Page 25 of Last Line of Defense

I’m firmly resolved to flat-out refuse for the second time. I already have the cutting retort fully formed on the tip of my tongue: I’m not going, Bruno. I’m not interested. They’ll survive dinner just fine without me. But then, in a flash of pure malice, I think of Lara Montes. I think of Clara. I think about the easy familiarity in the conversation they had. And, what’s far worse for my pride, I think about the very real possibility that they’ll both be there tomorrow night, laughing together, while I rot away alone in this apartment, throwing away matches like a total emotional idiot.

No. No way. Under no circumstances can I let Clara think I’m avoiding her because of some silly jealousy. Nor can I let it seem like I’m the sensitive, weak one of the two. And certainly—over my dead body—will I allow Lara Montes to get any closer to her than she should.

So, proving once again that I’m a sensible person with a fascinating self-destructive streak, I make a decision that’s objectively terrible and wonderful.

“Hey, can I bring a date with me to dinner?” I ask, flashing a slow, roguish smile that Bruno, fortunately, can’t see over the phone.

It takes him a full couple of seconds to answer my question. A couple of seconds that reek of utter suspicion and professional panic.

“Let’s see… As long as you show up there dressed appropriately and make the club look good, I couldn’t care less who you bring along to hold your glass.”

My smile widens even more, filling me with a delicious rush of adrenaline.

“Perfect. Count me in.”

“Alicia… I tremble every time you suddenly get so docile.”

“Trust me, man of little faith.”

“Please, I’m begging you for the sake of whatever you hold dearest: try not to put on one of your usual shows with the press. At least not before dessert is served.”

I hang up with a quick tap before he has time to keep lecturing me. I stand completely still for a few seconds in the middle of the kitchen, watching my blurry, disheveled reflection in the dark windowpane. Outside, the rain falls with the most depressing persistence. I’m an impulsive person with terrible, dangerous defense mechanisms.

I take a deep breath, rub my hands together, and open my phone’s contact list. I swipe my finger up and down the screen, scrolling through the names of women who represent different versions of myself. Some better, others clearly best forgotten. Until my finger stops right on the right name.

Irina.

She’s beautiful, outrageously funny, dangerously charming, and, above all, she has no idea about the little emotional disaster that’s plaguing my life right now. We met a few months ago, right before I signed with Ravenhill FC. We had a couple of wild, intense nights in a hotel—zero promises for the future, spectacular chemistry in bed—and we made the sensible decision not to turn it into anything more complicated than a good memory that included the right to casual hookups. She is, without a doubt, exactly the kind of company I need for a night like tomorrow’s: nothing serious, no emotional drama, and nothing that forces me to wonder why Clara is ruining my life just by breathing near me.

I press the call button before my brain has time to reconsider and back out. The phone rings, and she picks up on the third ring.

“Well, well,” her voice says on the other end of the line, with that warm, drawling tone and that playful undertone I remember perfectly. “If this isn’t one of your pleasant, unexpected surprises, Alicia Puertas, I don’t know what is.”

I lean sideways against the counter, feeling a small, mischievous, sly smile form on my lips as I hear her playful tone.

“Well, that depends entirely on how much you’ve missed me, sweetheart.”

“Enough to know for a fact that you never call out of pure romantic nostalgia, babe. What do you need from me? Come on, be direct and get to the point—we know each other well enough.”

“I love that you’re such a practical woman,” I admit, chuckling under my breath. “So, I have the club’s official dinner tomorrow night. You know the drill: a super-boring social and soccer event, lots of people in suits with delusions of grandeur, speeches, and way too many fake smiles per square foot. I urgently need an incredibly attractive person to accompany me and help me pretend to the press that I’m emotionally stable.”

“Oh, girl… So what you’re really asking me to do is perform a vital act of social service,” she replies with a low, sensual laugh. “A humanitarian mission, practically.”

I hear her hearty laugh through the speaker and instantly remember why we used to have such a great time together. Irina’s my kind of person: she doesn’t ask for explanations she doesn’t want to give, she doesn’t pry into your shit, and she knows exactly when to sit back and enjoy the fire without pulling out the fire extinguisher.

“And may I ask what exactly I stand to gain from this grand display of charity?” she asks in a suggestive tone.

“My charming and highly sought-after company for the entire evening—which is no small thing.”

“Not enough for my fee. Work a little harder, will you?”

“Good wine. Probably excellent and very expensive.”

“Well, that’s starting to sound a little better… Keep talking.”

“And, above all, the immense personal satisfaction of helping this poor forward avoid making a terribly irresponsible decision she’ll regret tomorrow.”

“Hey, now we’re really negotiating with our cards on the table,” she says, and I can almost picture her perfectly arching that eyebrow on the other end of the phone. “Let me guess. There’s someone at that club who’s been on your mind.”