Becoming the cartel leader’s trophy

"Do you plan on gambling, Carla?" I asked as we neared the start of the Vegas Strip.

The street ahead of us was alive in a way that almost felt overwhelming. Crowds poured along the sidewalks in every direction, tourists stopping to take pictures while others rushed toward glowing casino entrances. 

Bright neon lights covered nearly every building, flashing advertisements and massive digital billboards lighting up the night like it was the middle of the day.

People of every kind filled the streets.

Some performers stood on corners posing for pictures with tourists, barely dressed in skimpy outfits. 

Others were handing out cards and flyers, shouting over the noise of traffic and music blasting from nearby bars. Massive billboards advertising clubs, shows, and escorts towered above everything.

It was chaotic, loud, and unapologetically indulgent.

Sin City really earned its name.

Carla walked beside me calmly through the chaos, looking completely unfazed by it all. She wore a fitted black suit that blended surprisingly well with the sleek nightlife around us. 

Her black sunglasses hid most of her face, and with her hair pulled back she looked like just another wealthy visitor enjoying the city.

Anyone passing by would think she was just another tourist.

Not one of the most powerful drug queens in the world.

"No," she replied casually.

Then after a small pause, the corner of her mouth curved slightly.

"Well... maybe."

Her tone made it sound like she was already reconsidering.

The flashing lights from the casinos reflected faintly off her sunglasses as she glanced toward one of the massive entrances across the street, where crowds were streaming inside beneath a glowing golden sign.

My attention was suddenly pulled away from the chaos of the strip when I spotted a brightly lit alcohol stand near the sidewalk. Huge plastic cups filled with colorful drinks were lined up in the window, some of them ridiculously large, glowing under the lights.

My eyes lit up immediately.

I tugged lightly on Carla's sleeve and pointed toward it.

"Can I get one?"

Carla barely even hesitated. She followed my gaze, then simply nodded and turned us toward the stand, guiding me through the crowd without a word of protest.

We moved through the busy sidewalk, squeezing past groups of tourists and street performers. The noise of the strip surrounded us—music blasting from nearby clubs, people laughing loudly, vendors shouting over each other trying to sell drinks and souvenirs.

But as we walked, I started noticing something that made my stomach twist.

Women.

More than a few of them were staring at me as we passed.

Not just casual glances either. Their eyes lingered in a way that made my skin crawl. Some of them looked me up and down openly, whispering to each other or smirking as we moved by.

It made me uncomfortable almost immediately.

The worst part was that I wasn't even dressed in anything attention-grabbing. Just a normal shirt and a pair of jeans—nothing flashy, nothing revealing.

Yet the way some of them looked at me made it feel like I was being stripped apart piece by piece with their eyes alone.

I shifted a little closer to Carla without even realizing it, trying to ignore the attention as we continued toward the drink stand.

"People are weird," Carla murmured quietly beside me, leaning a little closer so only I could hear her over the noise of the street. "But don't worry, they won't try anything."

Her voice carried a calm certainty that made my shoulders relax slightly. There was something about the way she said it that made it sound less like reassurance and more like a simple fact.

We finally reached the counter of the small drink stand. The bright lights above it illuminated rows of oversized plastic cups filled with neon-colored alcohol—reds, blues, greens, and pinks swirling together with ice.

Carla lifted her hand slightly and signaled one of the workers.

A woman behind the counter noticed us and walked over, wiping her hands on a towel as she leaned forward expectantly.

Carla turned her head toward me, the faintest smile forming on her lips.

"Tell her what you want, baby," she said softly.

The nickname made heat rush to my face almost instantly.

I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly before looking at the woman behind the counter.

"Just give me something that's sweet, not too strong either," I said, glancing at the massive drinks displayed behind her.

"For sure!" the lady behind the counter chirped, flashing a quick, practiced smile before disappearing into the back.

From where Carla and I stood—pressed close together against the sticky edge of the bar—I could just make out her movements under the dim neon glow. 

She scooped bright pink powder into a shaker, squirted in something syrupy from a tall bottle, then topped it with a fizzing clear liquid that hissed like it was alive. 

Ice clattered, the shaker rattled furiously for a few seconds, and then she poured the whole electric-pink concoction into a tall, narrow clear bottle that looked more like a chemistry lab prop than a drink container.

A sudden eruption of screams and wild laughter exploded behind us—some guy must've flashed someone, or maybe someone just lost their shirt. Typical Vegas chaos, nothing worth turning around for.

Seconds later the lady reappeared, sliding the bottle across the scratched countertop toward us. The liquid inside shimmered under the lights, almost glowing, tiny bubbles racing upward like trapped fireworks.

"Thirty dollars," she said flatly, wiping her hands on a rag.

Carla didn't even blink. She fished her sleek black card from her pocket and tapped it against the payment terminal. It beeped once—approved.

We turned away from the counter together. I brought the straw to my lips, and took my first cautious sip.

The taste hit hard and sweet, like cotton candy dissolved in pure adrenaline, with a strange, almost metallic effervescence that tingled all the way down my throat.

"Interesting drink," I said, turning the cold bottle slowly in my hand. Condensation was already beading on the bottle, sliding down in lazy rivulets that caught the casino's flashing lights like tiny prisms. 

The pink liquid inside still shimmered faintly, almost pulsing with whatever weird energy they'd shaken into it.

"Have some, darling," I said, tilting the bottle toward Carla and guiding the thin straw to her lips.

She leaned in, wrapped her lips around the straw, and took a quick, curious pull. Her brows shot up almost immediately. She pulled back, nose wrinkling, lips pursed in that unmistakable "what the hell did I just taste" expression.

