The next time my eyes opened, the world felt much different. Lost was the tight warmth of Juan’s arms, replaced with the cold, icky feeling of sweat-soaked sheets sticking to my skin.

Even when I closed my eyes, an overwhelming light crawled underneath my shut eyelids. It felt like someone was pushing needles into my irises, hammering nails into my brain, bashing stones into my limbs, and jumping up and down on my stomach. I brought my arms up to my face to protect it from the harsh sunlight, but a sharp pain held back my left hand.

“Morning, Gordita,” said Pablo. “How did last night go?”

I forced myself to open my eyes again, batting my eyelashes as I battled the sun, and looked over at Pablo. He was sitting on a chair, cleaning his gun with a piece of cloth. Given the look on his face, the IV drip by my side, and the stench of bile stinking up the room, the answer to his question was pretty obvious.

“Probably terrible,” I mumbled.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t remember.”

It was a bit of a lie. I remembered climbing over the garden fence and getting to the club, although I’d forgotten the path we’d taken to get there. I remembered Dan-Dan, and the look on his face right after Juan punched it. I remembered running, the shapes the mold painted on the walls of the abandoned building, and I remembered that Hernan Sandoval had chlamydia. Things got more blurry once I had passed out in Juan’s arms.

“What were you doing?” said Pablo.

“Just drinking... with Juan,” I mumbled. “I guess I must have blacked out.”

“Where were you when you were drinking?”

“Right here,” I lied.

“Where exactly is ‘right here’?” he muttered.

“Is this an interrogation?” I spat.

“Perhaps,” he mumbled back.

I took a deep breath to calm myself down. Lashing out at Pablo only made me sound more guilty, and I didn’t know what he’d heard from Juan. If our versions matched up, I might be able to stay out of trouble, but my mind was still hazy and I had completely forgotten the lie Juan and I had agreed upon.

“I don’t remember exactly where,” I shrugged, trying to look less afraid than I really was. “We were drinking in the garden, and then I forgot everything after that.”

He pursed his lips, and put down the gun he had been cleaning. He settled it on his lap, gently folded the cloth and focused his attention on me.

“Gordita, I’ll be kinder if you tell me the truth,” he sighed, a disapproving look on his face. “What did you and Juan do last night?”

My mother used to say that whenever she found a pack of cigarettes in my room, or a new scar on my arm. It was always bullshit. If I told her the truth, she’d get mad anyways, so I learned how to lie. The cigarettes were always Ana’s, the cuts were from a small accident that happened at work.

At first, the lies worked, and I got away with it two or three times, but she quickly stopped believing me. Whether I lied or not, it always turned into a fight. Even when I had tried to stop smoking, and the empty pack of cigarettes was a moldy piece of trash I’d forgotten under my bed. Even when I quit self-harming, and the cut on my wrist was a scratch from a stray cat I’d tried to pet.

If my mother taught me one thing, it’s that a broken trust is hard to fix, and that once it’s gone, there’s not much left to salvage from a relationship. That, and the fact that lies are a precious resource you have to use strategically.

“We went to a club,” I mumbled. “It was Juan’s idea.”

Pablo nodded, and the corner of his lips tilted up ever so slightly.

“Right,” he answered. “And what happened at the club?”

“Juan ran around telling girls that his name was John Danger Glade, and I just sat in a corner and drank until I passed out.”

I gulped, chasing the bad aftertaste of a dangerous lie out of my mouth. The pitiful squeak that escaped from my throat seemed to echo around in the deadly silence of the bedroom.

“So you and Juan weren’t together?” he muttered.

“For the most part, no, we weren’t.”

“And you just stayed there,” he said, and a slight frown dug into his brow.

“Yeah,” I shrugged.

“So you and Juan didn’t do... any... stuff?”

At first, I didn’t understand what he had said, and my mouth hung open for a while as my brain struggled to process his question.

“Hell no,” I spat with hearty disgust. “Never. He grosses me out.”

“Really?” replied Pablo, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, all he ever talks about is eating ass, and getting blowjobs, and catching STDs or whatever,” I mumbled.

His eyes narrowed, and he stared at me for far too many seconds, building tension in the air until my ears started buzzing. Then, with a disinterested twitch of the shoulders, he shrugged it off.

