*Charlie's P.O.V *

What is worse - sucking one's fingers or sticking the finger in another's mouth? Either way, this is inappropriate.

Slowly, I withdraw my fingers, causing Mia to urm, moan? Her subsequent exhale sounds like she just touched Earth. I take it as her realising and regretting this situation so much that I apologise, offer her my ice cream, and flee. 

Before she can say more, I'm in the washroom. I won't come out. I can't. Breatheless, my mind swirls.  Splashes of water cool my temperature, only for a downward glance to escalate it.

My trembling fingers yank out my phone.

"Yo," Leo chirps on the first ring, "what's up?"

"My-my  -"

"You what, Charlie?"

"Leo, my, you know."

The way this boy bursts into laughter because this isn't the first time. Oh goodness, the first time! Embarrassment twists my tummy as I remember it happened because Mia sat on me.

My only hope was an emergency group call with Leo and Harry, though they cackled for six minutes. That is, five minutes twenty-three seconds less than it takes Leo to chuckle, " Bruv, you don't need an exorcism; you need to chill."

What's left of my sanity is spent following his instruction - to have a cold shower - after which slumber kills my erection.

In an instant, it's morning. I'm alone. Shaking off my slight dismay, I find Mia reading her father's letters. I wave from the main lobby, and she returns the gesture.

Guess we are back to normal. However, I can't join her because our vibe is still awkward, and I phoned Mrs Henley to meet up. When the woman's car revs into the parking lot, I station myself farther from Mia.

"Mr. Jackson has some business with a new cartel," I tell Mrs. Henley.

"What cartel?"

Shrugging, I explain his and Joe's deal with the cartel to the best of my knowledge, even trying not to sound scared as I vow to find out more.

"Just need a recorder maybe, er-or a tracker -"

"Charlie -" Mrs. Henley shakes her head. "Don't put yourself in danger."

"Oh. I'll be fine." I smile.

But nothing convinces her. She even makes me promise to do nothing, though; who am I kidding?

The instant she leaves, my mind changes. Hiding a pocket knife for caution, I leave my gun and a note in Mia's room before boarding a train to Jackson's. The ride is as nerve-racking as discovering the accountant with a grin and papers in hand. He asks if I called the police, to which my head shakes.

"Smart boy."

I roll my eyes. "What are we going to do about the cartel?"

"We?" Humour spikes Jackson's tone. "Are you so frightened that you'd rather work for me?"

"Well, they saw me."

That is when he faces me fully, eyes so focused on mine that I flinch at his car's spark. "Right. It will be best if you stay with me till the wedding. Call and tell your girl you won't see each other till then."

"What girl -"

"Mia," he cuts me off, " I'm still watching over her, in case you are wondering. "

This man - does he want me to punch him? I hate violence, but I will gladly do so if he doesn't stop mentioning Mia like this.

Mia is not my weakness. She's not a tool for controlling me. Respect her before I make you -

*

*

Staying with Jackson only annoys me further. He refuses to say where we are headed and bashes me for breathing too loud, like what?

A day later, our destination is no secret. It's a tall building near a harbour.

Jackson passes me a pouch with makeup, lenses, a fake nose, magnet earrings, and clothes to disguise myself.

At the front gate, guards check his ID and allow us entry.  We reach the fourth floor when it dawns on me.

I have been here before. When?

It's all so sudden - the echos of strangled moans, the laughter from wealthy men. I gag, and Jackson squeezes my shoulder, shoving me into an office.  Two men get on their feet as fast as a naked girl runs out.

Oh God, I want to vomit.

  Jackson barks, "What the fuck?! Get your horny selves together. We got work."

"Work on what?" One inquires.

"Recall our last bulk sale? The buyers are endangering our territory with their little bombs and whatever - gimmicks."

"Buyers? The Adiantes?" Man-two straightens his tux. Jackson responds with an affirmative.

The first man huffs, "It's the motherfucker who likes to make art pieces with his enemies' cheeks. He lives on the hills with his kids. His son, Mastro, is quite the stud for someone in his twenties. His daughter - not so lucky in the looks department."

"You know them that well?"

Man-one smiles. "My daughter schooled with the kids. I can send you their address so you can pay them a surprise visit."

"Won't that unnerve them?"

"Exactly. You don't want them thinking they are our equals, Jackson," Man-two sits up. "Claim there's a policy to cross-check all weapons sold monthly. Forge some shit and add the kid's name here and there, so he inspects while you infiltrate their system."

"But won't the Yeltsins not like that -"

"Mm," Jackson silences Man-one, rising.

Our next stop is his office, where he makes me sign some documents before calling it a day for himself. With so much to memorise still, I pull an all-nighter.

Sunlight stops me. I groan, turning to Jackson. The man looks so gentle asleep; you won't even suspect he's a criminal.

I wake him, so we set out fast—five hours lapse before we find ourselves on a hilly road amidst vegetation. Birds chirp around us, like a welcome address to the metal gates in the clearing.

