Los Gatos 22 part 2
Pairing: David Villa/David Silva (main), Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (???), others
Characters: David Silva, Fábio Coentrão, Cristiano Ronaldo, Pepe, Jordi Alba, Iker Casillas (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
A/N Sorry for the long delay, but I've been abroad for some time, with no Internet :( I hope it makes up for a long wait, at least a little bit :) And actually, about Jordi, he is supposed to act a bit like Dean, the girl in the car was right. Just, when he's talking, imagine all that lip quirks and other faces Dean normally does, Jordi is supposed to resemble him up to a point ;)
Chapter 22
Holy shit.
If Cesc hadn’t been lying about going home and being a prostitute really guaranteed that kind of earnings, the kind that allowed you to live in such a building, then, well, hell, what was David still doing slaving at Mestalla?
He paused just for a second, just enough to render his situation hopeless.
Cesc disappeared inside a very nice apartment building in front of him, okay, so it wasn’t as nice as Villa’s and looked quite rundown on the outside, but he had spent some days hunting a new room for rent while living with Mancini - he knew that a place in one like this was a serious economic strain.
That aside, how the fuck was he now supposed to check if Cesc actually lived there and wasn’t just passing by to eat a late dinner with one of his clients?
He wished Fábio was there. No matter what else could be said about the blonde Portuguese, he was one sly bastard when it came to thinking up excuses for trespassing.
His hand began to unwitting scratch his neck, like always when he was getting nervous. He tugged sharply at his scarf, letting out an anguished sigh. He had to make something up now.
..............................
“Okay, kitty”, Cristiano drawled out lazily, stepping away from him.
Fábio didn’t even have the time to try to shift, the man’s grip was immediately replaced by an even stronger one.
Pepe. Shit. The guy wasn’t usually permitted to as much as watch his meetings with Ronaldo.
He whimpered.
“Look”, Ronaldo carried on in the same emotionless voice, “It’s not about you telling me anything now. I don’t need that because guess what?”, he smirked, “I know what’s going on. I’m still unsure whether I even what to hear your version.”
His heart stilled. It had to, because what else could explain the sudden chilling coldness spreading all over his body?
He had to move, just to check it wasn’t true and he wasn’t dying, and then there was this sharp pain exploding in his head, the wetness running down his left cheek…
“Hold still”, Pepe growled, wiping the blooded gun barrel on Fábio’s trousers.
His only pair of trousers suitable for Madrid’s summer. Though that must have been the smallest of his problems.
“I guess I don’t”, Cristiano acted as if he had noticed nothing of their little one-sided exchange and proceed to take something out of the nearest cabinet, “Our dear Silvita has found himself a brand-new lover in the Baths, hasn’t he? I have to give it to him, he’s an idiot”, Ronaldo unpacked a syringe and Fábio was torn somewhere between gulping down and yelping.
And shaking his head. Vigorously.
“And so you are, but that’s no news”, Cristiano shrugged and Pepe chuckled, a dark, unpleasant sound, “I can’t help but wonder though - what did he offer you to convince you to give up your precious drugs for a while? It’s for him as a principle or are you two fucking-”
“No!”, he shouted or maybe hissed, it was harsh to his own ears anyway.
Too sharp. Sharper than he had ever been in Ronaldo’s presence.
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks”, the man raised his eyebrows at him and he would have coloured purple if only he wasn’t so deathly scared, “Not that it’s of any importance to me, whether or not you’ve caught something.”
The implication. He didn’t want to go there.
“I just”, he started, wetting his lips and instinctively leaning away from an upcoming blow. Cristiano stopped Pepe’s fist with an irritated glance, “I just wanted to go clean, that’s all”, he confessed quietly, the words ringing in his head.
There. He said it. He said what he hadn’t dared to utter ever since the thought had entered his mind, blurry and shy.
“You wanted to get away”, Ronaldo’s lips were pressed in a tight line.
“No”, he protested weakly, that side-effect never under his consideration, “No, it wasn’t about that, I would’ve still done my job-”
“By lying to me”, Cristiano calmly mixed some white powder with water, far too much powder with far too little water.
“I wasn’t lying”, tears had been welling in his ears and they were coming close to completely blurring his vision.
“You weren’t saying the truth either”, Ronaldo motioned with his head for Pepe.
The bodyguard grabbed his arm and wrenched it from his side, flexing it despite Fábio’s best attempts to keep it plastered to his side.
“In my humble opinion, it counts as lying”, Cristiano’s eyes grew hard as Pepe was pulling his sleeve up and God, God, he didn’t want that, he didn’t want what they were doing, he wanted it all to stop, and damn his stupid arm, his stupid arm that fucking wanted it, craved it along with his body, even though he knew it’s going to kill him.
“No”, he was shaking his head, trashing to get away as the needle neared his skin, it was too much, that he didn’t want, not so much, but Pepe was so fucking strong or maybe he so pathetically weak, because he stayed right where he was and the needle was already in, “No”, he repeated brokenly, lifting his head up to Cristiano’s own impassive one, begging him to believe him this one last time.
“No what?”
“He doesn’t have a lover”, he blurted out, transfixed on Ronaldo’s unforgiving eyes, not realising that the syringe had stopped pumping the drug in.
He shouldn’t be telling it, it was not his story to tell, he swore it to David, but if he died and it was all Ronaldo knew, that false version, then Villa would also think it the only truth…
“Carry on”, Cristiano’s voice held no emotions.
“He, he”, Fábio couldn’t breathe, he was dying for fuck’s sake, why did they expect him to speak-
“He what?”, Pepe hit him upside the head.
He was so out of it he didn’t take note of the fact that he must have released the hold to do that.
“He’s looking for a prostitute!”, he blurted out, tears streaming down his cheeks, “You have to believe me…”
“I do”, Cristiano’s mouth quirked, “I just can’t see how it sounds better than having a lover.”
