sweet like cinnamon

That smile gon' take you places And I know you wanna see some faces. Camila Perez. Twenty-eight. Costello.

[camilasperezold]

She can tell how Tristan’s eyes track her movements— the smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips, how carefully he assesses her and the jacket. There’s a flush to her cheeks. The weather outside the car may be brisk and biting, but Camila has always run warm.

‘It looks fucking amazing on you.’

She can’t help but preen. Characteristically shameless, she leans back in her seat to grin at him, tossing her hair behind her shoulder as if to pose for a photo, humming happily to herself. Camila folds her hands primly over her knee. Purses her lips.

She got a lot of attention at her job— sort of the entire point, really, meaning there was never a shortage of men willing to fawn and fuss and shove thick bands of cash towards her onstage when she wanted. But Camila found she liked this better. There was no confusing the signals he sent, and there was no confusing the way she leaned in towards him, the way her eyes sparked with interest the second he proposed to go do something. Maybe it was a little reckless, yes. But how was Camila supposed to deny what she wanted— he’d opened the door for her and she’d all but leapt in. Tristan was tall, and he was handsome, but it wasn’t just that. There was something there— something charged, and playful— that simmered between them. She liked that. How effortless it had arisen. 

She clicks her tongue. There was something relieving about his own answer; no need to pretend she hadn’t been absolutely smashed on a weekday.

“Oof. I was blackout drunk this Tuesday.”

Camila halves a breadstick and offers it to Tristan, taking a bite of her own half in the meantime. The music was nice. It floats around in the background as she chews, considers the questions between them. She likes the sound of that— being taken out in his car again. Tristan was curious. Camila was more than happy to oblige.  

“Oh, I can show you all my guilty pleasure music— if you ever take me out sometime. I like going out. I like dancing.”

She crosses a leg.

‘What do you like doing, Tristan?”

[camilasperezold]

Camila brushes a strand of hair behind her shoulder, lip curling in amusement as Tristan details his Baja Blast addiction. It was a smooth ride. He navigated them out of traffic, away from the orderly block of buildings towards the waterfront, making sure to drop wry comments at her in the meantime—very obviously flirty in nature.

Camila giggles.

Her head lolls back up against the seat. Camila’s grin stretches further, a low hum escaping between pursed lips as her mind ponders the taste of an alcoholic baja blast, the way Tristan drove in this car with such easy skill. Was this reckless? Heading off somewhere with strangers? Camila doesn’t think so. It didn’t feel that way— if Tristan was any way bad, she would have been able to tell a long time ago.

Once they’ve wheeled into their spot, he offers her his jacket, offers her even more besides. Very sly. Very chivalrous, offering up a spot right next to him so she could stay toasty. It was a bit shameless, but Camila doesn’t mind at all. She angles herself toward him, not quite scooting forward— not yet. The height quip needs to be addressed first.

She raises an eyebrow primly.

“Look, Mr. Space Heater, Shaquille O’Neal looks short next to you.”

Shaquille O’Neal, was, in fact, seven-foot, but she still thinks her point stands.

Camila threads an arm through the sleeve, then the next, makes a show about fluffing it up and adjusting the collar in a prim, playful way. She decides to let one side slip down her shoulder. It was huge on her. But slouchy jackets were always a look, and she appreciates the dark sheen of the leather, the way it weighed on her shoulder comfortably. So what if the sleeves were made for a wingspan twice her size? That hardly mattered.

She arches a brow in his direction, inspects the box of pasta to make sure none of the contents are about to spill out if she opens it.

“—Pretty good fit?”

[camilasperezold]

Her lips twitch. She’d have to remember it— a regular cake, no hidden surprises. And no Roberto, maybe, if she wanted to keep the desserts safe. Camila wouldn’t put it past him to pillage someone else’s birthday spoils.

The night passes on— more drinking, more debauchery, the introduction of a joint. Camila accepts it gladly as it makes several rotations around the circle. Abel was definitely on the cool list for bringing it, and she gradually begins to feel a pleasant sort of weightlessness— a bone-deep kind of relaxation that leaves her loose-limbed and giggly. She glances over at Abel. Did he ever get the munchies? It was funny to picture the consigliere going to town on a plate of Taco Bell nachos.

Camila can only blink lazily at his question.

“Dog?”