I sigh. More guards, more checkpoints, more questions. It's a long process even to enter a desolate compound.

Jackson parks with a scowl. I follow him, absorbing our environs till there is a yell.

"Mastro?" Jackson squints. Beaming in response, a bulked, tanned lad in knickers slaps his back. As they greet each other,  Mastro's fringe falls into his grey eyes. His shoulders rub his stubble as he notices me. I look elsewhere, letting Jackson introduce me.  On the top of the hills, we finally see a gaudy yellow mansion. Ivies linger to my fright, so I keep away from all vegetation. Even flower plants don't seem safe.

"My sister has been gardening a lot," Mastro states, trailing my eyesight. "Also, my father is not home. If you are in a hurry, I can walk you through our books and storehouses."

"How kind of you," quirks Jackson before turning to me. This is my cue to follow Mastro. I oblige.

Mastro walks faster when it's just us two. There's no chatter or pretentious smiles, just feet pounding the ground. I clear my throat, but he doesn't turn. Not until more armed guys surround us.

It takes everything in me to remain calm.

"This way, sirs." They usher us into a room full of weapons. My fists clench.

"Have fun, Judas,"  booms Mastro.

Then, they leave me. I sigh, taking out the required papers and a scanning device Jackson gave me. CCTVs watch me from every corner like I would dare steal a thing or flee.

The worst part is that there is no way I can inspect every weaponry today. This is too much work.

*

As expected, night falls on me undone. Thank goodness Mastro summons me out, cradling an orange juice to apologise.

"We are so sorry we left you alone. I was expecting that you brought help."

"No. It's just me and Jackson." That reminds me - "Where is he?"

"Speaking to my father."

"Ah. Ok."

"So." Mastro pats my shoulder. " Are you another imposter?"

"My answer depends."

"On?"

"Who you are." I retort.

He smirks at this. "I am the next deadliest drug lord in this county in some years to come. So. Imposter?"

My head shakes, so he bites his lip and turns towards the mansion. Despite the darkness, he shows me around a little, takes me to a room, and says his is opposite it. I thank him, already aching for a bed. Before he can exit, though, his sister pokes her golden hair in.

"Oo, who?"

"Judas, Mr. Joe Yeltsin's boy, right?" Mastro perks a brow. Too lazy to reply, I thumbs him up.

"My name is Alexis." She twirls her hair. "Want me to read your future -"

"He is tired. Go back to your room."

"Not fair!" Alexis protests. Unbothered, her brother carries her away bridal style, not before shooting me a 'women, am I right?' grin.

I'm not sure how to feel about it or anything. I shouldn't get too close. Right? Or does it help to be nice?

As if he read my thoughts, Mastro wants to go for a dawn stroll as 'pals'. I oblige so he stays clear of my room while I disguise myself. Banking half my life on a facemask, I trail him for thirty minutes, jogging past greenery. Sweet orange drips over the hills like honey. Like Mia's hair.

I halt to admire it, wondering what she is up to.

*

^

*Mia's P.O.V*

Charlie left me. Again. I can't even get angry because I worry. He left a note this time, but it was the usual 'I am fine. Take care of yourself,' type of message. Then, he sent a text that he was in Vegas. Like- are we not going to talk about our ... ice cream incident? Did he not say we shouldn't hide secrets?

Speaking of secrets, the more I read my dad's letter, the more confusing it gets. Andres insisted he had nothing to do with the account. Based on the letters, the Lamentin lady is my next suspect since.

'Mrs Lamentin?' Cynthia quips in our night chat. 'Sounds like one lady on our guest list.'

'Interesting,'  I type, only for Cynthia to request that I sing at her wedding. I hesitate to agree, but Cynthia doesn't notice. She sounds so tired that it's giving war-survivor, not bride-of-the-year vibes.

When it's clear Charlie won't return soon, I vacate the motel to look after my younger cousin until our flight to Russia.

*

Russia.

"Welcome back!" Cynthia squeaks upon our landing. Desi smiles back and gushes about what she missed about Russia. I can't relate. We make it to a hotel as the soon-to-be bride pours out her schedule. The Yeltsins want to make a huge deal of this wedding, so they invited important dignitaries, including my grandfather. A whole bachelor's yacht awaits the men. Minors move to a kidshouse and ladies to a beauty villa turned madhouse.

I resign to my safety while Cynthia tries to control her female guests fighting for spa treatments. As one of the bridesmaids, I'm blessed with a reservation. I can sleep well and waltz into the spa the next day. Spotting some of our old classmates, I banter with them during my massage. They all insinuate that Cynthia befriended me to get closer to my hot cousin, but I pretend not to understand. Eventually, I leave them for the crowd of older women at the poolside.

Mrs Lamentin must be here. Without a clue of her appearance, I ask the women, and one sits up.