Pepe chuckled.
“He’s not looking for him for sexual reasons”, he willed them to understand with all he got, his eyes, his lips, his voice…, “The-the snitch! He’s a whore, right?”
“Snitch?”, something appeared in Ronaldo’s pupils.
He cocked his head to the side.
“The guy who’s working for Casillas, the one Ramos’ to find, he’s a whore, isn’t he?”, he was babbling.
“We think so”, there was a calm caution in the man’s tone now.
“Well, Silvita figured he could find him”, Fábio swallowed hard. He shouldn’t be telling that, “He-you wouldn’t be able to, everyone knows you, but he’s just a kid, the-the prostitute wouldn’t recognise him-”
“He’s looking for him at the Baths?”
“Y-yes! I thought it was the most likely place…”, God, why wasn’t the drug working yet, he had to stop right now, he shouldn’t be saying anything, anything more.
“You thought?”, Ronaldo snorted, “Ever the helpful accomplice.”
Fábio was nodding, nodding and shaking his head at the same time, the tears getting mixed with the blood from his temple, he could taste them on his dry lips.
“Get him up.”
“Boss-”
“I said: get him the fuck up”, Ronaldo growled bitingly at the bodyguard.
“You can’t be trusting this little shit”, Pepe wasn’t exactly loosening his hold on him but he shifted, so now he was facing Cristiano more directly.
“And you can’t be telling me what to do”, Ronaldo’s answer was deadly serene, the effect intensified by the gun in his hand, “Get. Him. Up.”
He was hauled up so strongly that his shoulder must have dislocated.
Where did the syringe go?
“Go.”
He turned around, completely disconnected, trying to figure out where was the door but to his shock, it was Pepe who moved.
“Leave us alone for a second or two”, Ronaldo was stalking to him and the bodyguard might have given some answer but Fábio was too busy feeling faint and falling down.
He came in contact with something surprisingly warm.
“See, that's not so hard”, Ronaldo’s arms were propelling him up, gently, “No stunts and you’re safe. That’s a good deal, isn’t it? So why don't you explain everything in a more detailed version?”
.................
David remembered what exactly he was wearing and what sight he must be presenting for anyone ‘normal’ in the street only when the elderly receptionist readjusted his glasses with a disturbed expression. The small jolt he made didn’t help either.
God, he still looked like a prostitute.
He reddened to the tips of his ears and was already halfway through the door when he realised that it was, in fact, way much easier for him to be taken for a hooker right now. A hooker, straight from the streets, talking up a respectable man who was guarding the entrance to an as respectable building? He would be allowed to be nervous and uncoordinated a bit.
“Uhm, hi”, he cautiously approached the counter, rubbing his elbow.
“Good evening”, the man leaned slightly towards him, “Can I help you?”, that wasn’t very eager.
“Actually”, he awkwardly lifted the right corner of his mouth, “The guy who’s just come in?”, he picked up his scarf and presented to the man as a sort of an explanation, “He lost his scarf, I just wanted…”, he ducked his head.
“Sure, kid. Flat A on the first floor, the one with a garden.”
David jerked his head up, hoping that he was able to conceal his utter amazement at the man’s genuine smile.
“Thank you”, he licked his upper lip as if his mouth was getting dry, which it technically was, and hurried towards the stairs.
Up there, it wasn’t hard to locate the right flat. It was at the end of the corridor, on the left, the last flat in a row of four. The corridor itself was pretty wide, considering the age of the building, and there was a window just next to the flat’s door.
Glancing around if there was anyone but him there, he climbed to his toes and looked through it.
The first thing he saw was a wire netting, relatively low, maybe a metre and a half at best and a narrow path leading, most likely, around the building. Or to a garden, which he hadn’t noticed before but must have been situated on the other side of the building…
What kind of an apartment house in the middle of Sol had gardens by the way? Real gardens, at the back, apparently belonging to singular flats rather than communal patios?
Silently, he gave Cesc’s door a quick inspection, which it passed as the most regular kind of door, not that he had much experience in the building finish area. He actually took out his mobile to take a photo of it, but hid it again afraid of security cameras. If someone watched them, they may find it suspicious.
There wasn’t much more to do in that situation, so he just rolled the scarf - thanks Virgin it was so thin - put it into his pocket and strolled back to the stairs.
Huh, the door next to Cesc’s seemed to have lived though not only the Civil War but also the times of Bonaparte.
So maybe not all of the tenants were well-off.
If so, how could they afford a living in such a nice place?
He was so lost in his mind he didn’t hear the receptionist calling out to him at first.
“Yes?”, he finally turned to him in embarrassment, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”, he trailed off.
“I asked if you'd found him”, the man repeated, not unkindly.
“Yeah, flat A”, he grinned, still on the shy side, “I didn’t see the garden, though.”
Oh, good one, Silva, not blatant at all.
The receptionist shook his head, smiling his grandfather smile.
“I guess it’s too dark to invite a guest there”, he chuckled and David followed his suit, not wishing to offend him, “It’s a nice one, I can tell you. All the flats from the first floor have one, with separate entrances, fenced and everything.”
“That’s great”, huh, he wondered if the fence was the one he had seen through the window, “I mean”, he might have sounded a bit too enthusiastic so he tuned the exhilaration down, “It’s the city centre, I can’t imagine how much it has to cost to have your private garden here”, he sucked in a breath.
In, or out? The man was taking the bait or not? Come on, be a bit more like Fernando, please, it wouldn’t hurt you…
The guy named the monthly rent.
“Quite a… Lot”, he frowned lightly, because it wasn’t even close to how much he had been estimating.
The man nodded with a solemn expression.
“But I guess that’s what you have to give for a fancy stuff, hm?”, he aimed for a straightforwardness stereotypically associated with a hooker, “Gardens, surveillance, a receptionist”, he smiled at the man, who laughed in return.
