Chapter Text
Las Almas has always been a bit of a scary place to visit - that is, if you don't understand the dynamic. It is a beautiful and diverse region of wide, endlessly stretching plains, of all kinds of people, big and small, kind and cruel. Where the buildings erupt from the sandy earth, colour erupts into the sky, from prettily patterned fabrics to ginormous, vibrant murals. There are streets lined with unique food stalls and carts, each manned by a person with a smile as bright as sunshine, with arms outstretched and ready to welcome you in. There is a lot of verdancy, too, towering plants extending from pots larger than the average person, and palm trees sticking out to dot the horizon with perfectly splayed fronds.
However, there is a powerful, all encompassing darkness that often makes it difficult to enjoy the warmth of a thousand colours: the Las Almas Cartel. Beside a group of happily playing children, one might also happen to spot a masked man with a semi-automatic clutched in his hands. Although it is daunting to witness the sight of someone who is armed and dangerous out in the open, casually strolling the streets as anyone else might, it is even more difficult to accept that such a thing is normal in Las Almas. Most of the locals hardly bat an eye, in part because they are accustomed to the hierarchy of drugs and terrorism, otherwise because they know they don't possess the ability to challenge the way things work here.
This is my third time venturing to Las Almas, and as opposed to the first, I am no longer wary or easily startled. I understand that all it takes to enjoy this place is to turn a blind eye, to do as the locals do. I'd like to think that I'm better than the type of person who becomes numb to the guns, bloodshed and back alley exchanges, but the reality is that I am only a single force, one without the knowledge, skills or strength to play a role in the war on drugs. I am here to become one with the locals, to be overwhelmed with the aromas of street food and by the desire to sashay and sway on the dance floor. I know, at the very least, that it cannot be such a terrible thing to find joy in the smiles of those around me.
>
Eileen's arms wobble as she supports three drinks with a rusty metal tray. She breathes a sigh of relief when she finally spots Moira and I waving from our table in the back, where the lights are eerily dimmed but the view of the dance floor is unrivalled. "You know there's a man over there who has not once taken his eyes off you, right?" she says as she slides the tray onto the table. She is quick to grab her glass and take a long, needy sip.
I point at myself. "Off me?"
"Yeah, seriously. There's at least twenty incredibly scantily clad women out there whipping their hair and hips around, but he's looking straight through them and honing in on you." She gently dabs her lips. Without the lights striking her hair, the strands appear less fiery, erring on the side of auburn rather than full blown, blazing red. Freckles kiss her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
Moira grins over the edge of her class. A small umbrella juts out to partially obscure her features. "Is he cute?"
Eileen nods vigorously, eyes widening excitedly like a child in a candy store. She pops her drink down and leans forward onto her elbows, as though prepared to whisper her answer even though the music is so ridiculously loud it's nearly impossible to hear my own thoughts. "He's so cute. Like - the muscles in his arms are about ready to tear his shirt apart. Dark hair, pretty eyes. Tall enough for you."
"So he's at least seven feet tall then, right?" Moira asks sarcastically, cocking her eyebrow at me. I've been known to drift towards men built like giants, the kind of men I have to tilt my head backwards to drink in all of their features. I am quite accustomed to my friends mocking me for it.
Eileen snorts. "Unfortunately not, but you could probably wear some small heels around him."
"Oh, way too short," I retort jokingly, waving my hand like I am swatting at a mosquito. They chuckle, and I laugh along, although it is difficult to disguise the fact that I am a little intrigued.
This holiday has served as a strange form of healing, as a path leading far, far away from intimacy, relationships and pointless dates. I have spent far too many years settling for less than I deserve, and am truthfully happy to be free of any commitment with someone who might oppress my creativity or try to convince me that I am not worth anything more than my body. Still, I cannot deny being flattered by lingering gazes and flirtatious comments. I wouldn't mind taking a quick, inquisitive peek at the man who has set his sights on me.
"He's by the bar. Plain black tee. Has another guy with him who looks a little more local," Eileen details, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction I should be examining.
I squint a little, fighting against the glare of kaleidoscopic laser lights bouncing off the bar's marble surface. I scan the crowd, in absolutely no manner subtle, unconsciously frowning as though my vision is of little use without a pair of kick-ass prescription glasses. There are so many men congregating around the tables by the bar, and from their attire and lightly sun-kissed skin, it is evident that they are locals, and I have discovered rather quickly that most of such men would prefer to target a woman on the dance floor. I look and look, honing in and out, losing track of where I have already explored every time a new crowd flutters around the bar.
And then, I see him.
To call him cute would be a terrible understatement, because he is a pearl amongst empty shells. His shoulders are outstandingly broad and pulled back into a perfect posture, nicely aligned with a chin pointed high. He sports a head of luscious near black locks, the sides cropped a little shorter than the centre which has toppled, just a little, across his forehead. Even with such a sizeable distance between us, it is impossible to miss the twinkle in his eyes. I immediately feel myself tumbling into an ocean of stormy blue, drowning amongst irises wavering with interest. He smiles softly, the corners of his eyes creasing. My chest tightens.
Moira, who has clearly followed my line of sight, opens her mouth to say something but is swiftly interrupted by a music track that is heightening, growing louder and louder, until it feels like the entire room is reverberating against a set of speakers. I watch intently as the man is pushed towards the dance floor by who I can only assume is his friend. His eyes are widened, and he appears to be spewing objections, but he cannot seem to withstand the strength of two firm hands in the back. His friend is laughing and grinning as he twirls into a group of people grinding on one another.
