Not Just A Pretty Face

25. Leonel

“I thought that guy was gonna piss himself!”

Joaquín was laughing so hard he almost couldn’t stand up -- or maybe that was the champagne talking. I kept my arm around his waist as we staggered down the sidewalk from the steakhouse to the ritzy cocktail club we’d haunted for the last week.

The restaurant manager had been pissed at how loud and drunk we were, and nothing the waiters said could break through the haze of alcohol that made everything so goddamn hilarious right now.

I almost couldn’t breathe for laughing. “Fucking good thing this is our last night here! We’d have to find another place to eat tomorrow otherwise.”

Hunter, on Joaquín’s other side, hiccupped and snorted with laughter. “Come on, this way. And look sober.”

We all straightened up and let go of each other, still walking close together down the sidewalk. Once we rounded the corner to the club, we headed straight for the entrance and skipped the line.

I could see the Euro signs lighting up in the door supervisor’s eyes. With fashion week, the city of Milan was full of guys who’d want to get in and dance here now that they were around, and their own booze sales probably added up to a quarter of the bar’s profits in a night.

Most of that was Joaquín -- he fucking loved buying rounds for the bar, and he only drank the three most expensive drinks on the menu in any given place.

It was good advice. In the last month, I had tasted more good drinks than I’d ever thought existed back when I drank shitty, cheap beer.

Joaquín was a riot to be around. He got smashed fast, probably because we were all eating nearly nothing that week. Once he was drunk, he had an attitude the size of Milan itself.

“C’mon!” he yelled excitedly, looping his arm around my neck and sauntering past the cover charge booth along with Hunter. Nobody was going to stop us, after all.

We headed to the bar and ordered a couple rounds of shots to start off with while I relaxed in the upscale environment. Everyone here was dressed well -- really well -- and hot as fuck.

I felt eyes on me. If they were bold, one or two might try to get their hands on me, too, but I always turned them down.

Unlike what Gideon seemed to think, the asshole.

Anyway, I had better shit to do.

I slammed back the second shot, then clapped Joaquín’s shoulder and called over the music, “Dance?”

“I’m fucking wiped,” he groaned.

Standing, walking, and posing took a lot more toll on the muscles and joints than anyone realized. It was one of the things all models loved to bitch about, the public didn’t appreciate how much work we put in.

“Come on,” I coaxed, nudging Joaquín’s side. “For a few minutes.”

“This place is laaaame,” he slurred, but pushed himself to his feet. “Fine, bitch.”

“Bitch,” I snickered and slapped his shoulder, steering him to the floor and grabbing Hunter’s hand to tow him along to the dance floor, too.

The music was thumping, pulsating through us already as we stumbled onto the brightly lit floor to start swaying until we picked up the beat.

I was easily the best dancer, if I did say so myself. Joaquín was all right, with a little natural swish to his hips, and Hunter seemed to only know how to grind or do some weird cha-cha that always cracked us up.