“Alright,” he said, and his scrunched-up face turned back to normal. “Anyways, you still left the house without my permission, so there are consequences to that. Beto will let you know what happens next.”

Before words could escape my quivering lips, Pablo stood up to open the door. My fists tightened, crumpling the sheets between my fingers, and heavy drops of sweat rolled down the back of my neck as Beto Arias walked into the room, holding a thick stack of papers.

He saluted me with a polite nod, and looked over to Pablo, waiting for a signal. With a wave of the hand as his cue, Beto started talking:

“Under level 4 security protocols, subjects are required to sign a release form upon entry or exit of a safe haven-certified location. Said form must specify destination, duration, and reason of travel, vehicle type, vehicle identification number and satellite location number. Under low-threat situations detailed in section two, sub-section A of level 4 security protocols, non-compulsory travel must be pre-approved at least six hours prior to exit by the Head of Security and the subject’s assigned bodyguard.”

Beto’s voice sounded so strange, I wondered if it was the first time I’d ever heard it. It was loud, solemn, yet croaky and faltering, like a medieval minstrel on his first day on the job. I threw a confused glance at Pablo, as Beto rambled on:

“Assigned bodyguards are required to have passed a category A background check in the last seven days prior to exit and have received updated training regarding level 4 security protocols. The aforementioned protocol was last updated on January 7th, 2022.”

Beto’s rant sounded like a high-schooler’s attempt to fill in his essay’s word count. The pages in his hands trembled like leaves in the wind, and he nervously pushed his glasses back up on his nose as he waited for another nod from Pablo to continue:

“Under medium-threat situations detailed in section two, sub-section B of level 4 security protocols, additional written approval is required from Pablo Antonio Juaréz Molina, and the subject must be accompanied by a support escort vehicle with one or more category A–”

“How many pages are there?” I asked.

“Twenty-six in total, but he’s only reading the relevant parts,” muttered Pablo. “Just listen.”

I phased out as Beto kept on ranting about the security protocols for high-threat situations and the three forms required before and after emergency travel. I stared at the wall behind him, mouth agape, wondering what was happening. Pablo snapped his fingers at me when he noticed I’d lost focus.

“Category 1 violations of general security protocol, including but not limited to accidental tampering with surveillance infrastructure, minor breaches of health and safety guidelines and minor breaches of protocol,” continued Beto, “may result in verbal warnings, written warnings, payment of a fine, or temporary or permanent exclusion from safe haven-certified locations of the subject, depending on the seriousness, frequency and circumstances of said violation.”

“The exclusion part doesn’t apply to you, Gordita,” added Pablo. “For obvious reasons.”

I nodded, still lacking the slightest idea about what was going on.

“Category 2 violations of general security protocol, including but not limited to malicious tampering with surveillance infrastructure, major breaches of health and safety guidelines, major breaches of protocol without malicious intent and endangerment of level 3 and up subjects may result in corporal corrections proportional to the seriousness, frequency and circumstances of said violation.”

“Corporal correction?” I frowned.

“A good old ass-beating,” Pablo replied. “Stop talking over him.”

“Category 3 violations of general security protocol, including but not limited to breaches of protocol with malicious intent, tampering with evidence or retaining intelligence concerning a protocol violation, disclosure of strategic information to unapproved individuals, high treason and endangerment of level 3 and up subjects resulting in grave harm or death may result in the immediate elimination of said subject.”

Beto went on for a while, about the details of various punishments, and the guidelines on reporting a violation or suspected violation of protocol. I blinked every other second, as I started to count the number of times he said the word ‘protocol’. A few minutes later, ‘protocol’ stopped sounding like a word.

An intrusive thought told me that Beto’s speech would make an amazing drinking game. Take a shot every time he says ‘protocol’. Drink double if he names a rule you’ve broken. Finish your drink when you fear for your life. I laughed at the thought, and an awkward giggle escaped my lips. Pablo coughed. Beto stayed silent.

“So, uh, what did I do?” I stuttered.

“Three category one violations,” explained Pablo. “Failure to follow the exit protocol in a low-threat situation, exiting a safe-haven certified location without the appropriate escort and inappropriate consumption of controlled substances.”

“What controlled substance?” I scowled.

“Alcohol,” he mumbled.

