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When Lalo tells you to do something, you do not question it, and that is how Nacho finds himself carrying a box already loaded with the requisite amount of money and following Lalo into the labyrinth of what appears to be a luxury storehouse. In another life, he thinks, this would have been his heaven. This would have been what he had wanted – this was what he had wanted, just a few years ago, all the cars lined up like polished shoes, heavy, expensive rugs on the wall, racks of clothes, chandeliers, art, men busying around, attending to these things with their heads down. Lalo barely has to show his face at the front before he's let in, gesturing to Nacho with a wave of his fingers. Lalo walks ahead of him, greeting those men who work so diligently here with smiles and nods, and Nacho focuses on the weight of the box in his hands. This will be over soon, he tells himself. Step into your part as Ignacio, as Nachito, Lalo's loyal lieutenant, one last time; this is your curtain call. Do not look at the cars, the rugs, the clothes, the chandeliers, the art. Do not acknowledge the men sitting at the counting machines, feeding bills into their ravenous mouths, the beating heart of the cartel operation. All you have to do, he tells himself, is carry this box.
Carry the box and do whatever Lalo tells you to do.
The room with the stacks of money is cool and dry, temperature controlled. On the other wall is a case of watches that Nacho wants to peer into, examine all the different pieces, see the numbers on the faces, evaluate their authenticity and their value, but he is stuck to the edge of this table with this box, with the boss's gift, the only person in the cartel with more power than Lalo, it seems, keeping him frozen in place. Though Lalo tells him what to do, how to do it, Lalo is the one actually performing the actions, putting the money in the box, fixing Nacho's mistakes. Every time Lalo passes him by, Lalo touches him, his arm, his shoulder, his hand. He grows more brazen with it. When the box is fully filled, Lalo steps behind Nacho, hugs his back to his chest, and guides Nacho's hands to close the lid, stroke the gargantuan, grotesque ribbon.
Lalo's mustache tickles against Nacho's skin. He murmurs into him. "Soon," he says, kissing a sensitive part of Nacho's neck that makes Nacho close his eyes, that makes him have to picture his father dead in a pool of oil and blood, "and this will be yours as is it mine."
"Because they're going to promote me right then and there," Nacho deadpans. He rolls his shoulder to get Lalo off him, and Lalo withdrawals languidly, running his fingertips up Nacho's bare arms. Goosebumps bubble in his wake. He had picked this shirt, tight on Nacho's arms, across his chest, for Nacho to wear, dressed Nacho in his own finery.
"Ignacio," Lalo chides. He steps out from behind him. Nacho expects a lecture, or maybe even a slap, but Lalo instead slings an arm across his shoulder, leading him over to the watches. "I saw you look at them when we came in."
Nacho says nothing, but he does look into the case. He allows himself this. The watches laid out on black velvet, illuminated by a backlight like a jewelry store. Glittering gold links and chains and Roman numerals. The box is kept shut by a key, which Lalo does not appear to have, and so Nacho just stares at the timepieces. None of the hands moving, none of them set, pure, distilled, frozen time. Little toys, waiting in a line. Nacho's fingers hover over the case. He cannot leave prints.
"Pick one," Lalo tells him, speaking into his ear.
"No." Nacho draws away. He draws a deep, quiet breath. "Give one to me later. As a gift." He turns his body in towards Lalo, grabs Lalo around the wrist, above his own watch.
"That's what you want?" Lalo's eyebrows raise. "For your promotion?"
"Yeah." Nacho strokes Lalo's arm, the fine hairs.
"That can be arranged." Lalo smiles at Nacho, and Nacho sees in that smile that Lalo has no idea what is going to happen. In Lalo's mind, he has won. In Lalo's mind, they are to live in this moment, forever.
