Club Alpha (5 page)

I descend the stairway, confidence and relief flooding through me with each downward tread.

A dozen steps from me, three men are loitering on the landing. They're smoking clove cigarettes; the scent wafts to me, smelling of spice and death.

I swallow hard.

My perfect calm becomes a storm of doubt.

Paco

I wince as I seat myself in the generous chair of my jet. It's always on standby and has a crew of five.

I feel as though I've just survived a severe beating.

Tallinn, seated across from me, grins at my discomfort. Leaning forward, quick as a snake, and executes a pincer grip on my quad. My thigh shrieks for mercy underneath his knowing touch.

I chop his wrist with the side of my stiff fingers, and he bellows,

“Damn, man!”

He scowls, and I smile through my pain.

“You deserve that and more, you masochist.”

We glare at each other. “You know—I'd kick your haughty ass if I thought I could take you.” Tallinn's dark eyebrows rise in mock challenge.

“That is the operative word—
think
.”

Tallinn extends his middle finger in a salute and one of the stewardesses gasps at his crudeness.

Tallinn gives her an appreciative head-to-toe appraisal, and I shake my head. “What is a gorgeous girl like that doing working as a flight attendant for you?”

“I enjoy beauty.”

Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Oh boy, must be nice.”

“It is.” I hold up my highball for another round.

Tallinn eyes my tall glass. “You should be a heifer with how much booze you put away, Paco.”

Vaco
.
Cow.
Ah.
“And you should be jailed for how hard you worked me.”

“Sissy,” he comments, smirking. Tallinn leans back and grips the seat's arm rests. Looking around the large cabin, he says, “The lactic acid should break down, and you'll be feeling better in about twenty-four hours, ya infant.”

“I am not complaining. I just assumed…”

“That you were in such great shape from your kung fu, you'd kick ass in weight lifting.”

I think of all things I could share—and decide against it. “Precisely.”

Tallinn chuckles, scrubbing a large hand over his face.  He leans forward, hands dangling between his knees. “Tell me, Paco—would you want me to go easy on you?”

I give him a level look. “No.”

He mock shoots me. “Bingo, you're not the type, pal.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He explains. “There's two types of dudes. There's the dudes that want to look good—threatening, nail the chicks, those ones.” His discerning eyes meet mine. “Then there's the guys that want to be good because it feeds them, dig?”

“I do dig,” I say.

Tallinn grabs his ribs, howling with laughter.

I cross my legs, grimacing again. “What?”

“I get my rocks off whenever you try to sound relevant.”

“I am relevant.”

“Ah-huh.”

I drum my fingertips on my thigh and he watches. “You nervous?” Tallinn asks.

I nod.

Tiffany returns with my highball glass. I stock cheap whiskey on the flight. For reasons unknown, Chivas Regal never gives me the aftereffects of some of the better whiskeys.

I swirl the amber liquid inside the thick crystal. The spherical ice cube tumbles inside, making a pleasant musical sound as it spins.

“I do not like to fly.”

Tallinn grins knowingly. “No shit?”

I scowl. “There is nothing remotely interesting in leaving perfectly good ground.”

“Yet, you'll sign up for an unpredictable fantasy thing—where your ass can be in constant danger?”

Said like that, the idea makes little sense. I can't support the logic, so I simply nod.

Tallinn shakes his head.

“We going to your place in Maz?”

I nod. I love this home the best of all of my residences, probably because of the memories. They say scent is the strongest memory trigger, and for me, the smells of
el centro
never change. Shrimp, beer, beach, and exhaust collide with warmth, sea air, and good food.

My house is a tangerine oasis on a cliff overlooking Olas Altas Beach, where cliff divers dot the view. This area of Mazatlán feels very Mediterranean.

“Paco?”

I look up. “I apologize. I was lost in my thoughts.”

“We staying at the orange?”

I smile. “Yes, though
mi casa
is really tangerine.”

Tallinn shrugs. “It's a big place. Looks like a huge fruit balanced on a cliff.”