The comparison rolls about in her brain for a second. Camila’s mind is pleasantly fogged, distant and light in a way that doesn’t invite deep introspection— she’s clearly just focused on chilling. She raises an eyebrow at Abel, confusion written clearly across her face. "...Dog how?” Her brain turns lazy somersaults in an attempt to make sense of the comparison, missing some of the more obvious answers. General excitability. Friendliness. But then again... she was pretty baked. Barely even aware of Grace practically snoozing on Roberto’s shoulder. She chuckles. “I don’t like playing frisbee. Or barking at mailmen...” It was a good comparison, though, right? Abel had proclaimed to like dogs. She puts that firmly in the “plus” column, her focus drifting off elsewhere as Camila recalls a memory. “I had a dog growing up. Groucho. He stole food.... got really huge.” 

The joint still tucked neatly between her fingers, Camila’s cheeks puff out, as if mimicking the size of Groucho. She missed him. He’d been a wonderful dog.

She extends the joint back out to Abel.

“He pulled the frame out of the doggy-door once.”

[camilasperezold]

I hope you know I’m watching that fucking movie as soon as the power comes back on.

Camila gives a long exhale, as if there’s simply nothing else to be done. She had warned him! If anything, she thinks Tristan is only going to be encouraged by her cautioning; the weirder she made it sound, the more excited he seemed to get.

Ah, well.

Tristan rolls out their options after a second of thought, leaving the final decision with Camila. ( It’s hard not to miss the smug grin he directs down at her in the process. Is it the height thing again? ). Camila pauses, and weighs the two options idly in her mind. Cold, and scenic. Dark, and boozy. It’s hard to ponder either when Tristan works his way around the car so smoothly, opening doors and starting engines with a grace that’s somewhat surprising for someone of his height. He seemed comfortable in there. Content. It was, according to the skip in her pulse and flush on her face, hot. Very hot.

He revves the engine, and Camila nearly jumps, lips pursing to hide the squeal that nearly bubbled up from her chest. Clearly he was showing off. She doesn’t mind at all— she likes to be shown off for.

Camila leans in from the open door towards Tristan, a bare leg perched coyly atop the seat. The flash of skin was clearly for his benefit.

“Hope that engine rev wasn’t for lil’ ol’ me.”

She slides into the seat beside him, her finger running a delicate path over the detailing of the interior. It was nice. Spotless, and impeccably maintained; the whole car was, in fact. There’s a beat, until her eyes finally snap back to his. Camila’s lips curl upwards; mischievous, obviously pleased.

“Alright, Tristan. Take me somewhere scenic.”

[camilasperezold]

He— Tristan — seems excited about the prospect of the movie. Camila shakes her head vigorously, mouth curling somewhere between amusement and disgust.

“Oh my god it’s called Tusk, DON’T watch it, it’s so weird, like, they do surgery on a walrus, there’s a bunch of insane Canadians...” 

She trails off, partially because she doesn’t want to remember the rest of that batshit film, also partially because she essentially quoted the grape surgery meme on accident. It’s not the best job of explaining the movie. Or warning him off. But judging by Tristan’s expression, the weird shit might just intrigue him further— he’d proclaimed to love weird shit. Camila snorts at his words, lips curling upwards in a small grin. He definitely wasn’t keeping her from her food—she had been deliberate about staying here, and didn’t mind the prospect of lukewarm pasta. ( Even with no microwave ). In fact, he seemed to be turning down the chance to get food as well. It seemed like the smiles had been working.

You wanna– I don’t know. Hang out, I guess?

Camila beams. Blinks her lashes at him casually, like the incorrigible flirt she is.

It wasn’t something she really needed to think about— it’s what she’d been angling for in the first place. Tristan is tall, and he’s cute, and he’s got his attention on Camila. They could hangout. Should hangout. She might share her bread-sticks with him, even, the busted lip was that endearing.

Camila nods at once.

“Yeah.”

With that out of the way, Camila tilts her head curiously, glancing between him, the car, the mostly-vacant lot. She was fine here. Or in the vehicle he had once so chivalrously defended. Frankly, she was in a good-enough mood to hang anywhere, but she looks back to Tristan just the same.

“—Hang out, like hang out here? In the Pizza City parking lot? Or like,” She shrugs in a jaunty, offhand manner. “Somewhere else?” 

[camilasperezold]

The figure detaches from the side of the car, straightening up to full height as Camila gazes upward. What the fuck. Just how tall was he? Camila was used to being one of the shortest people in the room. This was just comical. Not even her heels— as severe as they were —could help.

I think it makes me look kinda cool.

Camila plants a hand on her hip. Yeah, okay— the busted lip just made the pout-y mouth thing even cuter, she isn’t sure about scary, now that he’s talking about clowns, but it works in his favor anyways. James Dean. If he were talkative.

