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“Go on,” I say with more bite in my tone than I intend, and at once, the smile drops from her face. Her expression is contrite, and she mouths perdoname. And while I know she’s sorry, that it’s not intentional, the urge to choke her is near maddening. I want to make her understand that this isn’t a game, but I don’t. Instead, I force another fake smile—one I’ve become the master of hiding behind—and avoid making a spectacle that could end up in the tabloid section of our newspaper. The president’s daughter can never be anything less than perfect. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Just like I know coming out tonight was a mistake. Just like I know this—your mess—will burn me in the end.
With one more apologetic look thrown my way, she turns, and the others follow. The six of them head toward our area and I let out a long, tired sigh. I take those few extra seconds to gather my emotions and breathe. To close my eyes and pray.
Papa Dios, please grant me the patience I don’t feel blessed with tonight. Please don’t let us get busted or into any kind of trouble…amen.
It’s then that I feel eyes on me. More than one set, and I look around.
The people around the dance floor and small tables littered throughout stare. They recognize me, and the whispers begin. It’s somewhat subtle at first, but then it’s always the same:
What’s the president’s daughter doing here?
How do I get close?
Not giving anyone the chance to be brave and intercept me, I rush toward our table. Because while I believe Signio isn’t stupid enough to leave us unprotected and have anything fall back on him, my security isn’t here. We’re stupidly out alone while everyone believes we’re at Laura’s highly-secured apartment, a twenty-floor building where only the affluent enter and whose lobby and entrances have armed guards standing at their post.
It’s also where the trackers once inside my phone are now pinging from, thanks to an acquaintance of hers, an ex-intelligence officer who helped us out of the building for some extra platica and a kiss on the cheek from my cousin.
“This place is so berraco, Lau. He’s a keeper and deserves a woman like you.” I catch the words, the thinly veiled insult my way, but roll my eyes. None of these women matter to me, and the one speaking is her oldest friend, a jealous idiot from a banking family who’s as narcissistic as my father, but it goes to show that Laura’s words have clout. That rumors will spread because of her idiocy.
My cousin glares at her. “Watch it, Penelope. I won’t warn you again.”
“What did I do?” Don’t punch her in that overdone smug mouth, Sol.
“Quit your nastiness.” Laura comes to my side and entwines our fingers to show solidarity, while I give the girl a bored look. Because you never let them see your weakness. She wants to get a rise out of me and will fail; I know better than to give in. “You’ll never be her.”
“Laura, how can you just—”
“Ladies, cut it out. We’re here to get drunk, not fight,” another chick interjects, handing out shots that I decline. Laura and Penelope don’t move at first, but eventually back down and take the offered drink. And while they toss it back and grimace, I move away a bit and let the music playing be my reprieve for a while.
I’m not here to get wasted or sleep with the first guy who pays attention to me. Tonight’s about forgetting:
My family. My obligations. My future.
The man I will never be with and who would doom me if our paths ever cross.
This nightmare that I can’t find an out from as the clock ticks and the weight on my shoulders becomes heavier—the noose on my neck tighter. Moreover, the sole reason we’re not married yet is my schooling, but how much longer will that hold?
It’s part of the contract. A clause. This holy grail of a stipulation added at the very last minute by my mother to a literal contract that shouldn’t exist. She’s on my side, trying to help me find a loophole, and by demanding that I earn my degree in political science first, the inevitable has been delayed.
It was all my father would agree to.
Let it go for tonight, Sol. Just dance and be free.
Closing my eyes, I let the pulsing rhythm coming through the speakers flow through me. My hips sway to the island beat, this dance-hall-like flow that makes me gyrate, smile as the stress begins to dissipate.
The girls around me laugh and I open my eyes, catching sight of Laura doing her version of a running man. It’s the one place my cousin has no grace, and a giggle escapes as she looks like a choking chicken while flipping me the bird.
I try to help her. Show her how to move her hips from side to side, but dancing is something that you either can or can’t do, and unfortunately, she’s horrible. Simply has no rhythm.
“Prima, like this!”
“I’m doing it!”
The others are laughing, imbibing in the free spirits, while I try to show her how to gyrate her hips while turning. And then try again. But on the fifth time, I give up and let her do her thing, my eyes going around the room once and then of their own accord, they stop across from our group.