I think of it from his perspective. Perhaps.

“Work out tomorrow?”

I nod. “Yes, you
are
my personal trainer.” My lips quirk.

“Listen, Paco—no offense, but the minute I'm done torturing your ass, I'm going out to find where all the tequila is, hombre.”

“I don't think that's ever an issue. I have a fully stocked bar…”

He waves a hand of dismissal. “And a bartender, and, and… whatever. No.” His eyes meet mine. “I think I want a drink and to enjoy the night life.” His eyes become hooded.

“Women?” I ask without really needing an answer.

His palms spread from his sides. “Ah—yeah.”

I look at him critically. As a man of color, Tallinn is exotic enough to be attractive to the local population because he is American, though Mexicans generally prefer lighter-skinned peoples. Mazatlán was settled in antiquity by Spaniards and the French.

I am both.

Though Americans are considered aggressive and the locals treat their presence with a sort of wary caution, the south also harbors a latent fascination with the culture of our northern neighbors.

“You won't find as much of that in old town. You will need to visit the Zona Dorado.”

“Golden Zone? Yeah, I know.” He studies my expression just as some turbulence kicks up, bouncing us in our seats. “Woot!” Tallinn trumpets as his rear leaves the seat.

My eyes flick to the door that my pilot is seated behind. I frown, my hands clenching my glass.

“I would ask that you take care in that area.”

“Narco bullshit?”

I have not enlightened my personal trainer, bodyguard, and friend as to why we’re taking this spontaneous trip. Tallinn is accustomed to my last-minute notice of only hours.

I lean back, forcing myself to relax, and lift my empty glass. “Always.”

Tiffany the flight attendant comes and takes the glass before moving to the other end of the cabin. I briefly admire her blond hair and svelte figure. A man always wishes for what he does not have. Fair women have always held appeal for me.

Yet, I am more unusual in my coloring than many of my family. It is the Basque ancestry, renown for fair skin and light eyes. Though only the green of my eyes and my height speaks to it.

The pilot's voice comes over the intercom as smooth as glass. “Prepare for landing, Mr. Castillo.”

“What about me?”

I laugh. “I think he assumes you'll follow suit.”

Tallinn grunts, and I close my eyes in relief. Being on the earth is so much better than being above it.

*

“
Buenas Tardes
, Alfredo.” I press one cheek then the other against my long-time driver's face.

He is stooped, and many years of life are etched into a face that smiles often.

We grin at each other. “Francisco!” he calls out loudly in pleasure, gripping my forearms. He looks me over. When his eyes finally meet mine, he tsks. “Raquel will be stricken when she sees how thin you are,
muy flaco
,
mi amigo
.”

“No—Alfredo,
gordo
!” Tallinn laughs, and Alfredo just shakes his head.

“
Usted es el gordo,”
Alfredo says, eyes sparkling as he indicates Tallinn's stocky frame.

I cock an eyebrow. “He's saying you're fat, Tallinn.”

Tallinn grunts. “I am not. You're the one…” He glances at himself. He certainly has more than six percent body fat, yet—as he would say—he is built like a brick shithouse.

I smirk at my thoughts.

Tallinn relents, doing a knuckle bump with Alfredo. “
Como estas?
” 

“
Muy bien
!” Alfredo answers, and Tallinn gives him a hug that makes his eyes bug. I let them have their moment, which is nearly a tradition. Then Alfredo moves to open my door, and I slide inside the cool interior of the limousine.

A bucket holds chilling sparkling cider, and I silently thank Raquel for remembering how defeated I feel after a flight.

I uncork the top and take a sip.

Tallinn takes the bottle and pours his own glass. He eyes the floating bubbles before tipping his head back for a gulp.“Ah!” He smacks his lips. “Hits the bull's-eye!”

We sip the cider while riding in companionable silence. 

“Why Club Alpha?” Tallinn asks.

“I think we've beaten this horse to death.”

