❝well i know full well that you are
the patron saint of sucking cock.❞

❘❘

IT'S A COLD EMBRACE—trembling fingers lacing around metal, seizing a silent weapon in sweaty palms.

Tendrils of smoke kiss my cheeks, hazy and heavy, somehow lost in the crisp air of a nearly November night. Something about it is serene, like counting stars and minutes and seconds, watching faint wisps tangle until sighs and smoky exhales become synonymous. It's a quiet comfort, a dwindling cigarette that keeps me from remembering I'm alone, stuck in slow-motion, staring out a foggy windshield, and wishing I was... wishing I was... alive.

But here I am, sitting stiff and still, fighting off a sleepy surrender of a fading high. Estoy vivo, in the most volatile way, desperate and dreaming of something else. Anything else.

As the ember burns, time drags.

It gets colder.

A strand of whistling wind snakes through the car when I crack the window, chilling my fingertips. I shiver, but toss my cigarette and close it. Esto es lo que quiero; I want winter.

The lights are dim from a block away, fluttering faintly, a ghostly glow that paints the sidewalk with a warmth of what used to be a safe haven.

My finger toys with the trigger.

What am I really going to do?

A flurry of anxiety drifts through my chest. My gaze falls to the gun in my hand, all the hazy memories flooding back with raspy threats and deadly warnings.

"If someone doesn't fucking pay you, go get it yourself, Neva."

The cold, hard metal sifts in my palm.

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

My breath hitches. I can't... I can't kill him. I'm not...

Frantically, I drop the gun into the passenger seat and shake my head, desperate to steady my shaky hands. No, I can't fucking kill him.

Dread churns in my gut. Gnawing on my bottom lip, I reach for the purse beside the gun, dig out one of those little bags, and then yank my key from the ignition.

I take a hit.

I take another.

I sniff.

My heart hits the roof of my car, taking flight, fluttering and fighting to break free with a million fucking fragmented feelings. It lights my blood, springs to my fingertips with something raw and reckless; I can feel it riding through my veins, dark and alluring, with that intoxicatingly sensual promise—an infinite invincibility.

Maybe it's the only way I can do this because maybe, just maybe, it's the only thing that's real.

It's the only way I feel real.

Untouchable.

Puedo hacer cualquier cosa.

I tuck the gun into my glove box carefully, almost lovingly. No necesito armas o palabras; I can do this unflinchingly, with a graceful smile and fluttering lashes. Blindingly bulletproof, dressed into icy armor and ready for battle. Like a wraith of vengeance and confidence, seeking retribution in a late night dive bar, dizzy with the delirious sensations of something... something...

But when I see her, I freeze. A hairline fracture splinters the sheet of ice, la protección, the beautifully constructed delusion of fearlessness.

In the same dark clothes, those pastel curls cascading over her back as she wipes the bar down, that determination glittering in her dark eyes when they... meet mine.

I swallow hard, momentarily derailed from everything. "Hey." My voice cracks, something weak and weary in the slip. "I'm... I'm really sorry about this morning. I just—"

"Neva." Emmy blinks. "Are you high right now?"

Am I really that easy to read? Why can't I hide it?

I shake my head meekly. "I'm not."

"Mentirosa."

"I—"

"Don't fucking lie, Neva." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Emmy gives me an indifferent look. Cold. "You're fucking high. Ahora mismo."

Maybe she just knows me more than I know myself. Tal vez siempre he sido un pinche mentirosa.

I flinch at the venom in her voice, the barely concealed disappointment in her scowl. My throat tightens with some unbearable need to cry. Why am I always crying?

I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Emmy.

Grinding my teeth, I force them back, exchange it for something more lethal, something more comfortable. Frustration. "No es gran cosa, Emmy."

"It is when you can't even function, Neva," she laughs dryly, shaking her head. "You stopped showing up to work. You stopped returning calls or texts. What about school? Are you actually going to school?"

"I am." Sometimes. "I am going to school. That's why it's been so rough. You know, Emmy." It comes out without a warning, a perfect lie tangled into a tragic story that I know will make Emmy back off. "You know how difficult it is for me to be... doing this. Family separation. Border wars. Immigration policies. These topics... they're everything for me. It's like regurgitating what I still can't even..."

