Page 19 of Roulette: The Madam

It never failed. Juan was the first and last name I heard in Colombia. The driver’s name was Juan. Now, the bartender. I was certain I’d meet at least two more before I was on the flight back to Clarke.

Ashley.

Kimberly.

Jasmine.

Ebony.

Nicole.

Keisha.

Tamara.

Olivia

Juan was as common in Colombia as those names were in America.

“Juan, tomaré una margarita de mango con doble shot, fresa y borde azucarado.”

His eyebrows crinkled on his round face. The sun’s influence on his skin was incredible. With the equator running throughthe country, there was very little Colombians could do to lessen their supply of Vitamin D. Moving further north on the land for cooler temperatures was optional but it wasn’t exactly a solution.

“Gracias.”

He was still processing my unbroken Spanish as I nodded. It was only one of fourteen languages I spoke fluently. Spanish was my first love. French followed.

For an entire year, Teddy refused to speak our native language when in conversation with any of us. Everyone was assigned a different language from a different region. It wasn’t until he was confident in our ability to communicate with locals that he let us rest. By then, my obsession had already formed.

Spanish was the greatest lesson of my six-year-old life. However, conversations held between him and six others stuck with me. Unknowingly, I’d acquired almost half of my skills before my seventh birthday. Being multilingual was beneficial in more ways than I could count.

“Señora, estamos cerrados hoy. Lo siento. Por fav–”

“Juan, al parecer la mujer necesita desesperadamente una margarita. No se la prives.”

My spine straightened. My shoulders squared. My nipples hardened. The fine hairs on my body stood at attention. The walls of my vagina contracted. The deep, commanding baritone silenced everything around us. Eliminated everyone around us.

The man near the door dressed in a colorful top…vanished.

The man near the window with sunglasses covering his eyes…vanished.

The man near the door of the kitchen with both hands in front of him…vanished.

The man who’d identified himself as Juan completely…vanished.

There was him. And, then there was me.

“Sí, claro.”

“Gracias,” I drawled as I gathered my bearings.

I tipped my body in the direction of the local man who was dressed in a white linen button down that swayed in the wind caused by the fans surrounding us and a pair of khaki shorts. Though he looked like the rest of the men I’d passed on the way inside, there was nothing average about him.

Casa Casawas not closed for the day. I’d arrived between their operating hours. His presence was the reason for their impromptu closure every Monday evening before sundown. And, the knowledge of his established routine was the reason for my presence.

“American,” he responded. “What brings you all this way?”

He sipped from the beer in his hand, still facing Juan, who was preparing my drink behind the bar. His facial hair was groomed to perfection, low to his face and lined with precision. He had thick, fluffy hair that was silky with curls near the end. His cut didn’t allow them to fully form. The sides and back were faded, giving him a very clean, manicured appearance.

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