He knew he looked quite adorable making that particular face.
“There’s no surveillance here, kid”, the man provided good-naturedly.
David hid his gaping. Seriously, what’s the catch?
“I thought all the fancy building had one nowadays”, he shrugged apologetically, as if excusing himself all the time was his ingrained trait.
It most likely was, but he was past apologising to every human in his vicinity.
“The one the owners are around, I believe”, the man explained, “Ours is living abroad, in London, he doesn’t care much for this place”, it was soon followed by a full story of how the young heir was wasting the work of several generations of a family.
“You don’t happen to be looking for a flat?”
That brought David back to the present.
“What, me?”, he exclaimed in surprise, both hands pointing to his chest, “Not really, why are you asking?”, he carefully searched the man’s face for something off.
“We have a currently unoccupied flat, just next to the one you’ve been in”, the receptionist began to play with a pencil, “I thought you may be interested.”
David hid his face behind his hair and politely declined the offer, successfully obscuring the smirk playing on his lips.
............
It was momentarily forgotten once he exited the building.
He wasn’t sure into what direction he should proceed so he just stood there, undecided, for some time, trying desperately to come up with the metro plan in his head and meeting nothing but emptiness there.
The skin of his back was crawling, as if someone was watching him, stupid, of course they were, that was what people did, they stared, especially in the street and he should have long gotten used to it, with him being dressed like that-
But that guy on the other side of the street was taking it a bit too far.
David, feigning confident boredom, walked up to the nearest tree and leaned against it, as if waiting for someone and discreetly took a peek at the man.
Virgin, if Villa had sent someone after him then he really had nothing to come home to or generally, nothing to ever come anywhere to.
His heart was beating so fast he felt it in his toes when he was finally able to check the guy out without arousing suspicions or looking downright mad.
He was talking to a group of people around his age, gesticulating widely and laughing.
Huh, he was getting seriously paranoid.
.....
“Merci beaucoup!”, Jordi flashed the guys his best lost tourist smile, waving them a goodbye as they continued down the street.
The ‘lost French tourist’ rouse worked every time, much better than the ‘lost German tourist’ rouse, as most people tended to freak out hearing German. With French, they usually accepted the challenge of communicating with him but with German there were just too little things in common.
English never worked. Everyone spoke at least a bit and it was the least likely to produce laughter.
Laughter always suggested they were great pals.
He dared to look back to the boy.
Gone.
Deeming it as safe as it would get, he crossed the road in several long strides and strolled up the apartment building. What would Villa’s lover ever seek in such a place was beyond him, he had never heard anything interesting about that street. Sure, it was close to Sol and its, eckhem, less savoury attractions but in all reality, it was as mediocre middle-class as it could be.
Going in would be useless, he had no fucking idea what to ask for.
A deal had just been made? But what kind of a deal would require a participation of Villa’s lover, especially Villa’s lover looking like that?
He had seen the kid several times - he had a damn good sense of style, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit, unless he had a good reason to wear it. A pretty good reason.
At first, he had just took the guy as an innocent being dragged along for the ride but the funeral? The kid’s presence there almost shocked the camera out of Jordi’s hands. Come on, Villa didn’t show himself with his mistresses, that was a well-known fact. If he was parading the kid around as his arm then he must be damn important, and to be important in Villa’s dictionary, one had to be dangerous.
In a way at least.
He was staring without really looking at a list of names next to an entry phone.
A friendly visit?
Huh, the kid had no friends he would bet. You don’t keep friends around when Villa keeps you. The man didn’t share.
Some sort of an errand then…
He quickly took a photo of the list, deciding to look the people up. He couldn’t have risked photographing the kid, so that was the least he could do.
Unless, of course, you counted one bitchy DI.
..........
“Casillas”, he didn’t breathe out in relief as soon as the man answered.
Finally, graciously answered after the third attempt, fucker.
“It’s Alba here.”
“We don’t have anything to discuss”, the DI’s voice was frosty, though he could also tell he was chewing on something.
Gum maybe.
“Look”, now he did sigh, “Look, I get it you’re pissed, but could you just please stop bitching about that day? Everyone would be fucking mad if their girlfriend just ditched them and went after a younger, more-muscled football kicker, with more hair than brains and most likely more money that you’d ever make in your whole miserable life-”
Casillas disconnected.
Well, he couldn’t blame him.
He tried calling again and again, only to get rejected.
Son of a bitch.
He typed a text then, just a simple ‘Get the fuck over it. We have to talk’ but got no reply in the next few minutes.
How could the man be that dense? Did he honestly think he was calling him to get his kicks off by taunting him?
The next call got rejected before the first ring.
Jordi punched the brick wall of the building behind him. He was a journalist for heaven’s sake. He had been put on people’s black lists enough times to realise what Casillas had done.
And now he had to find a store to buy a new phone card.
Thank you, Casillas.
Fortunately, it was just around the corner, fine, the darkest, most 'don't wander there' looking corner in his field of vision but a corner nonetheless, and it was probably selling SIM cards.
After a brief walk it turned out it was and he was soon dialling the DI from an unknown number.
“Yes?”, the man answered, a hint of annoyance not yet gone from his voice, or maybe he had a premonition who was on the other side of the line.
“Hey”, Jordi took a turn without really looking where he was going, “It’s Alba. Listen, man, I have a question for you. Is there something you and your pals know about in the Calle Ecuador in Sol?”
Nothing.
He waited another few seconds and then lowered the phone, frowning at the screen.
Disconnected. The fucker must have disconnected right after hearing his name.
“Crazy idiotic fat son of a bitch!”, he shouted whirling on his heel, his eyes catching a sight of something bulky on the opposite side of the alley.
“Are you talking to me?”, a fat guy in a bouncer’s gear was approaching him with an expression of a mad baboon.
