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"So… when did this… happen?" Tatiana asked slowly, and Martín found he had vastly preferred her when she wasn't playing catch the fraud with them. "Your relationship," she elaborated, when neither of them jumped to reply. Which they wouldn't, because they hadn't discussed this. Why hadn't they discussed this?
Well, someone had to entertain the question. Hadn't Andrés and her divorced a month ago? Something was definitely said about a month, and Andrés would certainly want to have moved on quickly, for maximum scorn.
"It's been a month," Martín therefore decided, at the same time as Andrés announced,
"A week ago."
Martín narrowed his eyes at Andrés, intending to convey the message of this is exactly why I wanted to get our story straight on the walk here, but you said it would be just fine, so if you crash and burn it's your own fault, and I still demand to be paid.
"Did you consider that first meeting a relationship?" Andrés asked, with the correct amount of sincere-appearing curiosity.
Martín shrugged. "Got us here, didn't it?"
Tatiana was vaguely amused by that, so Martín chose to consider it a victory. "Moving fast, as always?"
"Well, when you meet your one true love," Andrés said slowly, deliberately, picking up his wine glass and staring at Tatiana head-on. These words were clearly intended to hurt. Martín had no doubts, Andrés said them to every single woman he met. And man, now, apparently.
"You just know," Andrés concluded, raising his drink for a toast. "To Martín!" he announced.
"The newest one true love," Tatiana agreed, and even if their relationship had started with the promise of a hundred euro bill thirty minutes ago, Martín was still offended. What did she know about them? He would make this bitch very fucking jealous.
He lifted his glass for a toast regardless, because it was for them. "You wouldn't know true love if it--"
Andrés clinked their glasses with a serene smile, as if flattered by Martín's reaction. "It's not her fault. Our love is something extraordinary; it's beyond her comprehension."
"Right. Whatever you say," Tatiana cut in, even though no one had surely asked for her input on their relationship. How about she leave them alone to enjoy their food and drink without her unwanted commentary?
Martín gave her an approximation of a pleased smile, one he hoped might convey on a normal day you might offend me with your lack of tact, but I am here with my new boyfriend of one or four weeks, and I am most pleased, and plan to get laid one to four times as soon as you leave us well enough alone--
"Darling, your knife and fork are in the wrong hands," Tatiana chastised him with faux kindness, evidently trying out a new tactic. "Don't you know Andrés hates that?"
"Don't baby me," Martín hissed, and deliberately didn't swap the utensils around. "If I wanted to hear about dinner etiquette, I would ask. Andrés doesn't care," he insisted. He had better not care, because Martín couldn't stand Tatiana's condescension.
"You really think I would be so petty?" Andrés agreed, "To Martín?"
Tatiana frowned. "You yelled at me for doing that."
"Yes. And you are not him." Andrés placed his hand deliberately on Martín's knife-wielding left hand, cold but not unwelcome.
“I'll play your little game, then - where did you two meet?” Tatiana continued her unwanted inquest, and the look on her face seemed to suggest that either she was suspicious, or Martín had an acute case of paranoia rattling about in his head. Or both. Always choose both, and you’ll never be wrong. "Please tell me it's equally riveting a story."
“Las Palmas,” Martín muttered, the first two words that had come into his head.
“I thought you couldn’t stand the Canarias,” she said to Andrés, less than accusing, more likely amused.
“I can’t,” Andrés confirmed tartly, “He means Las Palmas, the–”
“–Club,” Martín filled in, at the same time as Andrés nodded to himself and finished the sentence with,
“–Restaurant.”
Martín refused the urge to grimace. Oh, if this wasn't going stellarly. They were already at the stage of finishing each other’s malaligned thoughts, and it was romance at its finest.
Since he was hardly going to make the situation worse, Martín decided to gamble.
He leaned in towards Andrés and shoved his shoulder, playfully. “The club’s not good enough for you, is that it? I’ll admit, it was filthy. I was surprised to see you there, all dressed up.” Either Martín was going to make money, or he was going to royally piss off a disgusted straight man. Those were his two favourite ways to spend an evening.
Andrés picked up his glass of wine, watching the liquid swirl in it, and Martín was sure that a smirk was tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh, it’s far from my usual haunt. Suppose one could say you got lucky.”
“I got lucky alright,” Martín quipped quickly, emboldened by his first success. “In the bathroom, first, but not exclusively–”
Andrés straightened slightly, cutting off their contact at his side. Too much? No, because he craned his neck back and chuckled, and now it was Martín who felt all too warm in his clothes.