“That was weird. I fuckin’ hate clowns— I can’t believe they made two whole movies about Pennywide, or whoever, him and his big-ass forehead. It was like, scary. But not the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

A beat, where Camila plays the hem of her dress idly, eyebrows raised.

“Once I watched this one horror movie where a guy got turned into a walrus.”

The stranger seems transfixed on her food. She didn’t blame him— nearly everything was closed, and whatever shelf-stable chips or crackers or peanut butter that was left got boring after a while. One of the smaller, yet annoying aspects of the blackout. She inclines her head towards the building over.

“Right over there. They have good pasta, and shit, and they always give you like a million bread-sticks. It’s like one of the only places open right now.” She drums her nails against her little box of food. “I didn’t wanna live on pringles.” 

Camila could trot off now. Be on her way, now that she has food, and he was his directions. Instead, Camila tucks one leg behind the other, tosses her hair with a strategic hand.

“I’m Camila.”

[tristan-sullivan-archive]

Almost immediately following the blackout, Tristan had been sent across state lines for a job. It was a direct order from Jackson, urging him to pick up a small shipment. He’d done so, only to come back and find that the city had further descended into chaos. His place had been ransacked – his Camaro broken into. Tristan knew the loyalists were holed up at Sinclair’s, but the last thing he wanted was to be caged in anywhere.

He wanted to be out, in the streets, taking action in some capacity. 

He, along with a group of others, had been instructed to partake in the destruction of Aurea. Tristan wore a mask that night but when Costello reinforcements arrived, they manage to clock him in the face, leaving him with a slightly busted bottom lip. He’d driven the loyalists away without being identified, but now Tristan was looking into more trouble to get into. 

Really, he was just bored. Any company would do. He thought about heading out of town again, but he figured it was best to stick around, in case he was needed. 

Tristan pulled into an empty parking lot near a few of the establishments that were still operating. He got out of his Camaro, perched himself on the edge of the hood, and lit a cigarette. He spotted a figure heading towards him, and he couldn’t help but make conversation.

“Fucking blackout, huh? I haven’t even been to my place in days. Pretty sure there’s nothing left there, anyway. Some fuckers broke into my car, caught them trying to steal it. My baby’s still with me, though.” 

[camilasperezold]

Camilla whisks her way out of the restaurant, box of food wedged tightly between purse and arm. Thank god for back-up generators. Nobody else seemed to be open, and nobody else seemed to be serving food. What she wouldn’t give to be back at her parent’s for the weekend— away from the madness, accompanied only by her family and her mother’s delicious meals.

Instead she was stuck in this nuthouse.

Crossing the parking lot, there’s a voice that seems to materialize from one of the cars, from a figure leaning against it. There’s a spark of orange flame— the lighting of a cigarette. Camila can’t help but wander a little closer to him. Even when the city was in such a state as this, she hardly ever shied away from conversation. She was simply too friendly.

Camila huffs in way of agreement. Eyes the discoloring on his lips, the slight puffiness there— ouch. It hadn’t ruined his face, though.

“It’s fuckin’ nuts. Is that how you got the—?“

She motions gingery at his lip. Was all that for a car? Not just any car, apparently— he’d called it his baby. Camila figures she can sympathize— she’d inflict violence to save the jimmy choo’s she’d spent months saving for. There’s a moment where Camila pauses. She was alone in a parking lot, talking to a complete stranger. The city was in chaos. Her brain settles on a final thought: oh well! She figures it’ll be fine, as long as she doesn’t try to hijack the car, or anything. There’s no real conviction behind what comes out of her mouth next. Just wry, comedic bravado.

“You better not try and go all Purge Night on me.”

[camilasperezold]

Grace was not exactly being tame about this— making a point to stand between Roberto and Abel, referring to the latter by his first name in the midst of her brag. Did they really go way back? Was she trying to reinforce her position here? Camila didn’t readily call either of these men by their first name. One was essentially a stranger. The other was her boss. She didn’t really know Abel well enough, and as impulsive she could be, she didn’t think it was appropriate yet— there was a fine line between cheeky and aggravating.

In the midst of her stratagizing, there’s a moment where Roberto effectively steals Abel’s cake. Camila’s eyes widen a minuscule amount— was Roberto simply too important of an associate to refuse, or was it the matter of not wanting to offend a guest on their birthday? Either way, she feels a tinge of annoyance on Abel’s behalf. It was bit of a dick move; the cake was good, and she wouldn’t want to give it up either. It was clear Roberto had no qualms pillaging for what he wanted— or inconveniencing others. Camila wonders if he held that same entitlement towards women. 