Sometimes, Pablo said things that pulled on my nerves like the strings of a puppet, that made rage froth in my mouth until I spewed it out like a spray of projectile vomit.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I scoffed.

“Beto, thank you, you can leave,” muttered Pablo, and continued as his Head of Security promptly exited the room. “And no, I’m not kidding. Drugs and alcohol can only be consumed by certain people in certain settings, because it’s easy to accidentally reveal significant information to the wrong people when you’re under the influence.”

“So you can spend your days high off your tits on cocaine but I can’t have a drink in a club?” I deadpanned.

“You can’t get shitfaced in a club,” he retorted. “Just be grateful all you need to do is pay a fine.”

I noticed he didn’t say I couldn’t go to a club. He just said I couldn’t get shitfaced there. I wondered if he was on drugs – perhaps he was even higher right now than I was yesterday. Or maybe someone was listening, and he had to pretend I wasn’t a hostage. Or maybe he’d lost his mind and forgotten he had kidnapped me.

“How am I going to pay a fine?” I asked.

“You don’t have to,” he answered. “I already paid for it.”

“You paid a fine to yourself?” I frowned.

He stared straight at me, his mustache wiggling around as he bit his tongue, carving every word before he let them fall.

“Consider it my apology,” he muttered.

Life was always going to be a vicious circle. We both knew he’d try to harm me whenever I fled, and I’d try to flee whenever he hurt me, but letting Pablo do awful things to me just so that he could be more lenient the next time I craved for a little bit of freedom wasn’t going to work out well in the long term.

Perhaps, for this one time, we could both let it slide and pretend nothing happened, but the silence that weighed on us said it all. All it would take was one mistake, and the grudges we both held would come back with a vengeance.

So I acted on my best behavior, and I kept my mouth shut until Pablo ended the conversation with a loud slap on his thighs.

“I’ll get the nurse to take out your IV,” he said. “Make sure to hydrate, don’t wander off, and stay off the booze.”

Pablo’s instructions were easier said than done. I didn’t trust that his intentions were so good, and I probably would have thought of running away again, hadn’t I needed the help of a maid to walk anywhere further than the doorstep of my bedroom.

The maid settled me down on a sunbed she’d dragged under the shade of a palm tree. She brought me a glass of ice water, filled with mint leaves, lime wedges and slices of cucumber, but the mere sight of it made my stomach churn. Still, every square inch of my flesh ached for a shot of pure liquor.

I fell asleep for a while, or maybe I just passed out. When I woke up, Juan was sitting beside me, pressing an ice pack against the right side of his face. One of his eyes was tired, the other severely bruised and half-shut from the swelling. At first, I thought it may have been my fault, or perhaps Daniel had punched him back and I hadn’t noticed.

Juan smiled at me when he turned around and noticed my eyes were finally open. The bruising stretched down to his jawline, staining his skin with a dozen shades of purple. Little shapes, triangles and semicircles, were imprinted on his cheek, momentary traces left by the weapons that had been used to beat him up.

“You look rough,” I told him.

“Speak for yourself,” he replied.

“Let me guess,” I asked, staring at his swollen eye. “Category 2 violation?”

“Someone’s had a security briefing,” he chuckled. “But yeah, for subject endangerment. And you?”

“Three category 1 violations,” I mumbled.

“Oof, sounds expensive,” he hissed. “Sorry Em, you told me not to tell him, but things just took a really bad turn, and I had to walk through the front gate and get the guards to help. I couldn’t throw you over the fence and pretend nothing happened.”

“It’s okay, and thanks for bringing me home,” I murmured. “I’m just glad I didn’t get in too much trouble.”

“Yeah, a Cat’ 2 would’ve been rough,” he snickered. “I’m curious as to how Pablo would corporally correct you.”

“Don’t joke about that,” I retorted, glaring at him.

“Shit, sorry. My mind didn’t go there, I swear,” he stammered, and the bruise on his cheek seemed to pulsate as he blushed. “I was thinking about spanking and stuff, not–”

“Juan,” I spat. “Sometimes it’s best to just shut up.”

“Yeah, word,” he breathed.

Juan learned his lesson, and after that, he stayed silent. I aimlessly twirled my straw around in my glass of water, because even the tiniest sips of it made me feel like I was going to barf.

