Chapter One

This intro chapter is shorter than normal, but it's really starting things off...that, and I had to finish it before heading to Union Station.


Comienzo:


The bar was fairly busy. Most of the tables were taken, as were the seats along the bar itself. Beer bottles and glasses littered the surfaces, as did the remainder of meals and used napkins.

“Nina, come on, one drink.”

Her nose crunched up, “No, I don’t think so.” One of her companions sighed, “Don’t be a killjoy.” “I’m not – I just don’t like the taste of beer.” “You’ve only had American beer!” “Beer is beer,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. The men around her looked scandalized, but she merely rolled her eyes once more.

Nina Trujillo smiled slightly as one of her coworkers tripped on his way to get another.

She was with a group of seven. She was the only one who hadn’t had any alcohol, and only four of the remaining really were in a clear state of mind. The others, one of whom had just tripped, where both singing obnoxiously, though happily. At least they weren’t aggressive drunks. Those were the worst.

“Let’s play futbolín*!” She smiled at her coworker, one of the many Marcs in Barcelona, and nodded, “I’m in.” Soon two teams, two players each, had formed teams. She was playing with Aleix, as defense, since the man had wanted offense, and she was in no mood to argue with him. There were several other futbolín tables being occupied, and many watching the games idly.

“Losers buy a round of drinks,” the fourth member playing, Joan, said. Nina rolled her eyes, “I win nothing then.” They all shrugged unhelpfully, and then Marc dropped the small ball into play.

It became a battle of all out aggression between the not so sober men as they attempted to hit the ball as hard as possible with the little players on the table, but they sacrificed aim. Nina only had to make several saves, each with an easy jerk of the rod which controlled the men. Once she realized that Aleix was too drunk to really even aim properly, she sighed, and waited for the ball to come back towards her.

The rowdy, screaming of Marc had attracted several onlookers to see the ‘intense’ game.

Finally the ball came rolling back after a rather well hit ball by Joan, but instead of going in as he thought (he’d even started a mini celebration), she hit it back with a hard spin, and it plunked into the other goal. She smiled as his celebration came to an abrupt end.

“If I win, you losers can drag your own asses home,” she grinned, not wanting to play mother to the drunk men again. They all groaned, but knew it was only fair.

After successfully winning the game 10-0, she claimed victory by forcing them to stop the drinks, and to go home.

She watched them leave after paying the tab, and sighed. She grabbed her glass of water, and took a sip, twirling the straw around lethargically.

“Up for another game?” an amicable voice asked. She turned, and smiled, “Always.”

~~

Adela, clean the bathroom. Adela, serve the drinks. Adela, wipe up that spill.

None of it was said with a please, much less a thank you. Her knees ached from cleaning up the tile floor of the bar trying to get all of the vodka up before someone slipped. She finished the task, and threw the dirty rag into the back room with all of the other dirty glasses and rags from the bar and kitchen.

She was hoping to get back to her original task, delivering what little food the club did serve, when one of the managers caught her, Núria Soler.

“Adela, there’s been a spill on the stairs heading toward the VIP section. I need you to clean that up immediately.”

She groaned, grabbing the cleanest bunch of rags she could find, and headed toward the area which she never stepped foot in. It was all but forbidden to go in that area. As one of the hippest clubs in Barcelona, it wasn’t uncommon for celebrities to use the VIP section for parties and other celebrations. She headed up the stairs, and found the spill, which she decided was beer, from the odor and color of the liquid.

She sighed, and crouched down, careful to avoid staining the white pants of her uniform, and began to soak up the spill with the rags. It was slow work from the sheer amount that had been spilled.

She was nearly done when several drunk men staggered down the stairs, one of them tripping over her.

He grabbed the railing, swaying dangerously. “Bitch, what the hell are you doing there?” he demanded. She looked up at him, appalled. “She’s cleaning up your mess, idiot,” a voice said in a firm, authoritative tone, “and you never insult a lady. You’ll be running laps tomorrow, hangover or not.” She didn’t let her eyes lift, knowing it was frowned against, especially for the lower workers like herself.

But after the drunk men had left, the man who’d helped her gently took one of the rags from her hands, and crouched down to help her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, sure the man had come from the VIP lounge.

He laughed softly, “It’s fine. My teammate was rude to you.
Normally he’s not like that.” She finally let her eyes pull upward, and they widened in surprise. The rag dropped from her hands, and she was quick to reclaim it, embarrassed by her reaction. However, he just smiled that passive grin, either ignoring or unaware of her pathetic reaction.

She honestly hoped it was the latter.



*Futbolín is Spanish for Foosball