An aside, in the a back of her brain, screams ‘duh’.

Roberto offers the strawberry. Camila leans in first, taking playful bite before straightening back up, making sure to leave her hand over his for a lingering second. Grace moves in right after. Playing tug of war over a man who would probably readily discard either of them was in many ways ridiculous. But attending to him was her job— and what would get her to Italy. Abel seems to be missing the display. Camila doesn’t jostle Grace for the last bite— overly desperate was not a cute look —but she does snake a subtle arm behind Roberto’s back, resting it demurely against his suit. The other girl finishes the treat.

Camila wipes the streak of cream at the corner of her lips— careful not to completely disturb her makeup —and licks it off before finishing the rest of her drink. It wasn’t enough to put a dent in her sobriety. But a couple more, maybe, and they might be in business. The bartender wastes no time as Camila echoes Grace brightly, glancing over to Abel.

“I didn’t know the two of you went way back.”

“We can get a cake like this for your next birthday, if you want. Grace can even jump out of it and everything.” 

[camilasperezold]

“Dead?” A beat, where Camila’s mouth gapes open in a stupendous kind of confusion. “Dead, dead?”  

As if there were another kind. She couldn’t believe; it didn’t make sense. Marcel seemed so distant, untouchable— like a king, or a god, she had never really spoken to the man but like every other employee, had always regarded him as a sort of a mythical figure. The one pulling strings. The one away from the line of fire. But now...

Her eyes slide back to Salma, cautiously positing the most obvious question.

“Did someone....”

[camilasperezold]

The pair of them continue about their walk, arms intertwined as they finally happen upon the man he’d been looking for. Camila couldn’t believe her good luck with Roberto. Literally. Things had been going well so far, but she knew the universal truth of the matter:

Men were fickle. 

He’d been quick enough to accept her presence instead of Grace’s. What other coy, beautiful women were waiting just behind Camila? Powerful men traded women out like expensive cars, simply for the taste of something different, a new fancy to hold their interest before the other was discarded. Camila knew how the game worked— everything had an expiration date. In all her years of being paraded around on their arms, wooing and flirting with executives and politicians and heirs, she had a good sense of timing: when to double-down, and when to seek out other prospects. 

But she really wanted this, ever since Abel had tipped her to the idea. Camila could distinguish between a fun, fanciful fling, and the kind of relationship she wanted to put effort into. This was one of those things. Or, at least, this trip was. She got along with most everyone— even if she didn’t end up finding Roberto’s personality compatible, Camila was sure as hell was going to make him want her anyway. Or give it her all, at least.

Pleasantries concluded, Roberto guides them back to the bar— back to Abel and Grace. The server stationed there has an almost anxious grip on a bottle, as if desperate not to miss a cue to serve the consigliere.

“You should just leave the whole bottle.” 

She grins brightly at the bartender, glancing about at the group convened around the bar with a mischievous eye.

“We’re celebrating, after all.”

There’s an idle, merry hum coming from Camila as she pours the drinks with a flourish, presenting one each to Abel and Roberto, then Grace, and finally, herself. She’s filled each glass with a generous hand—what was the point of skimping at a birthday party? That was no fun. She’d only ever seen Grace drunk, and she wonders how much Abel can be compelled to drink ( if he can be compelled to do anything at all ), and what kind of person Roberto was. Did he drink in dionasyian amounts? Did he cling to control and composure? You could tell a lot by people’s drinking habits— unsurprising, since so much of her career revolved around it.

Why not enjoy themselves?

“Clink, clink.”

She sips at her own glass, leans her cheek against her hand as she smiles at Grace.

“You being good company for Mister Costello?”

[nrcissablck]

Marcel Costello found dead.

Salma stared down at the breaking news alert that had just flashed on her screen. Marcel was dead. She thought of her father, and for the first time since he had been murdered, she felt some sort of peace. Even though Abel was the one who had pulled the trigger, Marcel was the one who had ordered her father’s hit. Salma blamed him. And now he was dead and Salma wanted to smile. But she kept her face neutral, even in the blackout, you never knew who was watching. 

“Holy shit. Did you see this?”

[camilasperezold]

Camila un-tucks an ankle from behind the other, sucks at her teeth idly as the screen on her phone delivers an unwelcome message: YOU LOST!

