❝all the things we're taking,
'cause we are young, and we're ashamed.
send us to perfect places.❞

❘❘

HAZY AIR FLUTTERS BETWEEN LASHES, cascades over sprawling ink, dresses bare skin into the aftermath of an endless night—still hanging on the last moments of lust. It's not fragmented; it's soft memories that bleed into a stealthy, saturated sunrise.

When will time start to make sense? When will I stop losing myself a million times over in the lies that make up seconds, minutes, hours, years?

I breathe deeply, desperate to find a way to the surface, but I'm anchored—swimming in stranger's sheets. An arm around my waist, a hand on my thigh, wisps of hair grazing my neck, hot breath in my ear.

Those faint fringes steal time, steal thoughts, steal breath. Light spills through a thin, beige curtain, leaving strokes of tinted warmth along fresh nail marks. On backs, on arms, on shades of skin I can barely remember touching last night.

I feel like I'm sinking.

"Neva?" Fingers reach up into the sheets of hazy light; they graze my bare arm, pulling at every nerve until I'm wide awake and on fire. "Are you okay?"

The soft murmur lulls me to my side.

With eyes closed and a sleepy smile on his lips, Rio looks surreal in la luz de Septiembre. As I gently trace my nails along his unshaven jaw, he hums contentedly and sinks with me.

If I'm going down, I'm bringing him with me. If I sink, he'll drown.

"I'm better than okay," I admit. "I had a lot of fun."

"You are fun," Rio drawls teasingly, capturing my hand and dragging it to his lips. A soft, lingering kiss into my palm brings my heart to my throat. "Muy divertida, Neva."

"Is he...is he just your friend?" I ask quietly, sneaking a glimpse at the man behind me. Mickey. "Or are you..."

Those lip twitch in amusement; those dark eyes flutter open to meet mine. I still, stuck between the two stirring strangers and loving every fucking second of it.

"We hook up sometimes," Rio says softly. "It's casual."

My throat runs dry with the fantasies that attack, and my cheeks warm when he laughs faintly. Caught. "Oh, okay."

We're slowly edging into dangerous territory; with every inch I take, Rio steals a mile. With that throaty voz, that sleepy susurro, the sated sonrisa.

Tengo que irme.

"Mick," Rio whispers before I can run like hell. "¿Estás despierto?"

Mickey growls something under his breath, but simply clings to my waist.

"Mickey," I drawl as I twist to face him. I brush the short, dark curls from his forehead, my gaze straying to the tattoos snaking over his shoulder: a Dalí-like melting of clocks and words and things I worshipped last night.

"You tired him out, Neva," Rio snickers, his lips meeting my bare shoulder.

"Fuck off," Mickey grumbles without opening his eyes. "It's my apartment. I don't have to wake up and go home."

I smile when Rio presses up against my back with warm skin, freshly kissed by the sun, and a hard cock, freshly kissed by...me.

There is a perk to waking up like this; beside him or beneath him, or—

"It's okay," I breathe suddenly, shimmying when Rio burrows into my neck. "I should really go. I have to work tonight."

I think. If today is still Saturday. If we didn't undress and unravel through the weekend.

Rio sits up, snaking an arm around my waist to flip me. I fumble slightly, but when he tugs me up over his lap, all that I can't place crashes together. The man beneath me is a vision in the wash of bare light—swollen lips and inky eyes, hunger seeping from his fingertips as they find my hips.

I close my eyes and lean down to meet him halfway. "I should really go," I repeat, but still let him capture my lips lazily.

"No morning sex, huh?"

Answers always come easier through actions. I don't reply; I only kiss him slowly, exploring every crack and crevice beyond his lips. Maybe I should stay here forever. On top of him, around him.

Mickey stirs beside us. As he rolls onto his back with a lazy sigh, I pull away—to watch the muscles in his arms work, to watch the tattooed lightning bolt on his thumb meet my thigh. "It can't be morning still," he sighs, shaking his head.

"No?"

The other hand crawls through the sheets, searching for something, something, somethi—

When he pulls his phone free, my brows furrow. "What time is it?"

"It's already three," Mickey says.

"Three?" I rasp in disbelief. My entire body stiffens, and my eyes widen. "It's already three in the afternoon?"

Rio reaches to the floor, and when he pulls his phone up, he nods at me.

I nearly reel off of his lap. Where the fuck is my phone? "Ay, chingados," I hiss, stumbling from the bed to grab my shit. A bra, a shirt, a skirt, a purse. Rio's pack of Newports. A gram of leftover coke on a table by the bed. "Tengo que irme."

As soon as I tug my shirt over my head, I shimmy into my skirt. I tear open my purse, shove the coke into it and curse under my breath. "What the fuck?"

"What?"