Lalo guides Nacho to his knees, there in the money room, telling him it's fine, it wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last. Nobody can see them, nobody can hear them, and if they can, does it matter? Is somebody going to say something? To Lalo Salamanca, who lets them keep working in this nice place, with all of these nice things, and the money they can bring home to their wives and babies? With steady, slow hands Nacho undoes Lalo's belt buckle, the button and fly of his slacks, and pulls Lalo from his briefs, helping him to hardness. Lalo likes to be teased, and so Nacho leans forward to just breathe against the head of his cock, stroking it underneath, watching as it grows in size, as the foreskin recedes. Nacho spreads his own knees a little bit; his body responds, despite it all, and the pants Lalo had put him in are too tight from him, tailored to Lalo's body, and Lalo likes it that way, because he loos down at Nacho, then at Nacho's crotch, and smiles, not just with his mouth but with his eyes, laughter lines deep and genuine.
Nacho smells fresh money as he takes Lalo's cock into his mouth. When he closes his eyes, he sees the ivory faces of the watches. In their case, they look upward; they cannot see this.
Lalo's hand slides across the back of Nacho's head. He likes to play with Nacho's earring when Nacho sucks him off, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, pressing Nacho's earlobe against the curve of his ear so Nacho can feel the diamonds digging into his skin. His other hand pets Nacho's cheek with the edge of his fingers, over and over again, steady strokes.
Something about this moment inspires slowness, skillfulness, and so Nacho stares up at Lalo through his eyelashes and presses his thumbs against his palms against his own thighs as Lalo holds his head, helps guide his cock in, centimeter by centimeter, and Nacho relaxes his throat to get him as far in as he can. No gagging, no choking, no tears. Nacho brings one of his hands to rest on the base of Lalo's cock, covering what he can't fit in his mouth, the other hand to hold onto Lalo's thigh. He closes his eyes, a movement as soft as a shed feather settling onto the street somewhere.
When he brings his head back to start bobbing, Lalo pulls out completely and pats Nacho's cheek. Nacho raises his eyes, looks up. Lalo tucks himself back into his pants.
"A taste for later." Lalo winks at him. "You can get the rest after your promotion."
Nacho sits back on his heels, looks up at the ceiling, the single lamp dangling. It burns white spots into his eyes. The white burns out any other thoughts. "That's not what I want," he says. "For my gift." He goes to touch Lalo again. "I want it now."
"Nachito," Lalo laughs, stopping him from touching him and puts his hands on his shoulder, guiding him up. When Nacho stands again, Lalo cradles his head in both his hands, brushes his lips against his forehead. "Do well today, and I will fuck you hard. The way you like it, yeah?"
With his head tucked like this, Lalo cannot see the way Nacho's face heats up, will never know the truth of why. He can't see Nacho's nostrils flare as he breathes in and out, trying to make room in his ribcage for everything, every feeling. He cannot see Nacho's eyes flash with dual desire, twin fantasies, extermination and excommunication.
Nacho remembers he's supposed to speak. "Yeah," he says, talking into Lalo's collar. "Yeah, the way I like it." He touches Lalo's back, rumples the fabric of his shirt.
"No, no, no." Lalo pulls off Nacho, gets Nacho's hands off his back. "Yolanda ironed this all nicely for me."
"Did that shirt come from here?" Pure indulgence, asking that question.
Lalo's eyes light up. "What doesn't come from here," he explains to Nacho as he leans against his table and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small tin, "is custom-ordered." He puts the tin on the table and pops its lid off, and inside is a small baggie of coke, which Lalo moves with two fingers onto the table. He takes the card and the rolled-up bill from the case, as well, and starts prepping the lines as he speaks. "You are going to live like a king," he tells Nacho. "Come here, love."
Lalo does three lines, Nacho only one, just for the jolt. Like smelling salts. He feels it roll out from his sinuses, imagines the way his blood pops with the adrenaline. This will keep him alert, keep his ears, his eyes, open. Record the information he will not give to anybody but to God after all this is over. Look at the line of Lalo's shoulders, drawn under the dim vault light as he leans over the table and snorts his success, know what the man is capable of. Think of the watches in the case, millions of dollars' worth, that would slide over Nacho's wrist so nicely, would lock him into their time. Remember the way Lalo's pupils blow, his eyes all black and white, and the way he pulls Nacho by the back of the neck into him for a kiss, dipping cocaine on the tip of his tongue so he can lick it into Nacho's gums.
He will scoop these memories from his mind like handfuls of dirt and throw them on top of Lalo's coffin.