"Get out there. Go dance with him!" Eileen shouts above the music. She has her hands cupped on either side of her mouth like a soccer mum shouting encouragement.
I shake my head and recoil as Moira tries to tug me out of my seat. "No, absolutely not. I have two left feet, and you both know that!"
"I think your mystery man does, too," Moira responds, pointing. The man is trying to match the beat, but now abandoned by his friend, he seems bewildered and uncomfortable.
Both of my friends leap from their seats and lead me out onto the dance floor, jigging rhythmically on either side of me, my little bodyguards. I try to match their energy, but I am unsure of where to put my hands - up in the air, all over my body, or left dangling awkwardly? I spin and tap my feat, and then try to mimic the sensual hip swaying being flawlessly performed by nearly every other woman in a ten mile radius. I feel out of place and like I am sitting somewhere amongst whatever is considered the exact opposite of confident and sexy.
"Are you as stressed as I am?" someone asks. The voice is gruff and sultry. I think I detect a trace of a Scottish accent, but the music makes it difficult to be certain.
I turn to meet my admirer up close, our noses almost touching. He smells sweet, a wonderful combination of roses and milk chocolate. There are also faint traces of musky, masculine perspiration. He is about a head taller than I am, but leans back rather than looking down at me, ensuring we are on equal plains.
"I have no idea what I'm doing," I yell over the music. I laugh as his face twists into an expression that says 'tell me about it.'
He extends a hand. His palms are slightly calloused, perhaps from copious hours spent in the gym, and his fingers are long, with light traces of fine black hair atop. "Maybe we could help each other out? I'm So- Johnny."
"Did you just get your own name wrong?" I question, trying to stifle a giggle. He looks nervous, his eyes shimmering prettily. Every inch of me is reacting to his gaze, my body a magnet searching for its polar side.
"I did. And I realise that makes it seem like I'm lying about my name, which I'm not - I swear. I'm just used to introducing myself by my callsign. My actual name is Johnny."
I chuckle, and the rigidity seeps out of his body. His laughter is melodic, a tune far more enchanting than the music blasting overhead and all around. Taking his hand suddenly feels like an easy choice, and the moment our skin touches I know that there is something unspoken between us, a spark igniting us both. I am immediately comfortable in his embrace as we sashay to the music, careless, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of one another's happiness. We are making fools of ourselves, and yet neither of us is perturbed, prepared to continue dancing with mismatched steps and haphazard arms until the night fades into morning. It is as though nobody else exists, every presence sucked into a void of insignificance.
>
I have never been the kind of woman to leave a bar with a man in tow, but I suppose tonight is different - there truly is a first for everything. Johnny traipses out onto the street a little ahead of me and then spins on his heel, a gigantic grin tugging at his mouth, igniting his eyes. He extends his arms and lets his head drop backwards, his splendidly sculpted face basking in the gentle moonlight. Locals brush past, some knocking against his shoulders, other stopping to gape at him as though expecting him to bust out a performance, but he doesn't budge. I walk over to him slowly and upon hearing his sigh, a sound so soft and yet so meaningful, I too spread my arms out and turn my gaze towards the sky. The air is warm, tendrils of humidity wrapping around us, but neither of us move.
Johnny is the first to break the silence. I drop my head to meet his eyes. "This is one of the nicest nights I've had in years," he says, slightly breathless.
"You mustn't have very high standards," I respond. I start to stroll away, and he comfortably matches my pace, hands stuffed into tight jean pockets. I notice that he has intentionally placed himself closest to the road, shielding me from bustling crowds and hazardous traffic.
"Well, it's not often you meet a woman so beautiful she makes you forget your past for a little while."
I feel my heart lurch, a bird trying to break free from its confines. "A lot of bad memories?"
"A lot of hard ones," he replies. His words have taken on a melancholic tone, but he still looks at me with an expression of warmth. He waves at a small child meandering past. "Mind you, I'm not asking for sympathy. I knew what I was getting into when I got myself involved with the military, but I just didn't predict I'd be so good at it all. I figured I'd be doing some pretty basic stuff. Things got a bit complicated though."
"Are you still involved?"
He shakes his head. A few loose strands of dark, chocolatey brown tickle his eyebrows. "I left recently. I lost some people, and I didn't handle it very well. I wanted to step away and try to get my old self back. I'm actually here visiting someone I served with. He left it all behind, too, but he's a lot better at handling the emotions that come with that." He halts mid-step, hesitates, and then exhales loudly. "I probably shouldn't be telling any of this to the woman I'm trying to impress. A messed up ex-soldier isn't very trendy."
"No, but being honest is pretty trendy," I respond, smiling reassuringly. I hook my arm through his and tug him along, towards a street of wild nightlife: partygoers, pop-up cocktail bars and an abundance of fantastic food. If something equal parts questionable and tasty stuck on a stick doesn't prove I am zealously infatuated with him, nothing will.
We lose track of time, effortlessly easing in and out of conversation, words only interrupted by the desire to test out an unidentifiable street snack. Johnny is spectacularly easy to be around. He is animated and enthusiastic, and in spite of the occasional inkling of dark humour, he is full to the brim with positivity. Every expression he wears is kind and sincere. Every sentence he emits is genuine, and he listens well, too. I feel as though I have known him years rather than hours, like we are childhood sweethearts reconnecting in our adult years. I cannot imagine ever falling bored in his presence, or ever feeling excluded. He seems as though he has been handcrafted just for me.
Which is why I break a major rule the following morning - I decide to text him first.