"¿Dónde está my phone?" I snap, glancing up at both men in frustration. "I'm supposed to be at work at four."

"Chill, mamita," Rio drawls, standing from the bed and stretching in front of me. "I'll look for your phone. Go ahead. The J is only a block away."

I nod senselessly, offer a half-hearted wave to Mickey, and pray that I never fucking see him again. My fingers won't stop shaking, my heart is clobbering up my throat, and my teeth are chattering?

What the fuck is going on with me?

As I slip my shoes on numbly, I head for the door, still tucking and touching everything in my purse. "I'll...can you bring it to me if you find it?"

"Sí, sí, sí," Rio says, and then spins me for a quick kiss. "I'll get it to you."

I twist; my head sways, and I nearly hurtle out of the bedroom when Rio slaps my ass playfully.

"I..."

Fuck, this is not going to work. I should just stay in bed...I should just stay here.

But for some reason, my feet won't stop moving. I'm pushing through a dark apartment aimlessly, stumbling as I grasp walls and counters in search of a doorknob.

With nothing but knotted hair, disheveled clothes, and a purse with less than a gram of coke. My last gram of coke.

Something less dizzy and more groggy settles in on the train ride. My stomach is empty, and each rocky step reminds me that I don't know when I last ate.

When I step off the train, I take the stairs slowly. Whatever it is inside of me is gnawing with razor-sharp teeth, eating away at the empty hole that just keeps growing and growing. A ripple of pain wrenches me forward, keeling over on the sidewalk. Like those needles, or a pinprick of pain—one poke, one stab, one fierce slice, and everything in the pit of my stomach goes haywire.

Electricity crackling, cool metal burrowing into a hollow cave, and a wave of nausea rolling over my head.

The combination feels exhausting, like a dull, distant drugged effect; it's a sharp ache of hunger. It spills into me, a crippling damage that I can't quell with a cigarette. Whenever I still, motion sickness capsizes me, and I take a drag to smother it.

By the time I skid to a halt at the bar, I'm heaving, and I can't quite figure out what is slithering beneath my skin. I'm still grasping, fighting off gravity, or trying to find a collision that will make it stop.

Anything.

It comes in the form of a big, red tag, scrawled across the mural beside the bar.

I stare at it numbly for a few seconds, wondering if I should be upset or worried or care about it at all. I can't read it; I'm not even sure if it says anything.

As I glance at the bar warily, I drop my cigarette and swallow. My eyes close, I inhale deeply, and the feeling subsides for a split second.

But when I push the door open cautiously, I'm struck back a step. I stumble, my lips parting, my eyes widening, my entire stomach lurching.

"What..."

Glass.

There's glass everywhere.

An ocean of shattered, broken shards separates Emmy from me. I could drown in it.

Emmy says something across the bar, but I don't hear it; I'm stuck in a soundless stream of surprise, taking in the sheer destruction. In the dim light, the sea meets the shore—a landscape of torn fabric and spilled liquor and ripped posters and broken string lights. Stools are knocked over, booths are sliced open, the shelves behind the bar are empty.

"What..." Glass crunches beneath my heels. "What happened?"

"Look who fucking showed up."

I spin, the door falls closed, and suddenly, I'm staring into the mirror beyond the bar. A million lines, a million fractures, a million spiderweb cracks lead me to the motionless man at the edge of the bar.

His jaw clenches.

"That fucking spic," Jesse spits, crossing his arms. "Julian."

"Julian..." I blink in confusion. "Julian did this?"

The sound of glass beneath feet tears my attention from my boss. Emmy closes the space between us with a tight smile. "Your new boy toy trashed the bar last night. Came in here right before closing."

My lips part, but I can't find words. Why would he do that?

"He asked where you were," Jesse says. "Did you tell him to meet you here?"

Julian was the last thing on my mind last night. "I didn't."

Emmy sweeps me into a hug abruptly, and her lips meet my ear. "Jesse didn't pay anyone."

"Didn't..." Jesse didn't pay anyone? What does that have to do with Julian trashing the bar? "He didn't...pay..."

Hastily, Emmy pulls away from me. A warning flickers in her eyes.

And then suddenly, all the pieces crash together.

Jesse didn't pay Julian.

"Neva," Jesse hisses, wrenching my gaze away from Emmy. "Come here. Now."

I stand there in shock, still reeling with the fact that Jesse didn't pay Julian, so he trashed the entire fucking bar. Julian had never been afraid to get a little rough, or a little dirty, but in the end, I'd never seen him as someone violent.

"Do I have to say it in fucking Spanish for you to understand?" Jesse nearly growls, striding towards me. Glass shifts and skittered along the floor as the distance between us disappears. "Or do I have to come get you?"

My head fucking spins. "Excuse me?"