“You could have anyone, Paco. I'm just not
getting
it.” He groans, apparently thinking about the invisible potential bounty of women I am missing.

I shake my head. “I don't want
anyone
. I want that woman who was made for me, who does not feel she can take another breath without me in it.”

Tallinn blinks. “Okay, whatever. You're waxing poetic.”

The one proclivity where Zaire and I see eye to eye
, I remember. “I know.” He scowls and I hold up a palm. “We will have to agree to disagree. I want to exhaust the impossible.”

Tallinn exhales in a rush. “If you think it's an impossibility, bro, why do it?”

I watch the scenery rush past as the ghetto makes way for the city. Honking and loco driving ensues.

Home.

I shrug in answer and drain the last of the bubbling cider, holding the long-stemmed glass loosely. “I
must
know. I must know that this is all there is for me in this life.”

“It's plenty, Paco. You have all the money, everything at your disposal. You're a coffee freak.”

“Aficionado, Tallinn.”

“Sure.” He slaps his palms on his thighs then points his finger at me. “It sounds cool when
you
say it.”

I glance at him. “I have some meetings to put behind me, and then we can have a day or two of fun.”

Narco business.

“Define ʻfun,ʼ” he says skeptically.

“Parasailing, perhaps?”

“Skydiving?” Tallinn goads.

“Absolutely not.”

We grin.

He leans back in his seat, scrutinizing me. “I won't break up with you for your wimp ways, Paco.”

I bark out a laugh. “I am so relieved.”

We fill our glasses to the rim and clink them together.

“To enterprise,” I say.

“To everlasting love.” Tallinn’s eyes are filled with humor at my expense.

Our stares lock over the rims of our glasses as we regard each other. We have different motivations, but friendship binds us.

I cannot help wondering where
she
is, and if she's thinking the same thoughts I am.

The sparkling Sea of Cortez winks at me as we wind up the hill to
la casa.

I wish to share this view, and this life, with someone.

Greta

“
Que Guapa, senorita
.”

Spanish.

Get a grip, Greta.

Mid-twenties males, three—I assess them as a threat, as I do all men.

Their dark eyes travel my form but not with negative intent.

What did Zaire say? Oh yes, I'm a level-two risk.
Zaire said he's never given a female a five, the highest number for physical self-defense, conditioning, and prowess.

Apparently, my “condition” is okay. Like a can of vegetables on a shelf, I'm not quite expired.

My physical self-defense is not too great. I can't work knives or weaponry, but I know how to use my body. I've overcome paralyzing fears.

I no longer stop in front of zip ties in the hardware store in a state of mind-numbing panic and despair.

My gaze creeps to them as I walk by. I don't repress the shudder. I can't.

My thoughts take seconds.

I leave my crisp American accent behind and use the fluidity I was trained for. “
Gracias
,” I reply quietly then take one brave step down.

The one who called me pretty lifts his lips in a small smile of surprise, and the cloying smoke becomes a veil in front of his face.

I'm ten feet away, and I want to wave my hand to displace the opaque shroud so I can see his expression better in the pool of shadows he stands in—and gauge his intent.

But I don't want to move nearer.

Exert confidence.

“El ascensor no funciona.”
I say. The elevator's not working.

“
Si
?” he says. he says. “I speak English.”

“Excellent,” I reply, when nothing is remotely good at the moment.

“Do you work here?”

He shakes his head.

God, like finding hen's teeth.

“All right, well, I'm using the stairs because the elevator…” I wave a hand vaguely behind me.

“
No trabaja
.”

Right.
We look at each other.

“
Si
,” I say.

Yeah, the elevator's not working. We got that now.

I take the steps. Six more in my descent puts me at eye level with him. The man flicks the cigarette on the ground and crushes it into a smear of charred tobacco on the stairwell. I look at each face before me.

I swallow hard. “
Adios
,” I say, turning the corner and moving two steps down. Then four.

The sixth feels like a small victory.

His words reach me at the tenth. “
Nos vemos pronto
.”

