I was too busy patting myself on the back for coming up with such a great plan.

Juan didn’t let me savor my victory for very long. Now and then, his face appeared somewhere in the crowd. He always seemed to be staring right at me, and came one step closer every time he appeared. It was laughable at first, but it slowly grew unsettling. When I lost sight of him for a while too long, I knew what to expect.

“Hello again, Emily Smith,” he muttered in my ear.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I groaned as I turned around.

“I see you enjoy living on the edge,” he hissed.

“What?”

“On the edge of the pool,” he snickered.

“Don’t you fucking dare--”

Too late. Juan swung an arm around my waist and tried to tackle me down. No matter how much I squealed and screamed and kicked, no matter how hard Pablo tried to pull him away from me, and no matter how strong I held on to Juan, he was hell-bent on pushing me into the pool.

This time, it wasn’t light hazing, nor a childish joke. Anger burned in his eyes, rage frothed in his mouth. He didn’t care if he fell in with me, he didn’t care if I hit my head on the edge of a tile, he didn’t care if I drowned. Juan was out for blood.

Confused chuckles turned into concerned shouts, and as my head went underwater, the sounds were all drowned out. I tried my best to keep my bandage dry, lifting my arm above my head. But Juan pushed me down, with one hand wrapped around my throat, and made sure I sank down to the very bottom of the pool.

Air escaped my lungs as I kept on screaming for help. I clawed at my face to push Juan’s hands away, to block my nose and stop the water from rushing in. My eyes burned from the sting of the chlorine, and I wondered if Juan’s dark eyes would be the last thing I’d ever see.

And then, he let go. I swam back to the surface, and I coughed, and coughed, and coughed, spitting out the water that ripped through my chest. By the time I could finally take a breath, and pulled my wet hair away from my eyes, Juan was already sitting on the edge, kicking off his soaked shoes and wringing the water out of his shirt.

“What the fuck, Juan?” I yelled, and I coughed again.

Pablo asked the same question as he grabbed Juan by the shoulder, with a tone far more threatening than what I could manage with my broken voice.

Juan whispered something in his ear. Pablo frowned, then nodded, and they exchanged a discreet handshake. Juan stood up, turned around, slipped through a crack in the crowd and disappeared, without even a look over his shoulder.

“What the hell is wrong with that guy?” I seethed as Pablo held out his hand to help me get out of the pool.

“We need to change your bandage,” he mumbled. “Come with me.”

We walked over to the pool bar. I sat on the counter as Pablo searched through the cupboards until he found a first aid kid. I scowled at the weird grin on Pablo’s face.

“Why are you laughing at me?” I groaned.

“I’m not laughing at you, Gordita.”

“You are,” I muttered. “You’ve been smiling the whole time.”

“How do you manage to keep a straight face with that kid?” he chortled.

“Who, Juan? Pablo, he tried to drown me.”

“It’s just–” he stopped mid-sentence to let out a laugh, and continued in a quiet but mocking voice, “he said ′I have successfully neutralized her recording device."

“What?”

“He thinks you were spying on my conversations,” he grinned.

“So it worked?” I gasped.

I spat up a bit more water, but even as I winced in pain, my eyes sparkled with glee.

“Shh, keep it down,” he whispered as he carefully rolled up my sleeve and began unraveling my bandage. “But yes. I’m pretty sure we can call it a success. For God’s sake Gordita, I almost blew it. I was this close to laughing in his face.”

“Oh my God,” I wheezed. “He’s so dumb.”

“It’s so sad,” Pablo chuckled. “And I’m sure he thinks he’s really smart because he’s the only one who noticed, too.”

“This is amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” Pablo answered.

He looked up at me, and gave me a soft smile. And nothing hurt me anymore. My eyes didn’t burn, my chest wasn’t tight, and I didn’t even feel any pain as Pablo traced a finger down the wound on my arm.

“It’s healing pretty well,” he murmured. “Do you think we really need another bandage?”

“I think I’ll be fine.” I smiled. “It’s been, like, a week already.”

He stroked my wrist with one thumb, and caressed my leg with his other hand.

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “All it took was one night?”

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Pablo replied softly. “Tonight went well, but we’ll have to keep up the appearances for a couple weeks. And then we’ll need you to come up with another one of your clever plans.”

“I honestly thought it would be harder to convince him.”

“You can thank me for that,” he answered proudly.

“Really?”

“Yup. He came up to me, and he said ′there’s something wrong with Emilia’ and he went on and on about how he didn’t think we could trust you. I told him not to worry, and that you were lovely, just a bit shy, and he said ′I don’t know, I feel like she’s not who she says she is′ and I laughed it off, and told him ′what, you think she has a false identity? Like a spy?‘” Pablo recalled. “And you should have seen his face. His jaw dropped. He said ’you think that’s possible?′ and so I acted all concerned and serious and I told him ′listen, Juan, don’t tell anything to anyone. Not even your father. I’ll look into it.′ and he seemed pretty convinced. So yeah, I’d say I had a pretty big role in making this plan work out.”

“Well played,” I congratulated him with a grin.

“I’m a genius mastermind,” Pablo shrugged, his voice filled with false modesty.

“Hey, I’m the genius mastermind,” I protested. “The plan was my idea.”

“Right, you had the idea, but I came up with the execution. You’re the visionary, I’m the mastermind.”

“You’re taking too much credit,” I sneered. “Let me have some of the praise for once.”

“Okay,” he said. “You know, I kinda like it when you take the reins.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, and wrapped my arms around him, pulling myself a little closer to his chest. “I’ve been told I’m a talented rider.”

“Oh really?” he grinned, as his lips inched closer to my neck. “I’m sure you have loads of talent.”

“I told you I was a long term investment.”

The kiss Pablo left right below my ear sent warm chills down my spine. I squeezed my legs around his hips, and he let out a longing sigh.

“Indeed you were, Miss Ko-vacs,” he whispered.

“It’s pronounced Ko-vatch,” I corrected him.

“Is it?” he stammered. “No way. Sorry Gordita, I’m an idiot.”

“Indeed you are, Mr. Juarez,” I giggled.

He shamefully buried his face in my cheek, but neither of us could stop smiling. Our bodies burned with an uncontrollable passion, and our lips drew closer, and closer, until they collided.

My fingers tangled in his tousled hair, his in the soaked fabric of my dress where it clung to my waist.

“You should go get changed,” he breathed as he tore himself away from our kiss. “Or you’ll catch a cold.”

“Alright.”

I hopped off the bar and made my way back to the house. Pablo followed, although he seemed to stay a few paces behind. Then, he stopped halfway through the crowd. He lingered awkwardly, searching for someone to talk to as he watched me walk away.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked him.

“What, with you?” he stuttered.

“Who else is going to help me undress?”

My words left a stunned smile on Pablo’s face, and a knowing grin on the lips of anyone within earshot. It only took two steps for him to catch up with me, grab my hand and lead the way. With Pablo at my feet, I was on top of the world.

I may have been playing dangerous games, but I was winning every single one of them.

Kerning

Dangerous Games

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