Guilt flickers in her eyes, but it's fleeting. Pressing her lips together, she shrugs. "Whatever, Neva."

Without another word, Emmy turns on her heel and leaves me alone. My heart fucking plummets. As I blink back a wave of hot tears, I fumble for another empty excuse to keep her with me, desperately grasping for something that will... that... no sé qué... I just don't want her to hate me. ¿Por qué me odia?

Did I really just lose Emmy?

Panic clenches around my heart. I can't lose Emmy, I already lost—

"Anto," I call frantically when I find him sauntering behind the bar. In the nearly empty space, it echoes, but he doesn't even turn. "Hey, Anto."

This time, he spins, but his gaze flickers up over my head nonchalantly. "Another gin and tonic?"

That hurts. Fuck, that hurts. I don't expect the sudden ache in my chest, the sting, the pang, the lash of complete betrayal that consumes me. Why is he ignoring me? What the fuck did I do?

The girl behind me says something, and as he nods, I step up to the bar. "Anto."

Those dark eyes dance down my face and straight to the bar; those dark hands work quickly to mix the drink. As if I'm not even there.

I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Antonaccio. 

"Anto, seriously." Frustration clogs my throat. "Can we t—"

"No," he says quietly, avoiding my gaze. Avoiding me.

It strikes me cold, something dangerously toxic swirling, swirling, swirling inside of me, eating and gnawing at every little thing that had helped me feel... better.

Why are they both ignoring me? Why is this my fault?

It isn't.

When the beautifully iced gin and tonic slides onto the wood beside me, I don't even think. I swipe it from the bar, fling it, and then the sound of glass is everything.

It's around me, it's above me, it's below me, it's inside of me—something always on the edge of shattering into a million pieces.

Silence swallows us.

My cheeks flame with anger, or embarrassment, but I refuse to apologize for it. This isn't my fucking fault.

"What the fuck, Neva?" Anto hisses, stepping around the bar with furrowed brows. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

It's all encompassing, blinding rage. "Oh, so now you'll talk to me?"

Antonaccio scowls, but doesn't say anything to me as he kneels to collect the broken glass. His gaze flits to the other girl. "I'm so sorry. I'll get you ano—"

"What is wrong with you?" I ask, my voice rising into a shrill shriek of disbelief. Why is he still ignoring me? Why is he treating me like I'm... nothing? "What did I do to you?"

Anto stands. "Not here, N—"

"You're the one who brought up my family, who talks like you know how it feels to— to—"

"Neva."

I stiffen.

When Anto whirls around and circles the bar, my gaze falls on the man I came to see. Paler. Thinner. "Jesse."

One side of his lips twitches up into a dry smile. "Are you here to rob me again?"

"It's not robbery when you owe it," I say, the words shaky and unsure. "I need my money."

His brows raise. "Your money?"

"You didn't pay me for two weeks, Jesse. I need that money. I earned that money."

"Oh, please." Jesse rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You spent more time outside smoking than you did serving drinks. You were a terrible employee."

My vision flashes red, and there's this surreal moment when I have no fucking control over anything. Because I'm suddenly clutching another drink from the bar, my throat tightening, my chest heaving, my heart throbbing, and I'm scowling, and I'm throwing the drink, and there's... there's another explosion of glass.

Fingers dig into my arms, stamping over fresh bruises. A wave of pain lurches me forward with a cry. "Ah!"

"You're lucky I didn't call the fucking police, Neva," he hisses in my ear, catching me in a tight hold.

As we slip and skid through glass and liquor, I thrash in his grasp. "I need that money, Jesse!"

"Why?" My heels press into the floor, but Jesse yanks me harder. "Is the coke business not going so well?"

For a second, the bar blurs—lights dimming, tables shaking, glass crunching. I think I'm about to hit the floor, I think I'm about to... to...

"Let go of me!" I cry, staggering backwards. We crash into the glass doors; everything vibrates with the impact. I blink past a sudden dizziness, wriggling against his chest. "Stop. I just need the— the money!"