“No man, I didn’t mean you, so chill out”, he started, then recoiled at the strength of the punch that sent him flying backwards.
He touched his numb jaw, roughly estimating the distance between himself and the charging mountain. He threw a punch on his own, then ducked the man’s response.
“Or after a second thought”, he ducked again and kicked him in the shin, “I did mean you.”
He deserved the blow to his temple because he had totally let his guard down there, and fuck, he had let it down low enough to miss the guy had reinforcements with him.
He managed to punched one’s nose and kick the other where it counted before got intimately acquainted with a dustbin.
“We gotta show exactly what happens to fuckers who don’t respect us”, the first bouncer was nearing him, rubbing his hands in gross anticipation.
Jordi backed away, positioning himself behind a row of dustbins.
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you”, he grinned, bolting when he saw the man pounce, pushing the dustbins straight under the baboon’s feet.
He heard the men curse and shout at him and only sped up, not fooling himself that fighting off dustbins would hold them off for long.
He fled the alley but the Calle Ecuador was empty, of fucking course, God help the passer-byes if they had to react to something like three oxen chasing him-
A car. A very red, very turned on car parked just few metres away.
He started towards it just as the men jumped out behind him, making him move his legs even faster than before - and he was one hell of a sprinter, he admitted without prompting - reaching the car’s passenger door in a record time.
Bolt would have only seen his back if he had been there.
Open.
He didn’t pause to consider that it would indeed scare the girl behind a wheel that much.
“What the hell are you doing?”, she shrieked unbuckling herself to flee, most likely.
“No, no, no, no”, he grabbed her arm, a bit too tightly, “No, no, just”, he looked earnestly into her wide petrified pupils, “Just drive.”
“What?”, she was fighting off his grip now, her voice hitting a panicked tone, “Who the hell are you, get out of my car or I’m calling the police-”, she trailed off as her eyes wandered to the rear mirror.
Jordi glanced back.
Oh, right, the oxen attack.
“Drive!”, he yelled as they caught up with the car, “Drive, drive!”
She got the clue when the baboon banged on the boot, the tyres of the small Renault screeching as she stepped on the accelerator.
“What the fuck is going on?”, she cried out when the left the street, looking at him as if he was some kind of a criminal.
Or a raving madman.
“Nothing”, Jordi noted with satisfaction that the oxen must have given up on their chase, “I don’t think they’re gonna follow”, he assured lightly.
She stopped the car.
“But could you please put a little more distance between us?”
He didn’t fancy getting out only to get beaten by some psycho-gorillas.
“Who are you?”, she said very, very slowly.
“That’s not important-”
“It is very fucking important!”, back to the shrieking, “Who are you and what are you doing in my car, running away from some scary guys, kidnapping- God, you’re not kidnapping me are you?”, she froze, staring at him with unveiled fright.
“Good God, no!”, he laughed, “I’m no Mel Gibson-”, the laugh died on his lips as he noticed the trio walking out from behind a corner, “Dammit.”
She followed his line of sight, paled, but rode off without any incentive.
“Where are we going?”
He appreciated she wasn’t going to push him out of the car at the first crossroads.
“Just”, he closed his eyes, hard, then shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. Could you get me out of Sol?”
He didn’t strictly need to get out of Sol, just two or three streets away would be splendid, but he was itching to google the names from the photo. It wouldn’t hurt to get ditched somewhere nearer his flat.
She didn’t answer, but he took her answer as a yes.
“What did you do to piss those guys off like that?”, her voice was strangely, unnaturally collected as she stopped the car at the red light.
“Nothing”, he made a face, “It was an accident. A misunderstanding.”
“What did they misunderstand?”
He had a feeling she was mocking him.
“They thought I called one of them fat. And a bastard. I guess”, he shrugged again.
“Well, that’s an accident for sure”, she shifted the gear as the light changed.
Jordi smiled despite himself, shooting her a quick glance.
Short. Dark, curly hair. Red lips.
He shifted slightly in his seat.
“It was”, now he was openly grinning, “But the fat part matched from the very beginning. Wasn’t so wrong about the rest as it turned out too.”
She arched her eyebrow at him.
He just kept on grinning.
“You have a name?”
“Julia”, she replied, parting her lips slightly.
“Carlos.”
“Don’t bother”, she snorted, “That’s not your name.”
He didn’t say anything. To insist of a lie would be impolite when she was saving his arse.
“How can you be so sure?”, he leered lightly at her because he kind of liked her voice.
“Please”, she levelled him with a look, a far too long one for someone driving one of the busiest arteries in Madrid, “You’re jumping into a stranger’s car, running away from some gorillas, with no explanation but a stupid grin and a charming face? You wouldn’t be giving your true name.”
It was hard to control that stupid grin with her behaving like that.
She took another turn and he relaxed, knowing it led straight out of Sol.
“You’re like Dean”, she muttered under her breath as she was forced to stop on yet another crossroads.
“Who?”
“Dean Winchester, Supernatural?”, she offered, “You resemble him. The way you act.”
“I take it as a compliment.”
“I bet you do.”
“Only, you know, I actually get beaten far less than him.”
She gave him a pointed look so he finally checked himself in the mirror.
Oh fuck.
His face was all bloodied, some of it dripping onto his shirt.
“I usually gwt far less beaten than him”, he amended, examining his eyebrow arch, “And I don’t come with a brother ballast”, he winked at her and Julia rolled her eyes.
“Too bad, I’ve always preferred Sam.”
He winced. Stupid arch must be broken.
“My sister, though”, Julia smiled mischievously, “She’s a Dean girl all the way.”
“Great”, he grinned, “Do I get her number if I promise to do something about the brother thing?”
She pulled over.
“What the hell-”
“Your stop, dear”, she pointed ahead, “Gonna find your way home now or do I have to call someone to pick you up?”
