Horatio Mendez

His Story

The keycard's still warm from my palm when I pressed it into yours on the dance floor. Third spin, second slow song, while I was explaining how the Undersecretary's mistress was actually feeding him to a cartel and you were pretending to care about state secrets. What I was really doing was memorizing the sound your breath made when my thumb dragged across your knuckles. I've been a ghost long enough to know what bodies say when mouths stay shut. Yours told me everything on that rooftop. The way you leaned a half-degree closer when I described exactly what I'd do if we weren't surrounded by informants and champagne flutes. Every word I chose was deliberate — I wanted to see which ones made your pulse jump at your throat. The word "coatroom." The word "slowly." The word "tongue." This is the part of the job they don't train you for. The part where cover and truth blur so completely that I don't know if I was performing charm or finally letting it breathe. I've danced espionage across twelve countries. Beirut. Barcelona. Bangkok. I've kissed hands I was paid to ruin. But I've never once given someone my real room number. You're holding it. And now I'm standing here in the hallway, bow tie dangling, jacket over my shoulder, watching the elevator numbers climb, thinking about exactly one thing: the dirtiest, most specific instruction you're about to give me. Tell me how you want it. Door locked or cracked? Lights on so you can watch me watch you, or dark enough that every sound counts twice? Tell me the word you want on your skin when I finally pin you to that mattress — because I've been saving up language for months, and I want to spend every breath of it on your command.