Jesse grinds his teeth together, those dark eyes pinning me in place. "No," he snaps, thrusting the door open. "You need to get the fuck out, Neva."

And then he hauls me over the threshold and into the cold.

I go stumbling, fumbling for my footing, and when my knees hit the sidewalk, I wince. "Chingados, I—"

"If you ever show up here again, it will be worse than this," Jesse hisses. I peer up at him through wet lashes. "Got it?"

I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Jesse.

"What is it that you all like to say? ¿Entiendes?"

My teeth grind together. "Whatever."

And when the door closes, I don't feel it immediately. It's emptiness, almost a heartbreaking loneliness devouring the pain of scraped knees and stinging eyes. It's a nothingness.

I don't feel anything at first.

It isn't until I'm staggering down the sidewalk, alone in the darkness, that everything clouds over, everything skews, everything ripples with a tsunami of fucking uncontrollable anger. It scares me—this violent streak in this endlessly vicious night. I'm ready to hit something or someone, or—

"Fucking puta."

It pierces the air, slicing through the cold night in a dangerous concoction of metal and glass.

Quick footsteps, heavy breathing, a string of Spanish.

Fuck. My heart stutters with every trace of spiraling, crunching, shattering glass, with the glimpse of a blurring silhouette, illuminated in the slivers of light and shadow, dancing in gravel and grit and—

"What the fuck?" I hiss, closing the space between us frantically. "What the fuck are you doing?"

It glitters in the darkness, tiny shards poking through a gaping hole to reveal the pile of glass on the driver's seat of my car.

I shove him harshly. "You smashed my window, you fucking asshole!"

"You." He stumbles back with a scowl. "You haven't paid me."

Anger spikes my blood. "Excuse me?"

"I know you've been stealing it."

My throat tightens. "No e—"

"Remember, Neva, we call it snow."

I do remember—in some distant daydream, lost in a night of destructive euphoria, as I climbed into the skyline of the city, as I found a way to feel alive.

"There's a reason I don't call it blow," he drawls. "Bitches get the wrong idea."

There are a million excuses stampeding through my chest, but they get lost—smothered by the stroke of disbelief and disrespect and disgust and... distrust.

Would he kill me?

"Did you really think you could pay by sucking dick?" A step closer, a dry laugh, a dirty fucking smirk. "You give good head, pobrecita, but not that good."

A wild rage crackles through my veins, red-hot fury running rampant to my fingertips. No, he's not going to kill me because I'm going to kill him first. 

Another tidal wave of fear rolls through me, pulling me further and further from the shore, from safety and sanity and security. I want to kill him; I want to kill everyone who's said something dirty about me today.

... and there's nothing stopping me.

There's nothing but cold, hard gravel between us. Two feet of untouched space separating us, tethering us into a silent battle of lies and lust, a late-night war that was always on the horizon.

Because nothing lasts forever. Nada es para siempre.

Not even him.

Not even those endless snowstorms.

Our eyes clash in the darkness. It's breathtaking and beautiful, and everything that is destroying me, something glinting, fighting and drowning, just beneath the icy surface—a threat, a warning, a need for those smoky sighs and faraway promises that somehow took us hostage.

Somewhere in the late nights and the cocaine kisses, we found some fucked up home. Just us.

"It's my fucking fault," he whispers, something wistful and breathless tangling his words together. "I care about you too much."

"And I don't care about you at all, Jules."

How can I care about him when I don't even care about myself?

Icy fingertips flutter across my cheek, so faint, so fragile, so fucking tender that my heart throbs.

"You are fucking cold, Neva."

I'm cold.

"I knew it when I fucking met you," Julian drawls softly. "Like fucking snow. Beautiful and cold."

My breath hitches. "Fuck you."

"Ah, no," he chides lightly, something sweet stringing the taunt together, like this calculated, condescending smugness. "That's not how you pay either, princesita. That was just a perk."

I'm not cold. I'm numb.

A sob gathers in the back of my throat.

I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Julian.

"Hmm. Of course, I'd find the girl who spreads her legs for everyone." Every syllable is so fucking soft, measured with this fucked up affection that stings. "The girl who puts out before even catching a name."