"What do you need, girl?" The woman walks like her feet are tired, but as soon as we are out of her friends' sight, her frisky hair jiggles to her, saying, "Unless you got some pot, girl, what are you doing here?"

"Please do you know -" I reveal my dad's picture. "Him?"

Mrs. Lamentin squints at it, chewing her tongue. A hum of recognition precedes her shrug. "Valda's immigrant boyfriend."

"Yes, my mum's husband. You knew him -"

Suddenly, she lunges for air. I catch her, but the other women rush in and lambast me in their home language. Their flustered bickering doesn't help Mrs Lamentin, so I call some workers.

Twenty minutes later, I'm quiet in my room. Cynthia paces in front of me, worried because as she puts it, she's supposed to impress the guests, not rush them to hospitals. I apologise and suggest she chills.

Hence, us going clubbing. There is a moderately crowded spot, much to our delight. We bump into more congenial old classmates with whom we take shots and hit the dance floor. Our circle widens the more day becomes night, deeming us a mess of ladies screaming our lungs out to WAP.

The next day, Cynthia is beyond hangover-ed. I offer her painkillers, but she sighs, "Mia, what if this is a mistake?"

"What? Getting married?"

"Ya, and all this -" Her arms flail. "It's not even my wedding anymore. Last night was the only time I enjoyed myself.  I haven't seen Anton since he moved in with his dad, and they want to make this wedding more like a campaign. I don't blame him, but what did I sign up for? Paparazzi will come, and your grandma is making all these plans - talking about a wedding movie and shit. I can't wait for it to be over."

"It will. Soon."

*

Indeed, the wedding comes after days of being Cynthia's pillow for her gown-hunts, vlogs, and interviews. Her relief when the day arrives is palpable.

"And I even get to see Anton finally!" She squeals. I grin for her until she mentions, "Charlie will be here too, you know."

"What? Was he around all this while?"

"Can't tell. But I heard his voice when I called Anton."

To that, I try not to care as Cynthia's makeup artist arrives with other bridesmaids.

By nine, she looks radiant in diamonds. Her strapless fitted gown flows down its tail, shining everywhere. The only problem is it's so heavy we, the bride maids, have to lift it in turns. My hands tire as we enter our limos, heading for the church.

The church is packed. We can tell from the claps echoing as we arrive. I squeeze Cynthia's hand, and she exhales.

"Ready?"

"Ur, fuck it." She opens the car door herself.

Wedding bells ring—all rise. Cynthia enters the church. Her steps are delicate. Reaching the altar, she lets go of her father's hand,  watching Anton's bated breath.

I move with the other bridesmaids when, suddenly, he whispers beside me.

"Good morning and goodwill, Mia."

"Goodwill, Cha-" My eyes widen with a mixed feeling. Surprise. Anger. Excitement. Enthrallment from his sweet scent-

"Charlie, where the fuck have you been?"

"Language," he retorts before leaving me like the other groomsmen do to their partners. Standing on opposite sides, I absorb him in his slim-fit tux and think-

No, Mia. We are pissed at him. Focus on Cynthia.

As if on cue, Cynthia looks towards everyone seated and frowns at me. That's when I notice Grandma Pom, Joe, Dolph and my grandfather?

For my first time seeing him, I'm doing pretty great. My palms are sweaty, but I'm fine. I'm fine, right?

He has grey hair and all that jazz of a typical old man, but at the same time, he looks so healthy that he can give a grin of perfect gum health. His hands are burnt and wrinkly.

I touch Cynthia a little so she focuses on the priest. Upon the time for vow exchanges, people get emotional. I cringe at Anton, causing him to say, "... And I will cherish you with all my hands -sorry- heart - oh my days -"

That cracks everyone up. Cynthia quirks, "I will cherish your hands too, till death do us part," they wear the rings and kiss.

*

And they live happily ever after - Sike.

Seriously, though, they are happy. Anton hasn't quit being cringe and touchy.

Then, there's Charlie struggling to avoid attention so much that he has joined the kids' table. Frustrated with his beam, I tug him away.

"Mia," he sighs.

I fold my arms. "Charlie, you said we shouldn't hide secrets from each other."

"I know."

"So. Where were you?"

Another sigh. His gaze drops, but I lift it by his chin, warning him that I'll find out by all means necessary.

He flushes. "Ok, ok, ok. I was with Jackson."

My heart thuds. "Did he hurt you?"

"Mia, chill."

Hell, na.

"How long were you with him?"

"Until yesterday."

My jaw drops.

"It's because he made me inspect an entire storehouse of weapons alone. It was one room at first -"

Suddenly, a bouquet hits Charlie. He picks it and hands it to me before continuing, "As I was saying -"

Again, he is interrupted. I tune to the cheers around us, only to realise Cynthia threw her bouquet into my grasp.

"Guess we know whose wedding is next!" The table for rich wives screams their new itinerary for gossip.

Smiling awkwardly, I  return the bouquet when Cynthia whispers in my ear, "Desi has been kidnapped."