Bowie nodded. It was true. They’d been there for almost a month, a month of a life Bowie never really imagined he’d have access to. There was shopping and museums and extravagant brunches. Javier’s family all ate together for almost every meal—lunch especially, as it was the biggest meal of the day there—and it was a loud boisterous affair, nothing like the barely tolerable dinners he’d endured growing up.
It also helped that most other people had private security with them at all times, which meant Bowie didn’t stick out in the crowd. He was just like any other wealthy person in the city. Even if he lacked the funds to truly blend in.
Though, he supposed even that wasn’t true anymore. Javier insisted on paying for everything and anything Bowie wanted whether Bowie protested or not. When Bowie was with Sylvia, she always picked up the bill, absolutely refusing to take money from Bowie. Like the jacket he wore. He had no idea why they spoiled him so much. Part of him thought it was a last rights thing. His own personal Make-A-Wish Foundation.
No matter how happy Bowie was there, some small part of his brain whispered his death was imminent, especially since the museum incident. If there was a museum incident. Maybe he was just slowly losing his mind.
“I’m going to go nudge Sylvia. If I don’t, she’s going to make us late,” Javier told him, kissing his neck. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Bowie nodded, admiring the view as Javier walked away. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before reaching for his phone and snapping a picture, sending it to Odette with a text.Bowie: Guess what I’m doing?
Odette: Fronting a boy band?
Bowie: Bitch. Javier’s taking me to the ballet.
Odette: Isn’t that a bit like you taking him on a date to a cemetery? Like, don’t you two do have other interests?
Bowie: Shut up. I love the ballet. So do you.
Odette: I’m just teasing you, sweetie. You look hot. I bet Javi does, too. Is he wearing his baggy black jeans or his other baggy black jeans?
Bowie snickered despite himself.Bowie: He’s wearing actual dress pants. And his ass…He sent the chef’s kiss gif.
Odette: I wanna see. Snap a pic.
Bowie: He went to find his aunt and uncle. But I’ll try to snap one soon.
There was a knock on his door, and then Sylvia’s driver, Manuel, was there, smiling and gesturing towards the staircase, his rapid-fire Spanish dizzying. He had to know Bowie didn’t speak the language. Maybe he was just trying to make him feel stupid.
Mission accomplished, Bowie supposed.
Bowie recognized the names Sylvia, Javier, and even Hurley. As well as words like hurry and time. Everything else was far past his less than child-like understanding of the language, which he planned to fix if they stayed. Maybe even if they didn’t. He loved when Javier spoke to him in Spanish, especially when they were naked. He’d like to enjoy it without the attached English translations.
He looked at the time on his phone. It was five minutes past when Javier had wanted to leave. Bowie hesitated, and Manuel gave him a pained expression like he was about to get him in trouble. Javier had obviously sent Manuel to come get Bowie, but he found it a little irritating that he hadn’t come himself.
Bowie slipped his phone into his pocket with a sigh, following the driver down the back stairs to the kitchen. Manuel seemed relieved, giving Bowie a grateful smile. Maybe he was finally thawing to him. That would be nice. Sylvia thought of the man as family. He couldn’t imagine staying in Mexico with part of Sylvia’s staff hating him, especially Manuel.
When the family went out together, they always left out the front door and they almost always took the limo. Tonight, Manuel ushered him out the door off the kitchen, where he usually parked the town car for the housekeeper to unload the groceries. The hairs on the back of Bowie’s neck stood on end until he saw the familiar long black car. Maybe Sylvia didn’t want to ruin her new Louboutins.
It was only after he’d dropped into the back seat and the door slammed shut that he realized there weren’t three others in the car with him. Just one. A stranger pointing a gun at his head. A female stranger.
Bowie’s heart rate skyrocketed as the car began moving, but even his fear couldn’t stop him from asking, “Who the fuck are you?”
The woman appeared to be in her early fifties with dark hair, pale skin, and red lips that had seen one too many injections from a plastic surgeon. Even in the dim light of the car’s backseat, he could see she was attractive, well dressed, and pissed off. She wore a white pantsuit, a black shirt with a plunging neckline, and a necklace with a charm that followed the line of her shirt, disappearing beneath. She crossed her legs, one designer stiletto dangling from her toe. “I’m the woman whose life you ruined.”
“Me?” Bowie feigned, hand going to his chest like he was clutching fake pearls. “Lady, I’m a ballet dancer.”
She sneered. “And your boyfriend’s a criminal.”
She had an accent, a thick one, but it wasn’t Spanish. It wasn’t even Italian. Bowie had heard this particular accent often enough growing up back in Iowa, with Alexandre, his ballet teacher. Russian. Why the fuck was he being kidnapped by an angry Russian woman in Prada?
He tried to covertly slip his hand in his pocket, but she shook her head, waving the gun with the same motion. “Uh-uh. Don’t worry about your phone.”
This time, it was Bowie who sneered. “My criminal boyfriend? He’s going to notice I’m missing in about five minutes, and he’s going to be pissed. He’s going to find you.”
“Oh,kotik,” she simpered. “I’m counting on it.”
“Let’s go, angel. We’re already late, as usual.” When Bowie didn’t answer, Javier moved deeper into their room. “Angel?”