I don't turn around, he and his band of semi-thugs won't be seeing me soon, because there won't be any repeats of that little thirteenth-floor bullshit.

I burst out onto the twelfth floor, look at the elevator, and move back inside the stairwell.

I'll take the eleven flights for now by foot.

Flicking my eyes to the men who were just there, I see the
y're gone.

Instead of being relieved
, my unease grows.

*

I flop down on my bed, flinging bags of purchases on the adjacent bed.

I braved the elevator after a lengthy pissing match with the concierge.

Was my service inhospitable?

No,
I'd responded.

But I was dumped on the thirteenth floor and had to use the stairwell, where I was greeted by the Spanish mob.

That retelling was not entirely accurate, but it felt like it.

I stayed calm until he assured me there was no access to the thirteenth floor. I'd kept to English until that moment.

Then I'd switched to Norwegian, and the exchange got colorful.

He called his manager, who assured me the stairway was for emergencies only and was open exclusively to employees, not guests.

They'd given me the stink eye since.

The assumptions were rampant.
Why was I lying about the thirteenth floor?
Why was I traipsing around the stairway all those floors above and ranting about men in said stairwell?

They definitely didn't take me seriously.

I stab Gia's avatar on my smartphone, briefly contemplating the hour. At nine in the evening here, it’s six in the morning in Seattle.

I grimace, thinking about a raw Morning Gia. It rings once. I'm committed now—can't go back.

“Hello?” Her greeting is muffled.

“Gia, it's Greta.”

I hear a rustle. The phone drops with a clatter and I pull it away from my ear.

I hear her moving it, probably swooping to pick it up.

“Greta?” Her voice is sharper now.

I close my eyes in relief just from hearing her say my name. How many times has Gia been my touchstone? The only thing to hold onto when I was drowning?

Too many.

“I just wanted to phone and…”

“What's happened?”

I pause, wondering if I should bitch about something that ended in a closely skirted hotel brawl.

I laugh.

She does, too. “Listen, you're calling me in the middle of the night, so it better be good.”

I check the clock on the nightstand. “Ah, no. It's six there.”

“All right, can't fool you. What's up, buttercup?”

“I had a thing.”

“Ah, yes, that delves into it so thoroughly. What on God's green earth is a ʻthingʼ?”

I explain everything.

She's quiet for so long that I open my mouth to say more.

“Doesn't sound like Club Alpha,” she says in a careful voice.

“That's what I thought. I mean, it's for a potential romantic entanglement, right?”

Silence.

“
Right
, Gia?”

“Kind of. Actually, Club Alpha is a method of exhausting the character of a person, showing their underbelly, if you will.”

A handful of seconds roll by. “I know it's supposed to be intense. There's a lot of hoops to jump through.”

“It's more than match-making. It's an irrevocable machine of non-compromise. It's meant to pair you with your best match while making sure the ineffability of life is ferreted out before a long-term commitment is engineered between the two.”

“And
I
know two languages?” I make a sound in the back of my throat. “I think—yeah—English please. You make my brain hurt.”

“You're a player in Club Alpha in part to face your fears, grow stronger, and find Mr. Right. It's simple.”

“Yet, not,” I say with a laugh, realizing she can't see my rueful grin.

“I'd love to refute that, but if you wanted a hole in one, eHarmony works. I guess they have the best outcome of all.”

“Then why am I
doing
Club Alpha?” I put my hand on my stomach, feeling my pulse beating strong and sure.

“First: I trust Zaire. Second: you don't care about money. What I mean is, you do, like most people. But it's not what propels you through this life. The male players of Club Alpha, without fail, do not want a woman driven by the dollar.”

I sigh.

“I heard that.”

“I know, I'm just—I didn't like what happened today in the stairway.”

“I told Zaire no triggers. Was it, Greta? Was it a trigger?”

I think about it. It was frightening, but no, it wasn't a trigger.

“Your attackers were white males of a certain order. Tall, large men.”

