CUBAN HIRE (CARTEL GXG)

BLURRED LINES

I stretch out lazily, eyes closed, feeling a rare moment of peace wash over me. A smile tugs at my lips—until I feel movement beside me. My eyes snap open, and there she is—Ezmeralda, asleep next to me. Her arms are stretched above her head, exposing her toned stomach, the black sports bra clinging to her chest. The soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains bathes her tan skin, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw. My eyes catch on the tattoo across her throat, two bold words: "God's Plan." Her throat bobs as she swallows in her sleep, her breathing calm and steady.

Suddenly, she shifts, a quiet groan escaping her as her brow furrows. My pulse quickens as I watch her, her chest rising and falling more quickly now, her fingers twitching against the mattress.

"Take me... let her—" she mumbles, her voice faint, her face twisted with distress. A tear slips down her cheek.

What the hell?

"Ezme," I whisper, my voice barely audible as I watch her begin to pant, her body tense and restless, her eyelids flickering with the rapid movements of her pupils. Panic bubbles inside me as I sit up, lightly tapping her arm, ready to wake her from whatever nightmare has her trapped.

"Ezmeralda, wake up," I say more firmly, my hand wrapping around her wrist. She jolts awake, her body jerking upright, her back arching as sweat beads along her neck and chest. Her breathing is ragged, uneven.

"Are you—?"

"Leave," she gasps, her head dropping to rest on her arms as she struggles to catch her breath. Her voice is strained, her body tense.

"What? Where?" I ask, confused, trying to understand what's going on.

"Just go," she orders, her tone cold, her face hidden from me.

Without arguing, I slip out of bed and leave the room, stepping into the quiet hallway. I wander into the living room, where I find Carlos on the couch, a bowl of cereal in his lap as he watches TV.

"Hola, where's Phoebe?" I ask, startling him. He nearly spills his bowl, muttering a quick "Mierda" before looking up at me.

"She's sleeping," he says, his tone surprisingly gentle compared to how I've seen him before. "She was muy tired, so I let her rest."

My gut tightens. "What did you do to her?" I accuse, stepping closer, my jaw clenched.

Carlos stands up, his height towering over mine. "Nada," he says defensively, his voice calm. "Phoebe is not well, no? She has problems." His shoulders remain relaxed, like he has nothing to hide.

"Yes, she has heart problems and diabetes," I respond, stepping back, a little thrown by his calmness.

"Ah, sí, she asked for sugar, I gave her some, but she is still sleeping," he explains, sounding genuinely concerned. "Sorry, my English is not so good," he adds with a sheepish chuckle, his cereal turning soggy in his hand.

"When can I see her?" I ask softly, trying to keep my voice calm, watching him settle back down on the couch.

"Ezme will tell you. I am just a helper," he says with a shrug, tapping the couch next to him, inviting me to sit. I do so hesitantly, folding my hands in my lap, feeling uncertain.

"I would ask her, but she kicked me out. She was all sweaty, shaky," I mumble, half to myself.

Carlos straightens, his casual demeanor evaporating. "What you say?" he asks, his tone suddenly serious.

"I think she was having a nightmare or something," I explain, confused by his sudden change. Without another word, he abandons his cereal and rushes out of the room.