We quietly sat and watched as bodyguards and gardeners loaded dozens of suitcases we’d never even had time to open into the back of pick-up trucks. Yesterday’s mishap cut our beach trip short. The word got around that people in the village were keeping an eye out for me and Juan, and the safe-haven house was no longer safe enough.

“Juanito,” chirped Pablo as he walked towards us. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit sore,” he mumbled.

“Well, you know the rules,” Pablo shrugged. “I don’t make any exceptions.”

Juan nodded, and let out a long sigh as he put the ice pack back on his damaged eye.

“Dad’s inviting you over for dinner at ours tonight,” said Juan, smiling to hide how he was wincing in pain, “as an apology for my fuck-up.”

“Oh, did Gordita finally pass the background check?” asked Pablo.

“I think I’ll stay at home,” I intervened. “I still feel sick.”

“It’s just a hangover, take a nap and you’ll be fine,” muttered Pablo.

He rolled his eyes and walked away. Once he was far enough to be out of earshot, Juan turned to me.

“What did you tell him about yesterday night?” he asked.

“The truth,” I murmured. “Most of it.”

“Same,” he said. “I didn’t tell him about your Dan-Dan.”

“Good, neither did I,” I whispered. “Thanks, by the way.”

“No worries, you only made me promise like fifteen times,” he chortled. “Plus, given how mad he looked, I probably saved you from a Category 3 violation.”

“How mad was he?” I worried. All things considered, Pablo had seemed relatively calm while he was talking to me.

“You know, the usual tantrum, stomping around and screaming, breaking shit in fits of rage, threatening everyone until Oscar took away his gun,” he shrugged. “We’re all used to it. Plus, he’s like an active volcano, it’s nice to see him blow off some smoke. It’s when he stops that you start to worry, because that’s how you know there’s pressure building up.”

I finally managed to drink a little bit of water, but only to help me swallow the lump in my throat.

Pablo waved us over, and Juan offered his hand to help me stand up. I carefully ignored it, keeping a wary eye on Pablo, and slowly shuffled up to him, next to the idling fleet of armored trucks.

“We’re going,” said Pablo. “Get in the car.”

“Where’s Oso?” I asked. “I want to say goodbye.”

“He’s driving us home,” he answered, and faced with the confused look on my face, he added: “I need someone I trust to keep an eye on you.”

I smiled meekly, and climbed into the back seat. Pablo sat beside me, Oso turned around to greet me with a grin, and we drove off. Although I dreaded going back to Pablo’s house and all the awful memories trapped within its walls, it was a little less daunting to know I’d at least be in there with both Mafer and Oso.

The three of us – me, Pablo and Oso – were silent for most of the trip. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, aside from a weird playlist Oso had chosen to play on the radio, a weird mix of Mozart, Pitbull and Bollywood songs called ‘Música para calmar perritos’.

Music to calm down puppies.

“I feel like I’m dying,” I muttered, after what felt like an hour on the road.

“Let’s stop in a gas station and get you some Tylenol,” said Pablo.

“Do you have any of that horse stuff?” I asked

I was only half joking. I would have done anything to escape the terrifying hangover Daniel’s roofies had drowned me in. Pablo rolled his eyes, shook his head and frowned.

Things weren’t going well. I knew I hadn’t gotten away with what happened yesterday. Pablo hadn’t let it slide. I knew he’d hold it against me and drop it like a rock on top of my head the next time I stepped out of line.

And although with Gustavo dead and Juan calmed down, I had two fewer enemies, I still hadn’t made any new allies. Juan trying not to get me killed last night was hardly a strong basis for a long-lasting friendship, and as long as my secret identity hung over my neck like the blade of a guillotine, I couldn’t trust Juan.

Nausea gripped me by the guts, and I rolled down the window. Pablo’s fingers laced with mine, and he held my hand tight in his own.

“Hang in there,” he whispered. “We’re almost home.”

We made it back to his house, but I barely had time to recover. I dragged myself upstairs, took a quick shower in Pablo’s bathroom, and napped face-down on his bed for less than an hour.

“Go get ready, we’re going to the Sandovals’ soon,” Pablo said as he shook me awake. “Holy shit, Gordita, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“You’re going to stop drinking, if this is what alcohol does to you,” he muttered.