No phone number then.
................
Characters: David Silva, Fábio Coentrão, Cristiano Ronaldo, Pepe, Jordi Alba, Iker Casillas (this part of the chapter)
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
A/N Sorry for the long delay, but I've been abroad for some time, with no Internet :( I hope it makes up for a long wait, at least a little bit :) And actually, about Jordi, he is supposed to act a bit like Dean, the girl in the car was right. Just, when he's talking, imagine all that lip quirks and other faces Dean normally does, Jordi is supposed to resemble him up to a point ;)
Chapter 22
Holy shit.
If Cesc hadn’t been lying about going home and being a prostitute really guaranteed that kind of earnings, the kind that allowed you to live in such a building, then, well, hell, what was David still doing slaving at Mestalla?
He paused just for a second, just enough to render his situation hopeless.
Cesc disappeared inside a very nice apartment building in front of him, okay, so it wasn’t as nice as Villa’s and looked quite rundown on the outside, but he had spent some days hunting a new room for rent while living with Mancini - he knew that a place in one like this was a serious economic strain.
That aside, how the fuck was he now supposed to check if Cesc actually lived there and wasn’t just passing by to eat a late dinner with one of his clients?
He wished Fábio was there. No matter what else could be said about the blonde Portuguese, he was one sly bastard when it came to thinking up excuses for trespassing.
His hand began to unwitting scratch his neck, like always when he was getting nervous. He tugged sharply at his scarf, letting out an anguished sigh. He had to make something up now.
..............................
“Okay, kitty”, Cristiano drawled out lazily, stepping away from him.
Fábio didn’t even have the time to try to shift, the man’s grip was immediately replaced by an even stronger one.
Pepe. Shit. The guy wasn’t usually permitted to as much as watch his meetings with Ronaldo.
He whimpered.
“Look”, Ronaldo carried on in the same emotionless voice, “It’s not about you telling me anything now. I don’t need that because guess what?”, he smirked, “I know what’s going on. I’m still unsure whether I even what to hear your version.”
His heart stilled. It had to, because what else could explain the sudden chilling coldness spreading all over his body?
He had to move, just to check it wasn’t true and he wasn’t dying, and then there was this sharp pain exploding in his head, the wetness running down his left cheek…
“Hold still”, Pepe growled, wiping the blooded gun barrel on Fábio’s trousers.
His only pair of trousers suitable for Madrid’s summer. Though that must have been the smallest of his problems.
“I guess I don’t”, Cristiano acted as if he had noticed nothing of their little one-sided exchange and proceed to take something out of the nearest cabinet, “Our dear Silvita has found himself a brand-new lover in the Baths, hasn’t he? I have to give it to him, he’s an idiot”, Ronaldo unpacked a syringe and Fábio was torn somewhere between gulping down and yelping.
And shaking his head. Vigorously.
“And so you are, but that’s no news”, Cristiano shrugged and Pepe chuckled, a dark, unpleasant sound, “I can’t help but wonder though - what did he offer you to convince you to give up your precious drugs for a while? It’s for him as a principle or are you two fucking-”
“No!”, he shouted or maybe hissed, it was harsh to his own ears anyway.
Too sharp. Sharper than he had ever been in Ronaldo’s presence.
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks”, the man raised his eyebrows at him and he would have coloured purple if only he wasn’t so deathly scared, “Not that it’s of any importance to me, whether or not you’ve caught something.”
The implication. He didn’t want to go there.
“I just”, he started, wetting his lips and instinctively leaning away from an upcoming blow. Cristiano stopped Pepe’s fist with an irritated glance, “I just wanted to go clean, that’s all”, he confessed quietly, the words ringing in his head.
There. He said it. He said what he hadn’t dared to utter ever since the thought had entered his mind, blurry and shy.
“You wanted to get away”, Ronaldo’s lips were pressed in a tight line.
“No”, he protested weakly, that side-effect never under his consideration, “No, it wasn’t about that, I would’ve still done my job-”
“By lying to me”, Cristiano calmly mixed some white powder with water, far too much powder with far too little water.
“I wasn’t lying”, tears had been welling in his ears and they were coming close to completely blurring his vision.
“You weren’t saying the truth either”, Ronaldo motioned with his head for Pepe.
The bodyguard grabbed his arm and wrenched it from his side, flexing it despite Fábio’s best attempts to keep it plastered to his side.
“In my humble opinion, it counts as lying”, Cristiano’s eyes grew hard as Pepe was pulling his sleeve up and God, God, he didn’t want that, he didn’t want what they were doing, he wanted it all to stop, and damn his stupid arm, his stupid arm that fucking wanted it, craved it along with his body, even though he knew it’s going to kill him.
“No”, he was shaking his head, trashing to get away as the needle neared his skin, it was too much, that he didn’t want, not so much, but Pepe was so fucking strong or maybe he so pathetically weak, because he stayed right where he was and the needle was already in, “No”, he repeated brokenly, lifting his head up to Cristiano’s own impassive one, begging him to believe him this one last time.
“No what?”
“He doesn’t have a lover”, he blurted out, transfixed on Ronaldo’s unforgiving eyes, not realising that the syringe had stopped pumping the drug in.
He shouldn’t be telling it, it was not his story to tell, he swore it to David, but if he died and it was all Ronaldo knew, that false version, then Villa would also think it the only truth…
“Carry on”, Cristiano’s voice held no emotions.
“He, he”, Fábio couldn’t breathe, he was dying for fuck’s sake, why did they expect him to speak-
“He what?”, Pepe hit him upside the head.
He was so out of it he didn’t take note of the fact that he must have released the hold to do that.
“He’s looking for a prostitute!”, he blurted out, tears streaming down his cheeks, “You have to believe me…”
“I do”, Cristiano’s mouth quirked, “I just can’t see how it sounds better than having a lover.”