“They were still guys,” I argue. But it wasn’t the same. Men of color are never a trigger. However, my distrust for males overall is a simmering pot that never comes to a boil.

Now, if it had been a group of white men on that same stairwell…

“Not the right type.” Gia says, her words echoing my thoughts. “And if this is indeed a CA ruse, it stays within the rules Zaire accepted for you.”

I'm quiet for a moment, suddenly wishing the distance across the pond wasn't between us.

“But it's not without challenge. It's part of your therapy.”

“But why mine? I mean, I can't ever repay you for what you've done. All that you've given me.”

“Because, Greta, you were meant for great things. And a group of men and their viciousness will not rob you of your destiny. Your fate will include love and hope.”

“I don't think I can.” I roll my lip into my teeth, chewing on it lightly.

“Yes you can, Greta. Do you trust me?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Then let whatever will happen, happen.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Good. And? By the way, good job for taking the bull by the horns with hotel management. You would have never done that even a year ago.”

She's right.

“I was a bitch, and klutzy with my delivery.”

“I doubt you were a bitch. Sometimes assertive females are labeled
bitch—
by men. Other women think of them as ʻopinionated.ʼ”

I laugh. Gia's transparency is something I adore.

“Don't let a man's discomfort with your thoughts diminish you.”

“No.”

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

I grin, feeling lighter.

“Thanks, Gia.”

“Now hang up on me so I can get back to my life of leisure.”

I swipe at my eyes.

“ ʼKay, bye.”

“Goodbye, Greta.”

I pass my thumb over the smiling Gia, with her coal-black eyes and swarm of big hair fro-ing out behind her.

I want to be
her
, where ambivalence has no home. Decisiveness and determination are the only things that share the space of her mind.

Nodding, I release my beat-up lip with a small smile.

I'm working on
me
.

I fall asleep with my clothes on, and without a nightmare in sight.

*

“Hallo, Ms. Dahlem.”

Mr. Aros bends low over my hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. I leave it loose as countless etiquette courses have taught me.
Dead weight of the hand when being kissed. Check.

If I help him lift, I'll smack him in the face.

That won't get me any points in a clothing line deal.

Today, I’m wearing my charcoal pantsuit. The dark gray is elegant, keeping it out of dowdy territory. I pair it with a sherbet-orange silk blouse shell of the palest variety, the color appears to shimmer like the ice cream. Buff pumps peek out from the long inseam of the pants, which are a blend that promises to never wrinkle.

I have done my research, and Aros is a typical tall Scandinavian, though he's really a Dane. Red hair and a six-feet-seven-inch frame towers over me even with the heels that make me five inches taller.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say in perfect Norwegian.

Though I speak two languages, I have some degree of fluency in Danish, Swedish and can stumble through Spanish and French.

“
For mig så godt
,” he replies in Danish.
Nice to meet you as well.

I smile.

He grins back. Perfect white teeth stand out from a complexion that is uniquely olive.

“Now that we've done the dance of tongues and I know you can speak in my native language as well as the one of this country… please, be seated,” he says in lightly accented English.

Aros indicates a chair opposite his desk.

He moves aside without waiting to see what I do, but merely assuming I'll sit.

I do.

“Please call me by my given name, Tor. Mr. Aros is simply too formal.” He straightens cuffs on a custom-tailored suit in pristine navy
with subtle ivory pinstripes.

“I admire your sense of color, Ms. Dahlem.”

I'm immediately self-conscious and ignore the compliment. “I'm sorry,” I say, flustered, “you may call me Greta.”

He smiles, and it makes my belly do a little flop. “What a charming name.”

Charming.

I loved my parents with a fierceness that doesn't fade with time. So all I can do is agree.

I glance down at my ensemble and give a secret smile at his words.

“Greta,” he says softly.

I wonder when I lost control of the meeting, allowing it to get personal so quickly. It's like a landslide.

“Never be sorry,” he says. His intense chocolate eyes control mine, commanding me not to look away again.