I let out a long sigh, and for a brief moment, I thought of telling him about the roofies. Just for this one short, drowsy instant, a quick clean death sounded like a more enticing idea than having to quit alcohol.

I kept my lips sealed, and slipped into some fancier clothes. I slapped some makeup on my face to hide the bags under my eyes and how green my skin tone looked.

“Much better,” said Pablo. “Now let’s go.”

The Sandovals didn’t live very far. Pablo’s driveway seemed longer than the rest of the road. I held my stomach the whole way, struggling to keep myself from spitting its contents out of the window.

Their house was very different from Pablo’s marble palace, but somehow just as extravagant. On the outside, it looked like a gravity-defying bunker, with dark gray walls and large bay windows balanced on top of a few sleek columns.

There were water wall fountains on each side of the front door, lit up by dim spotlights. The first room we walked into was a large, square, empty hall painted in a spotless shade of white that burned my eyes. Vines dangled from the top of an atrium, making the hall seem just a little less sterile and a bit more alive.

Pablo left me behind so he could go and talk to Hernan Sandoval, while Juan walked away from his father’s side and came to greet me.

“Hey Em, welcome to my house,” said Juan.

“I didn’t know you had a house,” I snarked. “You’re always hanging out at Pablo’s.”

“Pablo used to come around to ours more often, but lately he couldn’t, since your background check hadn’t been approved. That may or may not have been my fault,” he shrugged. “Also, it’s technically my Dad’s house.”

It was pretty clear from the second I walked in that this was Hernan’s house. The whole place seemed to have been built just so that it could fit a huge painting of him, standing in almost the exact same pose as Pablo, with his steel-gray eyes staring down at whoever walked through the front door.

“Is it bigger than Pablo’s?” I asked, pointing at the portrait.

“By a few inches,” Juan answered with a sly grin.

I winced. My headache was getting worse by the second, and nothing that I saw or heard in the Sandoval’s home helped improve my appetite. When we sat down at the dinner table, Pablo asked the maid to take away my wine glass. It wasn’t the right time for me to try and provoke him or go against what he wanted, so I watched in silence as the others drank and cheered, while I sipped on some room-temperature water.

The maids brought in the starters, oysters au gratin. The sight of them made me sick, their smell made me retch. I turned away from the table and stood up, but Pablo caught my arm before I could make it further than a few steps.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Bathroom,” I muttered. “I feel sick.”

He nodded, and let go of me, and I walked out into the hall. There, I stood still, took a deep breath of cold air, and my nausea receded a little.

“Are you lost, Baby Girl?” said a deep voice behind me.

I gasped and turned around to face Juan, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, far too close to me.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” I hissed. “I’m not lost, I’m looking for the bathroom.”

“Yeah I know, I just came to show you where it is,” he chuckled, as he took my hand and walked down one of the corridors. “The house is too big, people always get confused.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “But please, never ever call me Baby Girl.”

“It’s a movie quote, from 365 Days,” he said. “Have you never heard of it?”

“I don’t think so, what is it about?”

“It’s a movie about a hot mafia guy who kidnaps a girl he’s obsessed with, and then they have sex,” he answered. “It’s awful and really stupid. You should watch it.”

I brought my hand to my throat, so that Juan wouldn’t see it twitch as I gulped.

“Why would I want to watch a movie that’s awful and really stupid?” I muttered.

And why is the world filled with so many people who think watching girls get kidnapped is so entertaining? I wanted to add, but refrained from it at the last second.

“I don’t know, I just love terrible movies,” he shrugged. “The ones that are so bad that they’re good, like The Room, Troll 2, Birdemic, Hitman the Cobra, shitty Disney knock-offs, Christian horror movies–”

“You know a concerning amount of terrible movies,” I snickered.

“It’s my favorite genre,” he grinned. “One time, when I lived in Budapest, I flew to Paris just to attend an international film festival that screened all of the world’s worst movies over one weekend. Best two days of my entire life.”

“You’re so fucking weird.”

“Yeah, well, anyways, the bathroom’s right there,” he said, pointing to a door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, John Glade,” I sighed.

He flashed a boyish grin as he opened the door for me. As I walked past him, Juan leaned closer to me and whispered:

“You’re welcome, Sarah Kennedy.”

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