Pepe chuckled.
“He’s not looking for him for sexual reasons”, he willed them to understand with all he got, his eyes, his lips, his voice…, “The-the snitch! He’s a whore, right?”
“Snitch?”, something appeared in Ronaldo’s pupils.
He cocked his head to the side.
“The guy who’s working for Casillas, the one Ramos’ to find, he’s a whore, isn’t he?”, he was babbling.
“We think so”, there was a calm caution in the man’s tone now.
“Well, Silvita figured he could find him”, Fábio swallowed hard. He shouldn’t be telling that, “He-you wouldn’t be able to, everyone knows you, but he’s just a kid, the-the prostitute wouldn’t recognise him-”
“He’s looking for him at the Baths?”
“Y-yes! I thought it was the most likely place…”, God, why wasn’t the drug working yet, he had to stop right now, he shouldn’t be saying anything, anything more.
“You thought?”, Ronaldo snorted, “Ever the helpful accomplice.”
Fábio was nodding, nodding and shaking his head at the same time, the tears getting mixed with the blood from his temple, he could taste them on his dry lips.
“Get him up.”
“Boss-”
“I said: get him the fuck up”, Ronaldo growled bitingly at the bodyguard.
“You can’t be trusting this little shit”, Pepe wasn’t exactly loosening his hold on him but he shifted, so now he was facing Cristiano more directly.
“And you can’t be telling me what to do”, Ronaldo’s answer was deadly serene, the effect intensified by the gun in his hand, “Get. Him. Up.”
He was hauled up so strongly that his shoulder must have dislocated.
Where did the syringe go?
“Go.”
He turned around, completely disconnected, trying to figure out where was the door but to his shock, it was Pepe who moved.
“Leave us alone for a second or two”, Ronaldo was stalking to him and the bodyguard might have given some answer but Fábio was too busy feeling faint and falling down.
He came in contact with something surprisingly warm.
“See, that's not so hard”, Ronaldo’s arms were propelling him up, gently, “No stunts and you’re safe. That’s a good deal, isn’t it? So why don't you explain everything in a more detailed version?”
.................
David remembered what exactly he was wearing and what sight he must be presenting for anyone ‘normal’ in the street only when the elderly receptionist readjusted his glasses with a disturbed expression. The small jolt he made didn’t help either.
God, he still looked like a prostitute.
He reddened to the tips of his ears and was already halfway through the door when he realised that it was, in fact, way much easier for him to be taken for a hooker right now. A hooker, straight from the streets, talking up a respectable man who was guarding the entrance to an as respectable building? He would be allowed to be nervous and uncoordinated a bit.
“Uhm, hi”, he cautiously approached the counter, rubbing his elbow.
“Good evening”, the man leaned slightly towards him, “Can I help you?”, that wasn’t very eager.
“Actually”, he awkwardly lifted the right corner of his mouth, “The guy who’s just come in?”, he picked up his scarf and presented to the man as a sort of an explanation, “He lost his scarf, I just wanted…”, he ducked his head.
“Sure, kid. Flat A on the first floor, the one with a garden.”
David jerked his head up, hoping that he was able to conceal his utter amazement at the man’s genuine smile.
“Thank you”, he licked his upper lip as if his mouth was getting dry, which it technically was, and hurried towards the stairs.
Up there, it wasn’t hard to locate the right flat. It was at the end of the corridor, on the left, the last flat in a row of four. The corridor itself was pretty wide, considering the age of the building, and there was a window just next to the flat’s door.
Glancing around if there was anyone but him there, he climbed to his toes and looked through it.
The first thing he saw was a wire netting, relatively low, maybe a metre and a half at best and a narrow path leading, most likely, around the building. Or to a garden, which he hadn’t noticed before but must have been situated on the other side of the building…
What kind of an apartment house in the middle of Sol had gardens by the way? Real gardens, at the back, apparently belonging to singular flats rather than communal patios?
Silently, he gave Cesc’s door a quick inspection, which it passed as the most regular kind of door, not that he had much experience in the building finish area. He actually took out his mobile to take a photo of it, but hid it again afraid of security cameras. If someone watched them, they may find it suspicious.
There wasn’t much more to do in that situation, so he just rolled the scarf - thanks Virgin it was so thin - put it into his pocket and strolled back to the stairs.
Huh, the door next to Cesc’s seemed to have lived though not only the Civil War but also the times of Bonaparte.
So maybe not all of the tenants were well-off.
If so, how could they afford a living in such a nice place?
He was so lost in his mind he didn’t hear the receptionist calling out to him at first.
“Yes?”, he finally turned to him in embarrassment, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”, he trailed off.
“I asked if you'd found him”, the man repeated, not unkindly.
“Yeah, flat A”, he grinned, still on the shy side, “I didn’t see the garden, though.”
Oh, good one, Silva, not blatant at all.
The receptionist shook his head, smiling his grandfather smile.
“I guess it’s too dark to invite a guest there”, he chuckled and David followed his suit, not wishing to offend him, “It’s a nice one, I can tell you. All the flats from the first floor have one, with separate entrances, fenced and everything.”
“That’s great”, huh, he wondered if the fence was the one he had seen through the window, “I mean”, he might have sounded a bit too enthusiastic so he tuned the exhilaration down, “It’s the city centre, I can’t imagine how much it has to cost to have your private garden here”, he sucked in a breath.
In, or out? The man was taking the bait or not? Come on, be a bit more like Fernando, please, it wouldn’t hurt you…
The guy named the monthly rent.
“Quite a… Lot”, he frowned lightly, because it wasn’t even close to how much he had been estimating.
The man nodded with a solemn expression.
“But I guess that’s what you have to give for a fancy stuff, hm?”, he aimed for a straightforwardness stereotypically associated with a hooker, “Gardens, surveillance, a receptionist”, he smiled at the man, who laughed in return.