"Oh good, you do understand English." Jesse grabs my arm roughly, and when I try to tug it away, he grinds out, "Neva, we need to talk."

"Jesse, don't touch her!"

I shake my arm free, glaring at Jesse. "Fine, let's talk. I know how to call you a bastard in English too."

Jesse shakes his head with a frustrated laugh. "Out back. Now."

Ignoring Emmy's worried look, I hold my head high as I cross the bar, push the door open, and then stomp to the small smoking corner. When I turn, I scowl. "What?"

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," Jesse sighs immediately, collapsing against the wall. As he runs his hands through his hair, his expression falls. "I'm a little on edge right now."

Some part of me softens. I lean against the wall beside him. "Listen, Jesse, I had nothing to do with this."

"I know." His arm brushes mine, our thighs touch. "But I heard you're working for Julian, Neva."

"Working for him?" I scoff. "I'm fucking him."

Jesse smiles down at me. "So you don't have any blow on you right now?"

My breath catches. "What?"

Jesse cocks his head to the side knowingly. His eyes darken in the hazy sunset; the edges of his lips sharpen into a cunning grin.

I squirm nervously, clutching my bag closer to my side, averting my gaze, trying not to suffocate in the heavy, hot air.

Too hot, too hot, too hot.

"Mhmm, Neva," Jesse says softly, almost playfully. "Emmy told me you've been getting a little allowance from him."

"That's not..."

His fingers trail up my arm, his gaze falls to my lips, his body shifts, pinning me to the wall, closer, closer, closer.

Everything is too close.

I flinch when he dips even closer, and whip my head to the side; his lips land on my cheek. "What?" Jesse murmurs innocently. "This is how it works, Neva. I'll give you something, and you'll spot me."

"Fuck you," I spit without thinking.

Jesse scowls down at me, another warning tainting the silence. I bite back a nasty curse, or the urge to cry, or the panic rising like bile in my throat.

My nails dig into my palms, my chest tightens, blood fills my mouth. "Jesse, get off of me."

The taste of gravel.

Grinding, glittering, twisting gravel.

His lips come down on mine. Hard.

"Jesse." I shove at his chest angrily, my pulse spiking. "Jesse, stop!"

"C'mon, Neva," he lulls, hands snaking down to snatch my hands and slam them to the side. "This is okay. I just need a little bit."

"Stop."

The back door swings open—a hard crack of metal smashing against brick. "What the fuck?"

At the sound of his voice, Jesse freezes.

My bottom lip trembles; I press a thumb to it, catching a smear of hot blood. As I shove at Jesse again, he goes stumbling back. My knees buckle, and a warm breeze snakes around me—shakes me back down to the foundation.

Cold. I want it to be cold. I want it to be winter.

"Julian," I say breathlessly, scrambling from the wall to meet him. "Julian."

"This has nothing to do with her, Jesse," Julian says strongly—so fucking strongly that even I feel it. Something unfiltered flashes in his eyes, dark and deadly in the dying sunset. "This has to do with you not fucking paying me."

Jesse swallows. "I told you, I told you I'd— I would—"

I blink, and I miss it.

A crack cuts through the hazy air, slicing the summer heat in half.

They both go tumbling to the ground, and Julian lands on top of Jesse, a hand wrapping around his neck. "I'm not fucking with you," Julian warns. Threatens. "You know what happens if you don't pay me."

Shock stuns me. For a long moment, as Jesse gasps for air, as Julian speaks lowly, I feel like I'm going to faint.

"Julian," I finally breathe in disbelief. Jesse is writhing beneath him, all the color draining from his face. "Julian, stop."

"Neva, go inside."

I reach for his shoulder. "Julian, c—"

With a hasty curse, Julian swings around to glare at me. "Neva, ve adentro. Ahora."

"Julian," I try one last time, my voice cracking. "He can't pay you if he's dead."

Julian seems to ponder that for a long moment, his grip never loosening.

"Por favor, let's go, Jules."

Maybe it was the nickname.

Because Julian lets him go abruptly.

Drawing in a sharp gulp of air desperately, Jesse claws at his neck. As he goes slack in defeat, an arm wraps around my shoulders. Julian tucks me into his side gently. "Mmm, you hear that, Jess?"

Sprawled on the ground, Jesse coughs weakly.

"You can't pay me if you're dead, but remember," Julian drawls, "if you don't pay me, I'll kill you."

❘❘

**I had the worst experience like this.

I'm really, really sick of Wattpad sugarcoating dealers and romanticizing them.  My upstairs neighbor nearly killed someone the other night who owed him money for pills.

This is real. If you fuck over a hardcore dealer, who is selling you raw shit, you could get yourself fucking killed.

Anyways. I love you guys. Stay smart and stay safe. ❤️ BESOS.