"You followed me around like a lost puppy, after that."
Martín squinted at him. "No, you had a sexuality crisis and needed me to make it go away."
"A crisis? Hardly. I just thought you should stay around."
"Oh, so I wasn't following you around like a lost puppy?"
Andrés rolled his eyes.
Tatiana, on the other hand, was frowning. Jealous? Disgusted? Both? It didn't matter, so long as Martín was winning. He didn't know her, but that didn't mean he liked her, either.
“What’s the matter, Tatiana?" Andrés enquired, smiling serenely. "No longer interested?”
“I should have known you only invited me here to have an audience.”
“Audience,” Andrés repeated with a scoff, “You flatter yourself so needlessly. I only wanted to get the paperwork sorted, and then enjoy the rest of the evening with Martín.” He said Martín’s name like it was something obscene, but Martín refused to go there. No. Martín wasn’t going to get in too deep. He was going to make money, and then he was going to leave. Scam, scram, cut of lamb. His new motto.
Tatiana rolled her eyes. “Yes, the wonderful, perfect Martín, who didn't exist before tonight. What does he do for a living?”
Martín blanched at such a direct question, since his previous lies hadn’t all gone without a hitch. He glanced at Andrés, but it was difficult to interpret what he did, by the fancy clothes and nothing else. This is why they should have discussed more than just payment. They were complete strangers, as close to one another as people in the queue for a cash register - even if they had managed to quip for a moment like old friends.
“He’s–”
“We’re in the same line of work,” Martín decided. He could also fish for intel with a lie like this. In hindsight, he could have and should have started this ordeal with such vague statements.
“So you’re also a thief,” Tatiana said, sighing.
Andrés, to his credit, seemed as disinterested as ever. Like his crimes were a matter of public record, and Martín knowing didn't tip the scales in any which direction.
A thief? Martín could work with that. He’d have to work with that.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “I’m an engineer, so… bank vaults, and the like.” He gestured with his hand to imply he had stolen it all, once, or perhaps even twice. Didn't people always say that all lies should come with a grain of truth? This one did. Perfect.
Andrés touched his shoulder softly, in what Martín could only interpret as wordless approval, but that Tatiana might with any luck interpret as that’s mine, this one.
“Ah,” Tatiana said, frowning. “How fortunate, then, to pull someone like him at a club.”
“You know me,” Andrés agreed, “And Fortune favours the bold.”
"I think we've all gotten what we came here for," Tatiana decided, finally giving up, her pasta only half gone. "Papers, signed, and your new friend has been shoved in my face long enough."
"Oh, far from enough," Andrés insisted, "You've not yet heard about what a brilliant engineer he is."
"We haven't even made out yet," Martín agreed, pressing his fingers into Andrés's arm in a suggestion, "You should stay."
"No, thank you. But perhaps you two deserve each other."
She gathered her coat and her purse, and left without another glance at them. Martín felt very pleased with himself. He had agreed to this exclusively for the money, and been pleasantly surprised to enjoy his time. Perhaps some of it was real and the rest only make-believe, but it had been a good time.
"Interesting career you've got," Martín said. What he meant was do you always just calmly let it slip that you're a criminal, and might that become a problem for me in the future, if there is a future beyond getting paid?
Andrés shrugged. "I planned to pay you in counterfeit. I suppose you'll need real money, now."
Martín scoffed. "Do you take me for a fool?" He had seen euros before, thank you very much.
"It was the leather jacket. Anyway, this evening went better than I expected, Martín.”
“The word you’re looking for may well be chemistry," Martín muttered, endlessly wounded on behalf of his clothes. Not everyone dressed to the bar like they were applying to join the mafia. "Ever wonder if you might be wrong for women?”
Andrés smirked and leaned in towards him. Martín met him halfway without a second thought. Andrés had clearly demonstrated that he wasn't as homophobic as most straight men, and Martín was more than willing to get more than just money from this arrangement. He grabbed Andrés's tie to secure him in his place.
Andrés… pushed his phone into Martín's hands.
Martín blinked at him, having been expecting something else, something more or something less. A vague sense of disappointment sank in his chest, and he fell back into his chair.
He studied the phone so he wouldn't need to demand to know what was going on here. It was a banged up little thing; an ugly duckling phone. Or perhaps a crime phone.
“How about you give me your number?" Andrés asked, grinning. "I have four more ex-wives. Not to mention a thousand bank vaults."