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He doesn’t move back right away. His shoulder is too close to mine. I step away with a forced grin.

Another man lifts his glass toward me. “You’re too pretty to be standing still.”

I roll my hips because that answer is simpler than any other. A few men cheer. Someone laughs. Fingers tuck bills into neon.

My body knows the work, but the work doesn’t feel the same as at the bar. I don’t have the height of the stage to divide and deflect. The expectations feel more intimate.

Emiliano is across the rooftop, already in the middle of a circle of men, smiling like he has no sense of danger in this. Maybe there isn’t any. Maybe it’s just what’s in my head that makes this less than easy.

Paul flashes in my mind.

My balance shifts wrong, and I stumble off the beat.

A man near me notices. “You okay, handsome?”

“Great,” I say, and pretend not to look at him.

I start moving again. Not dancing, just maneuvering through the crowd. Smiles catch me, and I try to return them in a way that hopefully doesn’t look menacing.

Emiliano finds me by the railing.

“Papacito,” he says, appearing beside me with two shot glasses pinched between his fingers. “You think too much to be in underwear.”

The liquid smells sharp and mean.

“What is this?”

“Tequila.” He taps his glass lightly against mine. “Drink. Then you smile. Then old guys give money.”

“That’s a risky business plan.”

He shrugs. “It works.”

Behind him, men laugh around the hot tub. Someone calls Emiliano’s name, drawing it out. He glances back and gives them a grin that looks completely real.

He knows how to do this without letting it crawl under his skin.

I look at the shot. I should say no. The part of me that is still looking for the exit knows why he handed it to me.

Maybe a couple of shots will get me to that version of me that knows the rhythm and the rules. The one who isn’t thinking about all the reasons he’s here in PV, willingly naked in a crowd of men who aren’t pretending not to notice. The guy with balls enough to be stupid.

“Salud,” Emiliano says.

A drop runs down the side of the glass and over my fingers.

I drink. It burns clean all the way down.

Emiliano laughs, pleased, and claps my shoulder. “Good. Again?”

I cough once, eyes watering.

“Yeah,” I say, before the smarter part of me can object. “Again.”

Chapter twenty-two

Afterparty

Paul