"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?
3 - Nico
I’ve been standing here for three minutes, watching her breathe. Not in a way that would get me arrested, but in a way that confirms she’s still functional. The shallow rise and fall of her chest tells me whatever cocktail she mixed last night hasn’t shut down her respiratory system. Yet.
She didn't make it to her bedroom. The gold dress has ridden up to mid-thigh, and she's twisted at an angle that guarantees she'll wake up unable to turn her head. One bare foot touches the floor. The other is tucked under a throw pillow. She looks like she fell from a great height and landed here, a beautiful disaster in silk and smeared mascara.
I should leave her. She made the bedroom rule clear: off-limits, no entry, not even if she's on fire. But if she sleeps like this, she'll wake up with a spine like a question mark, and then she'll be useless for whatever threats are circling her. Keeping the asset functional is part of the job. That's what I tell myself as I cross to the couch.
"Marisol." I say it quietly, testing. She doesn't stir. I try again, louder. Nothing.
She's out cold. The kind of unconscious that comes from mixing champagne with whatever she took in that bathroom. The kind that makes people vulnerable.
I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders. She weighs nothing, all chaos and sharp elbows and expensive fabric. Her head lolls against my chest as I lift her, and she mumbles something I can't make out.
The walk to her bedroom feels longer than it should. Her door is cracked open, and I push through with my shoulder. The room hits me with her scent: vanilla, coconut, something floral underneath. It's concentrated here, soaked into every surface. Clothes are everywhere. A bra hangs from a lamp. Jewelry tangles on the vanity like expensive chaos.
I set her on the bed, and she immediately curls onto her side, pulling her knees up. The movement is instinctive, protective. Even unconscious, she's guarding herself.
Her phone sits silent on the nightstand. No notifications, which somehow makes me more uneasy than if there were threats lighting up the screen. The absence of messages could mean nothing. Or it could mean someone's being careful.
I pull the silk duvet over her, and she sighs, burrowing deeper into the pillow. Her lips move, but the words are a slur. Could be "creepessive"
I stand there for a moment, processing. She's given me a name. Made up a word for me. Filed me away in whatever part of her brain sorts the world through humor and deflection.
I retreat, close the door behind me, and stand in the hallway trying to understand why my mouth wants to twitch upward.
This is a problem. Not the names, those are just noise. The problem is that I almost smiled.
That doesn't happen. I don't smile at clients. I don't smile at chaos. I definitely don't smile at drunk disasters who smell like vanilla and make up words.
I need to do pull-ups until this feeling goes away. First, a few hours sleep so I can function tomorrow.
Five AM arrives like a drill sergeant, and my body responds before my brain fully engages. The guest room sheets are too soft. Egyptian cotton, probably. Everything in this apartment is soft except the woman who owns it. She's all sharp edges wrapped in silk.
