• BURN ME •

• 16 •

Bottom Of The Deep Blue Sea
~ MISSIO

Flame

Snow just took off, Que porqueria. What's his problem? It's not like I lied. He didn't let me finish explaining, and if he's so worried, I'll get tested with him. I shake my head, a frustrated jerk of movement, and push myself off the bed. Mierda. I need a shower, cold, brutal. Snowflake will probably be back in the room by then, cooled off too, and we can actually talk, like two fucking adults. The test isn't a big deal, a goddamn pinprick and that's it. I get tested regularly, it's part of the life, he shouldn't be making such a drama out of it. I stand under the icy spray for too long, letting the chill numb the frustration, but even when I finally step out of the bathroom, towel rough against my skin an hour later, there's no sign of him. Maybe he went to the restaurant, finally got hungry. I shrug, a dismissive movement, and sink onto my bed, then my gaze catches on something white on Snow's side of the bed. His cell phone. Shit. If he's just somewhere in the hotel, not a big deal, he can always come back for it. I walk to the floor-to-ceiling window, the sky bleeding into twilight. But what if he isn't in the hotel? Mierda. Sophia would carve me up if something happened to him, I know it. I rake a hand through my damp hair, suddenly cold fear tightening in my gut. Snow doesn't speak Spanish. What if something has happened to him? I'm up, grabbing my leather jacket, the heavy weight grounding me as I shove my arms through the sleeves and stalk out of the room.

The elevator grinds its way down, each floor a lifetime. Stairs would've been faster, I know it, but the impatient energy just propels me into the metal box. I warned him, told him I was complicated, a mess, but he didn't listen, didn't care, and now he's pissed. What a load of bullshit. I scan the restaurant first, the polite hum of conversations, the clinking of silverware, but no sign of that white-blond hair. Then the hotel's outdoor area, the patio flickering with warm lights, empty chairs around fire pits, deserted. Then the bar, the pulsing bass vibrating in my chest even before I push through the doors, the air thick with smoke and sweat and desperation. Still nothing. He's really gone out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I burst back out of the hotel, the cool night air a slight relief. Where the hell could he be? Like a damn compass, my feet start moving, leading me towards the beach bar, the one from the first day, the place that feels like it started all this. I shove through the packed bodies, the crush of different faces, different smells, pushing past laughing groups and grinding couples. But I can't see Snow, can't find that pale head in the flickering lights, damn it. Outside again, the salt air stinging my lungs, I keep searching, keep scanning the crowds. There are more bars strung along the beach, a gauntlet of noise and neon, and I start hitting them one by one, the panic tightening its grip with each empty search. Where is this idiot? I push through another bar, the music a thumping headache, the faces blurring into a meaningless mass.

Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of white. A head of white hair. "Snow?" My head snaps around, adrenaline surging. And there, near the back exit of the bar, I see him. The white-haired man being dragged, pulled forcefully, towards the back door by another guy. I start moving, a predatory stride eating up the distance, and force my voice to cut through the noise, to reach him. My shout echoes, distorted by the music and the crowd, but a head snaps up, turns in my direction. It's him. Snowflake. But the other guy, the one hauling him along, just keeps pulling him, ignoring me, disappearing through the back exit and into the alley. I surge forward, adrenaline spiking, wanting to follow, to rip that guy's hands off him, when something blocks my path, stops me cold. A hand, soft and presumptuous, lands on my chest. I drop my gaze, following the pale arm, the thin wrist, up to the face of the person who dared to stop me. It's a guy, a kid really, a little taller than Snow, blond hair neatly styled, eyes wide and blue and offensively innocent. A pretty boy, a picture-book twink. He smiles up at me, a sickeningly sweet, seductive curve of his lips, and I blink in pure confusion, staring at him, trying to process why he's in my way, why he's smiling at me like this. What the fuck does he want? "My name isn't Snow," he says, voice smooth, almost purring, "but I'm sure we could have fun too." I sigh, a frustrated gust of air, and roughly shove his hand away, the soft touch repulsive. The only thing that matters now, the only thing burning in my mind, is getting Snowflake back, making sure he's safe. "No," I say, the word clipped, brutal, final. I shoulder past him, ignoring his startled look, and burst through the back door, into the cool night air. Where the hell is Snow? My eyes scan the dimly lit alley, searching, frantic, until I see him.