He knew he looked quite adorable making that particular face.
“There’s no surveillance here, kid”, the man provided good-naturedly.
David hid his gaping. Seriously, what’s the catch?
“I thought all the fancy building had one nowadays”, he shrugged apologetically, as if excusing himself all the time was his ingrained trait.
It most likely was, but he was past apologising to every human in his vicinity.
“The one the owners are around, I believe”, the man explained, “Ours is living abroad, in London, he doesn’t care much for this place”, it was soon followed by a full story of how the young heir was wasting the work of several generations of a family.
“You don’t happen to be looking for a flat?”
That brought David back to the present.
“What, me?”, he exclaimed in surprise, both hands pointing to his chest, “Not really, why are you asking?”, he carefully searched the man’s face for something off.
“We have a currently unoccupied flat, just next to the one you’ve been in”, the receptionist began to play with a pencil, “I thought you may be interested.”
David hid his face behind his hair and politely declined the offer, successfully obscuring the smirk playing on his lips.
............
It was momentarily forgotten once he exited the building.
He wasn’t sure into what direction he should proceed so he just stood there, undecided, for some time, trying desperately to come up with the metro plan in his head and meeting nothing but emptiness there.
The skin of his back was crawling, as if someone was watching him, stupid, of course they were, that was what people did, they stared, especially in the street and he should have long gotten used to it, with him being dressed like that-
But that guy on the other side of the street was taking it a bit too far.
David, feigning confident boredom, walked up to the nearest tree and leaned against it, as if waiting for someone and discreetly took a peek at the man.
Virgin, if Villa had sent someone after him then he really had nothing to come home to or generally, nothing to ever come anywhere to.
His heart was beating so fast he felt it in his toes when he was finally able to check the guy out without arousing suspicions or looking downright mad.
He was talking to a group of people around his age, gesticulating widely and laughing.
Huh, he was getting seriously paranoid.
.....
“Merci beaucoup!”, Jordi flashed the guys his best lost tourist smile, waving them a goodbye as they continued down the street.
The ‘lost French tourist’ rouse worked every time, much better than the ‘lost German tourist’ rouse, as most people tended to freak out hearing German. With French, they usually accepted the challenge of communicating with him but with German there were just too little things in common.
English never worked. Everyone spoke at least a bit and it was the least likely to produce laughter.
Laughter always suggested they were great pals.
He dared to look back to the boy.
Gone.
Deeming it as safe as it would get, he crossed the road in several long strides and strolled up the apartment building. What would Villa’s lover ever seek in such a place was beyond him, he had never heard anything interesting about that street. Sure, it was close to Sol and its, eckhem, less savoury attractions but in all reality, it was as mediocre middle-class as it could be.
Going in would be useless, he had no fucking idea what to ask for.
A deal had just been made? But what kind of a deal would require a participation of Villa’s lover, especially Villa’s lover looking like that?
He had seen the kid several times - he had a damn good sense of style, he wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit, unless he had a good reason to wear it. A pretty good reason.
At first, he had just took the guy as an innocent being dragged along for the ride but the funeral? The kid’s presence there almost shocked the camera out of Jordi’s hands. Come on, Villa didn’t show himself with his mistresses, that was a well-known fact. If he was parading the kid around as his arm then he must be damn important, and to be important in Villa’s dictionary, one had to be dangerous.
In a way at least.
He was staring without really looking at a list of names next to an entry phone.
A friendly visit?
Huh, the kid had no friends he would bet. You don’t keep friends around when Villa keeps you. The man didn’t share.
Some sort of an errand then…
He quickly took a photo of the list, deciding to look the people up. He couldn’t have risked photographing the kid, so that was the least he could do.
Unless, of course, you counted one bitchy DI.
..........
“Casillas”, he didn’t breathe out in relief as soon as the man answered.
Finally, graciously answered after the third attempt, fucker.
“It’s Alba here.”
“We don’t have anything to discuss”, the DI’s voice was frosty, though he could also tell he was chewing on something.
Gum maybe.
“Look”, now he did sigh, “Look, I get it you’re pissed, but could you just please stop bitching about that day? Everyone would be fucking mad if their girlfriend just ditched them and went after a younger, more-muscled football kicker, with more hair than brains and most likely more money that you’d ever make in your whole miserable life-”
Casillas disconnected.
Well, he couldn’t blame him.
He tried calling again and again, only to get rejected.
Son of a bitch.
He typed a text then, just a simple ‘Get the fuck over it. We have to talk’ but got no reply in the next few minutes.
How could the man be that dense? Did he honestly think he was calling him to get his kicks off by taunting him?
The next call got rejected before the first ring.
Jordi punched the brick wall of the building behind him. He was a journalist for heaven’s sake. He had been put on people’s black lists enough times to realise what Casillas had done.
And now he had to find a store to buy a new phone card.
Thank you, Casillas.
Fortunately, it was just around the corner, fine, the darkest, most 'don't wander there' looking corner in his field of vision but a corner nonetheless, and it was probably selling SIM cards.
After a brief walk it turned out it was and he was soon dialling the DI from an unknown number.
“Yes?”, the man answered, a hint of annoyance not yet gone from his voice, or maybe he had a premonition who was on the other side of the line.
“Hey”, Jordi took a turn without really looking where he was going, “It’s Alba. Listen, man, I have a question for you. Is there something you and your pals know about in the Calle Ecuador in Sol?”
Nothing.
He waited another few seconds and then lowered the phone, frowning at the screen.
Disconnected. The fucker must have disconnected right after hearing his name.
“Crazy idiotic fat son of a bitch!”, he shouted whirling on his heel, his eyes catching a sight of something bulky on the opposite side of the alley.
“Are you talking to me?”, a fat guy in a bouncer’s gear was approaching him with an expression of a mad baboon.