There’s a swift rush of anger. Fuck Candy Crush, she decides. There wasn’t much to do now at work since that the power was out, though. Her head turns towards her friend in lieu of opening the news alert on her phone, eyes trained on her expression. What was so important? Something related to the blackout? Camila sits up more intently.

“See what?”

[camilasperezold]

Camila keeps her gaze level as she slinks her way over to Roberto, aware that she’s been handed an assist— Abel seems to be occupying Grace for the time being. She shoots him a mental salute.

I owe ya!

Her target is clearly waiting for the return of a beautiful woman, draped over one of the seats with an air of self-importance, lounging with a confidence only men like him can posses. Camila is hoping it doesn’t matter which beautiful woman returns with his drink. After all, she’s ready. Lips a velvety red, lashes ready to flutter and bat as needed. Camila is also wearing some of her best shoes. Patent Manolos. ( In a playful scarlet. )

She presents the gin with a flourish, the dimples in her cheeks deepening as Roberto accepts the glass, eyes Camila head-to-toe. 

After all this effort, he had better.

“A gin for you—” 

He’s still looking. His fingers brush over her own. After a second, Roberto rises from his seat, extends his elbow out towards her. Less of an invitation, more of a prompt. She curls around his arm gladly, fingers resting over the sleeve of his shirt, now in the perfect position thanks to a certain consigliere. Roberto explains to her he wants some company as he seeks out an colleague— an old friend who flew in for the occasion from Sicily. He says the old bastard is lucky: the weather in Sicily was probably ten times nicer than what it was here, because wasn’t it always?

“Oh, I’ve never been.” Camila replies, blinking modestly, as if this very topic hasn’t been occupying all her spare time. “I’ve heard Palermo is beautiful, though. All that old architecture.” 

Roberto feels warm at her side. Purposefully close. Camila glances over at the pair at the bar; tries to gauge Grace’s current position. 

She’s, apparently, tittering over something Abel’s told her. If she was flirting, that wasn’t too surprising. There was hardly a girl working here that wouldn’t have gone for the consigliere. If she was excited over something else, that was fine too. As long as her attention was elsewhere.

Their promenade about the room draws them closer to the bar, and Camila feels like she’s in a high-stakes mission where every move counts. Should she lure Roberto somewhere else, and can she, before she has more company?

Her eyes slide past Grace and Abel, trying not to stare for too long before they glance back up at Roberto, smiling coyly at the edges.

[camilasperezold]

Abel knew it, and now Camila knew it too. Grace was smart. Her nails press lightly into her palm, leaving behind faint red marks, tiny half-moon crescents against her skin— a reflection of an anxiety she seldom felt. Camila moved through her life breezily. But now, with this whiff of competition, she thinks to herself a bit more action may be necessary. A more focused effort.

But ever distractible, Camila’s attention shifts to Abel’s next words.

“Divoooorce .... Italian Style.”

She googles it quickly for future reference, stows the phone back away in her pocket. The movie looked old. Hella old. It was probably made when Da Vinci, or whoever that ancient bitch was, was still alive, that’s how goddamn old it looked. Still. She appreciates the recommendation, and the fact that Abel’s tastes might run a bit more ... refined, than her own. He didn’t need to give her one at all; she hopes this, and perhaps the faint trace of amusement that occasionally seems to flash behind his eyes means that the consigliere likes her. Or, at least find her amusing. Camila couldn’t help it. She was social to a fault, and occasionally veered into the territory of people-pleaser.

There’s another set of heels approaching; Abel seems to have summoned Grace like a genie by mere mention alone.

“Hey, doll!” 

Camila accepts the kiss on the cheek, returns the smile in equal measure. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What was she warbling on about? Drinks for her and Roberto? That wasn’t good—she wasn’t exactly competitive, but she knows she can’t let Grace have the monopoly on the target for tonight. She needed to make a move.

Camila clucks her tongue.

“Didn’t you have a long-ass shift last night? I’m not gonna let you run around bringing drinks to all the guests with no break.”

“Let me!”

Camila plucks the designated drinks from the counter, beams helpfully at the other girl. It wasn’t something she completely needed to fake. She still liked Grace! Even if Camila was, in fact, in the process of stealing the equivalent of her vacation sugar daddy.  

“You should stay and keep Mister Costello company for a sec. You can tell him that one crazy story about how we got stuck up on a roof with a policeman.”

Her eyes flit over to Abel. He had been, in a way, present entirely during what Camila has internally referred to as the “Roberto-Process.” He was the one who had referred his name in the first place. He was the one that happened to be here tonight.