"Julian," I finally choke out, something thick and ugly building in my chest. "Stop."

Julian thumbs my bottom lip. "I'll stop when you pay me."

"I don't have any money."

As his dark gaze trails down my body lazily, a loose smile tugs at his lips. It's all sharp edges, a cruel expression twisted into a cold warning. "Well, maybe you can make some money while you're whoring yourself out."

We're this unstoppable, inevitable crash-collision, a mangled mess of metal and ink, sprawled across skin and inhaling smoke, inching, inching, inching closer, skidding across black ice, spinning and swerving and spiraling into a deadly wreck, the space disappearing, the air vanishing, the world around us crumbling, just... just... falling... just... crashing...

"Are they paying you in blow or just cold cash, Neva?"

I taste blood and ice, a vicious cocktail of midnight gravel in a violent snowstorm.

"I know you found a new dealer to fuck."

"Shut up." Everything is blurring; everything is dimming; everything is fading into a glassy darkness. "Shut the fuck up."

"Why?" Those icy fingertips caress my jaw. "Because you can't handle the truth?"

Julian was never that trace of steel, anchoring me to the bottom of the ocean, and Julian was never that wisp of smoke, stealing breath and sifting through a summer storm.

If I'm snow, Julian is fucking ice.

"You're nothing but a fucking slut, Neva," he breathes. "You like it, don't you?"

I feel my heartbeat raging in my fingertips, fiery and fierce, ripping through the air, cracking that layer of fucking ice, and striking warm, warm, warm skin.

The impact is reeling, the impact is so fucking reeling that I freeze, completely still and silent, listening to the reverberating slap echo through a cold city.

Time doesn't exist. For one millisecond, we're both lost in the fate of a bitter winter, suspended in the stray seconds, frigid, frostbitten, and forever frozen.

And then Julian has my wrist in a death grip, and I feel the lash across my entire face, a stinging pulse, a throb, a million fucking feelings.

A watery sweep of the city blurs by me, skewed into shadows and shimmering lights, and I stumble, swaying, swaying, swaying, just so... dizzy and sad, and knowing that I asked for it, that I begged for it, that I...

I think I hear myself cry, but I... I can't...

"Neva."

There's something tender and tangible in his voice, breathless, bruised, broken—a brutal blow to my heart.

The space between us aches. I can feel it rippling through the crisp air before I even look up at him.

It's everything, stripped into a silent confession of the fatal flaws that fucked us up. A morose apology, a twinge of regret, the reminder of manipulation, mistakes, and lies, the aftertaste of jealousy and the teasing threats and the cold, cold, cold truth.

All those impulsive desires, all those shitty decisions that somehow tethered me to Julian Rivera.

It is my fault.

His entire expression cracks when our eyes meet.

Slowly, so fucking slowly, hot tears spill over my cheeks, thawing the sheet of icy armor.

I will not cry in front of Julian. I will not cry in front of Julian.

If Julian is ice, so am I—cold and harsh and unforgiving.

"Why am I such a fucking slut, Julian?" Maybe it's weak, a whisper, a soft, desperate plea, but it's a genuine question. "¿Por qué?"

With fluttering lashes and parted lips, Julian stares at me... as silent as snow.

"I choose what I do with my body. I choose who I fuck," I say quietly. "Not you. We are not together. We never have been."

"Neva, I... I..." Julian takes a wary step into the space that separates us, that fragile foot of emptiness, and suddenly, I find myself wishing I could build a fucking wall.

I shrink back. "No."

❘❘

**So... this was another one of the first scenes I wrote for this story. I wrote it while I got my own fucking car window fixed.

I am sorry. I'm sorry that Julian turned out to be such a dick. There were these little characteristics that I loved, believe me. Because he was sweet and teasing and loving, and... I really think that he cares about Neva, but beneath that, there have always been the manipulative, insensitive, possessive, jealous qualities that are toxic AS FUCK. 

Anyways. Heavy chapter. Part IV is coming soon, but PLEASEEEEEEE GIVE ME YOUR OPINIONS ON PART III???? I know exactly where this story is going, so I'd love to hear your... predictions too? 😈😈