Sweat, Part 3

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 3

     A protracted and saccharine conversation involving the letter A. Snarky comments and giggles at the expense of the older dignitaries at the gala. Several waltzes in the ballroom that made Aida feel like a princess. And, at his insistence, a bottle of Armando’s favorite Spanish wine; even though Aida Rosenbaum was a few years shy of the drinking age in the States, Ariana Adams could be any age between 16 and 24.

     All memory of the mission cleanly forgotten.

The two lovebirds strolled away from the crowds of grey-hairs, hand in hand. Armando led Aida down a long stone corridor lined with thick, iron-bound oak doors. The ceiling was barely seven feet at the corners but arched up with many baroque swirls and spirals to a dazing twelve feet in the center, making it feel like they were giants in a tiny cathedral.

     “This part of the building was erected in the 16th century. It served as a monastery for the Catholic church,” Armando explained in a thoughtful voice, his cloudy eyes roving over the well-worn stone. “During the Peninsular War in the 1800s, when the French and Spanish armies were fighting and fleeing and fighting again, the monks in this church provided medical help to anyone who came to their doorstep, French or Spanish. They saved many lives and helped so many people. But when one battalion of Spanish soldiers found out there were French here, they threw torches into the library and nearly burnt the whole place to the ground. Isn’t that sad?” he asked. The poignancy of the moment was slightly dented by his burp on the last word.

     “That’s war for you. All’s fair, right? The Spanish soldiers were just trying to win,” Aida replied, swinging their clasped hands back and forth like a little girl. “Anyway, part of it survived, right? That’s why they incorporated it when they built this place.”

     Armando’s eyes slid out of focus. “Yes, I suppose.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about something happier. Like how delicious this wine is.” He took another sip from the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and handed the bottle to Aida.

“Or how beautiful this architecture is. Those monks sure knew how to build good stuff out of rocks.” Aida took the wine but didn’t drink; she could consume much without feeling drunk like Armando, but she didn’t like the taste of the alcohol as much as her companion did.

     “Or how beautiful you are,” Armando said suddenly. He stopped and turned to look at her, rosy patches on his rough cheeks and a cheesy grin on his face. His uniform was coming undone; his sash drooped off his shoulder and his jacket hung open, revealing a white undershirt and plenty of pectorals underneath. He gently stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his free hand. “Because you are. You’re like a dark angel.”

Aida gave him a half-hearted grin. “Thanks,” she said, looking down, “but I’m not really anything special. I’m just thin and muscular is all. It’s not the same as being beautiful.”

     Armando shook his head. “Mentiras.”

     Aida looked up. Even with her stilettos on, they were at eye level.

     “Don’t say that. You are truly a vision of beauty, and even more, you’ve got a beautiful soul. I can see it in your eyes, your smile . . . your lips . . .”

     It was very cliche. Aida knew that at least 90% of romantic threads in movies and television shows included lines just like that. But hearing it for herself, with those gorgeous grey eyes on her, made her heart beat faster.

     In an empty suite off the main corridor, they were kissing with an intensity and passion that Aida drank in. So much better than wine, she thought. Without taking his mouth off hers, Armando aimed and failed to toss his uniform jacket on the dressing table by the door. Aida felt his firm embrace pulling her closer, and she ran her hands up the back of his undershirt. The heat of the moment drew sweat from between his shoulderblades.

     He backed her toward the enormous bed. She didn’t know what kind of suite this was, but it was swanky as all get-up. The ornately carved wooden headboard matched the rest of the museum, and the welcoming satin bedding made a feathery poof as they toppled together on top of it. They curled together on the pillowy cloud of bliss, a bliss that wound inside Aida’s heart like a clock.

     POW! POW! POW!

     The sound of gunshot and the accompanying screams of the partygoers hit Aida’s eardrums through the door of the suite. She sat up straight, thoughts of the mission slicing through her hormone-muddled mind. How could she have forgotten? How could she have been so stupid as to let her guard down for even a few minutes?

     POW! POW! More shots drove her out of the bed. “What? What’s going on?” Armando mumbled, still prone on the sheets. Aida kicked aside their shoes and jackets, looking, looking - there! She scooped up her purse, pulled out the semiautomatic, and headed for the door.  
     “Just stay there, Armando!” she snapped at a whisper. Back against the wall, pistol in both hands, she looked through the crack in the door to see if she could assess the situation from there. More screams. Breaking glass. Male voices shouting. But no one within sight. She’d have to make her way back to the exhibits.
     Heart and lungs still working overtime, she glanced back at Armando with a pang. Why did work always have to interrupt her life at the worst possible moments? At least she was still dressed. “I’m so sorry, Armando. Wait here, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 
     Tearing herself away from his look of confusion, Aida checked for clearance, pushed open the door with her shoulder, and took off toward the commotion.