"A bit sour..." she muttered, voice low and thoughtful, like she was still deciding how she felt about it. She licked her bottom lip, considering. 

"Not bad though, I suppose." A small shrug lifted her shoulders. "Kinda grows on you. Like if someone spiked a Jolly Rancher with battery acid—in a good way."

I laughed under my breath and took another sip myself. She wasn't wrong; the initial tart snap mellowed into something strangely addictive, sweet and sharp at the same time.

"Geez, I'm starving," Carla said suddenly, pressing a hand to her stomach as it let out a loud, unmistakable growl that cut right through the growl of nearby screams.

She winced, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit. "Fuck... didn't reserve anything either."  Frustration edged her voice now, sharp and impatient. 

She glanced around the glittering chaos of the strip—rows of shops, clusters of people laughing too loud, escorts weaving through—and sighed. 

"We're in Vegas, and I'm about to gnaw my own arm off because I didn't think to book a table anywhere. Classic me."

"Well—we could always just have something cheap like McDonald's?" I said, glancing sideways at Carla.

The sky outside had turned a deep, bruised purple, the last streaks of sunset bleeding away behind the jagged silhouette of the Strip's neon skyline. 

Streetlights were flickering on one by one, and the whole city seemed to be exhaling, shifting into its nighttime rhythm—louder, brighter, hungrier.

Carla turned her head slowly toward me, dark glasses catching the multicolored glow from a nearby casino sign. 

She studied my face for a long beat, lips parted like she was weighing a dozen different replies at once.

——

"God, this is some good shit!" Carla said, eyes half-closed in pure, shameless bliss as she sank her teeth into the Big Mac. 

Sauce oozed out the side, a little dribble of special sauce catching the corner of her mouth before she caught it with her tongue. 

The harsh fluorescent lights of the McDonald's—those unforgiving, almost surgical white beams—somehow worked in her favor tonight. They turned her skin golden, a beautiful color that complimented her.

"Cheap meals are always nice," I said, lifting my McChicken to my mouth. The bun was slightly squished, the breading a little greasy, but that first bite—crisp, salty, warm, with that familiar tang of mayo and lettuce—was perfect in its uncomplicated way. 

No pretension, no thirty-dollar pink mystery juice. Just food that delivered exactly what it promised.

Carla nodded vigorously while she chewed, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. She grabbed a thin paper napkin from the pile between us, dabbed at her mouth, then crumpled it and tossed it onto the tray. 

Her eyes sparkled with that particular brand of mischief she got after a couple drinks and zero fucks left.

"Imagine if you nutted in that McChicken and I ate it," she said matter-of-factly, right before taking another huge bite of her Big Mac. Sauce smeared across her lower lip again. She chewed slowly, deliberately, letting the words hang in the air between us like cigarette smoke. "That would be so fucking awesome."

She swallowed, licked her lips clean in one slow swipe, and leaned forward on her elbows, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper even though the only other people in the dining area were a tired-looking night-shift worker mopping near the soda machine and a couple of teenagers scrolling phones in the corner.

"I mean, think about it," she went on, gesturing with the half-eaten burger like it was exhibit A. 

"Hot, fresh McChicken... your hot, fresh contribution... me devouring every bite while you watch. Peak romance. We'd be legends in our own minds." She grinned, wide and wicked, sesame seeds clinging to her teeth. "You'd film it, right? For the memories."

I nearly choked on my next bite, coughing into my fist while she cackled quietly, clearly delighted with herself. 

The fries between us sat forgotten, steaming gently in their paper sleeve, while outside the big windows the Vegas night kept pulsing—sirens in the distance, neon bleeding across the asphalt, the whole city alive and filthy and waiting for whatever stupid, brilliant thing we'd do next.

She took another bite, eyes locked on mine the whole time, daring me to say something—anything—while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were in on the joke.

"You're something else, Carla," I said with a small chuckle as I lifted my cup and took a sip of the Sprite.

The sweetness hit first, cold and fizzy—but a split second later, it burned down my throat far stronger than I expected, making my eyes squint and my vision blur for a moment.

I lowered the cup slightly, blinking a couple times as the feeling passed.

Carla noticed immediately and let out a quiet laugh under her breath.

"Told you McDonald's sprite was strong," she said, leaning back slightly in the plastic chair as she grabbed another fry from the tray between us.

Music blasted from somewhere down the street, people laughing, the occasional shout from someone already way too drunk for the evening.

Yet somehow, sitting here with Carla, it all felt distant.

"This is way better than some stupid gourmet meal at an expensive ass restaurant," Carla said gleefully, gesturing lazily with one of the fries before popping it into her mouth.

"Easily," I replied without hesitation, reaching over and stealing a French fry from my own pile before taking a bite.

The salty crunch mixed perfectly with the sweetness still lingering from the drink.

Simple.

Messy.

Perfect.

Moments like this were the ones that stuck with me the most. Not the luxury houses, not the private jets, not the bodyguards or the power she carried everywhere she went.

Just this.

The two of us sitting at a cheap little table, eating fast food like any other couple.

Going on dumb little dates.

Laughing.

Loving each other.

It felt... perfect.

I slowly lifted my McChicken, holding it in both hands as I took a bite, but my attention drifted away from the food almost immediately.

My eyes settled on Carla.

She was focused on eating, occasionally brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face while she reached for another fry.

The street lights reflected softly in her eyes.

I found myself staring longer than I probably should have.

A quiet thought crossed my mind as I watched her.

'She's all I've ever needed and wanted.'

——

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