Whatever was happening now, Abel certainly had a front-row seat for it.

She gives a peppy little hum, trots off towards Roberto before Grace can say otherwise.

[camilasperezold]

“Right, like, who keeps a garden gnome in front of an apartment? This isn’t fuckin’ Vermont.”

Camila watch as Ben gives the gnome an appropriate berth, barging right into the kitchen with his arms full of bags and snacks and god knows what else. 

She snorts. Sweeps her arm out in invitation.

Ben was rifling around for— sour gummies, or something, so Camila joins him in the kitchen, goes about searching for a pan, a bowl, the carton of eggs stowed in the back for her fridge. What was it that he had wanted? Pancakes? Scrambled eggs? Something breakfast-y in general? She’s half tempted to let him try and cook himself, but maybe it’s easier to double-team it. Camila traipses over to him casually, bumps at him with her hip. Ben seemed proud of his haul. And, might she add, pretty confident that he wasn’t too drunk. 

Camila was never one to call the kettle black.

“—Uh-huh. So what does Mister Just Enough wanna eat? If we only eat funyuns we’ll, like. Throw up.”

Camila gets out two plastic cups (she wasn’t looking to clean up any glass tonight), and extends one to Ben while sipping at her own.

Juice for him.

Wine for her. 

[camilasperezold]

Classes? 

Camila’s eyes flit quickly towards the aforementioned blonde, sucking at her teeth thoughtfully as she considers the competition. She liked that girl! They’d had breakfast together before— fancy bagels and mimosas and cute little strawberry roses —but Grace was, well. A direct competitor. And if even Abel, the Costello consigliere had heard about her, or at least her attempts to worm her way into Roberto’s heart ...

She needed to up her game. Camila makes a noise, muttering, torn between admiration and vexation.

“Smart lil’ bitch.”

So how was her Italian?

“—I have that app I do on my phone everyday, and I’ve been watching some Italian movies. I heard it’s supposed to be, like, easier, after each language you learn? I’m trying to avoid just flashcards.” 

This would be language number three— she’d grown up with Spanish since birth, but she hadn’t really tried to learn any languages as an adult. Maybe she would have taken some courses in college— had Camila ever gone. But for now? It was a lot of cram lessons between clients, a lot of movies on netflix. At least it was another Romance language, and not something entirely different. Like Russian.

Her mai tai was gone. Camila looks at Abel, drumming a nail against the bar counter as she orders a set of shots, scooting minutely closer as if she’s about to share an important film criticism with her fellow party-goer.

“—Have you ever watched any of those? I think a lot of European movies is just people smoking outside in cafes.”

[camilasperezold]

Hand-in-hand, the two navigated through the crowded throng of people, Camila giggling wildly at their not-quite-spy antics.

Once free, drinks are finished, and new plans were to be made.

She purses her lips thoughtfully. Eyes the crowd with a careful glance before elbowing the other woman playfully, inclining her heads towards two different targets.

“Okay, so—I can already tell the blonde dude has money. His watch is really nice, but he looks like, a tech-developer or something, for a start-up? He might bore us to death, or talk about the economy. And then there’s that guy—” 

Her nail points a few inches to the left. This man was, well. Clearly smashed. He had a glass in each hand and was smiling wildly at the crowd, shuffling his shoulders in a sloppy attempt at dancing.  

“Who is obviously just drunk.”

[camilasperezold]

Camila follows suit; instead of the dry, piney taste of gin, she settles on a Mai Tai. She knocks out a majority of the drink in one fell swoop, occupies her hands with the straw as Abel speaks. 

Are you on your way to Italy yet?

She nods, purses her lips in an absent-minded determination.

“Getting there ...”

Camila had never appeared particularly driven. Not to her teachers, nor her parents, nor to just about anyone. But, there was a determination to her. Occasionally. A doggedly cheerful one, when she really wanted something, where she would chase after it ‘til the very end. It was a shortcoming and a strength. She’d never been able to apply that to school.

“Oh, no kidding.”

Her head whips around to locate Roberto, now engrossed in what appeared to be a business conversation. But she couldn’t really rest. There was no telling when the girls on the perimeter would sweep in. Camila loved them all—but she wanted to win, which means she’d need to act in a second.

“I’m learnin’ Italian for this—” Whether it will be helpful with Roberto remains to be seen, but by god was Camila going to be fuckin’ ready for the trip. “Like, I know other people’s jobs are actually cutthroat, but sometimes the girls here behave like there’s chum in the water.”