“No man, I didn’t mean you, so chill out”, he started, then recoiled at the strength of the punch that sent him flying backwards.
He touched his numb jaw, roughly estimating the distance between himself and the charging mountain. He threw a punch on his own, then ducked the man’s response.
“Or after a second thought”, he ducked again and kicked him in the shin, “I did mean you.”
He deserved the blow to his temple because he had totally let his guard down there, and fuck, he had let it down low enough to miss the guy had reinforcements with him.
He managed to punched one’s nose and kick the other where it counted before got intimately acquainted with a dustbin.
“We gotta show exactly what happens to fuckers who don’t respect us”, the first bouncer was nearing him, rubbing his hands in gross anticipation.
Jordi backed away, positioning himself behind a row of dustbins.
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you”, he grinned, bolting when he saw the man pounce, pushing the dustbins straight under the baboon’s feet.
He heard the men curse and shout at him and only sped up, not fooling himself that fighting off dustbins would hold them off for long.
He fled the alley but the Calle Ecuador was empty, of fucking course, God help the passer-byes if they had to react to something like three oxen chasing him-
A car. A very red, very turned on car parked just few metres away.
He started towards it just as the men jumped out behind him, making him move his legs even faster than before - and he was one hell of a sprinter, he admitted without prompting - reaching the car’s passenger door in a record time.
Bolt would have only seen his back if he had been there.
Open.
He didn’t pause to consider that it would indeed scare the girl behind a wheel that much.
“What the hell are you doing?”, she shrieked unbuckling herself to flee, most likely.
“No, no, no, no”, he grabbed her arm, a bit too tightly, “No, no, just”, he looked earnestly into her wide petrified pupils, “Just drive.”
“What?”, she was fighting off his grip now, her voice hitting a panicked tone, “Who the hell are you, get out of my car or I’m calling the police-”, she trailed off as her eyes wandered to the rear mirror.
Jordi glanced back.
Oh, right, the oxen attack.
“Drive!”, he yelled as they caught up with the car, “Drive, drive!”
She got the clue when the baboon banged on the boot, the tyres of the small Renault screeching as she stepped on the accelerator.
“What the fuck is going on?”, she cried out when the left the street, looking at him as if he was some kind of a criminal.
Or a raving madman.
“Nothing”, Jordi noted with satisfaction that the oxen must have given up on their chase, “I don’t think they’re gonna follow”, he assured lightly.
She stopped the car.
“But could you please put a little more distance between us?”
He didn’t fancy getting out only to get beaten by some psycho-gorillas.
“Who are you?”, she said very, very slowly.
“That’s not important-”
“It is very fucking important!”, back to the shrieking, “Who are you and what are you doing in my car, running away from some scary guys, kidnapping- God, you’re not kidnapping me are you?”, she froze, staring at him with unveiled fright.
“Good God, no!”, he laughed, “I’m no Mel Gibson-”, the laugh died on his lips as he noticed the trio walking out from behind a corner, “Dammit.”
She followed his line of sight, paled, but rode off without any incentive.
“Where are we going?”
He appreciated she wasn’t going to push him out of the car at the first crossroads.
“Just”, he closed his eyes, hard, then shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. Could you get me out of Sol?”
He didn’t strictly need to get out of Sol, just two or three streets away would be splendid, but he was itching to google the names from the photo. It wouldn’t hurt to get ditched somewhere nearer his flat.
She didn’t answer, but he took her answer as a yes.
“What did you do to piss those guys off like that?”, her voice was strangely, unnaturally collected as she stopped the car at the red light.
“Nothing”, he made a face, “It was an accident. A misunderstanding.”
“What did they misunderstand?”
He had a feeling she was mocking him.
“They thought I called one of them fat. And a bastard. I guess”, he shrugged again.
“Well, that’s an accident for sure”, she shifted the gear as the light changed.
Jordi smiled despite himself, shooting her a quick glance.
Short. Dark, curly hair. Red lips.
He shifted slightly in his seat.
“It was”, now he was openly grinning, “But the fat part matched from the very beginning. Wasn’t so wrong about the rest as it turned out too.”
She arched her eyebrow at him.
He just kept on grinning.
“You have a name?”
“Julia”, she replied, parting her lips slightly.
“Carlos.”
“Don’t bother”, she snorted, “That’s not your name.”
He didn’t say anything. To insist of a lie would be impolite when she was saving his arse.
“How can you be so sure?”, he leered lightly at her because he kind of liked her voice.
“Please”, she levelled him with a look, a far too long one for someone driving one of the busiest arteries in Madrid, “You’re jumping into a stranger’s car, running away from some gorillas, with no explanation but a stupid grin and a charming face? You wouldn’t be giving your true name.”
It was hard to control that stupid grin with her behaving like that.
She took another turn and he relaxed, knowing it led straight out of Sol.
“You’re like Dean”, she muttered under her breath as she was forced to stop on yet another crossroads.
“Who?”
“Dean Winchester, Supernatural?”, she offered, “You resemble him. The way you act.”
“I take it as a compliment.”
“I bet you do.”
“Only, you know, I actually get beaten far less than him.”
She gave him a pointed look so he finally checked himself in the mirror.
Oh fuck.
His face was all bloodied, some of it dripping onto his shirt.
“I usually gwt far less beaten than him”, he amended, examining his eyebrow arch, “And I don’t come with a brother ballast”, he winked at her and Julia rolled her eyes.
“Too bad, I’ve always preferred Sam.”
He winced. Stupid arch must be broken.
“My sister, though”, Julia smiled mischievously, “She’s a Dean girl all the way.”
“Great”, he grinned, “Do I get her number if I promise to do something about the brother thing?”
She pulled over.
“What the hell-”
“Your stop, dear”, she pointed ahead, “Gonna find your way home now or do I have to call someone to pick you up?”
No phone number then.
................