MERCEDES: HIS ONLY OBSESSION

‎A wonderful night in the city of Los Angeles, The popular Miss scholarship Mercedes Marquez finds herself in the front of the club music buzzing, the bass thrummed so deep it vibrated through the soles of Mercedes’s scuffed white sneakers, traveling up her calves, settling somewhere in her chest like a second heartbeat. The air inside the club THE INFERNO. It was a popular night life spot popular with the students of Southern Maradona College. From the door in it reeked of spilled tequila, expensive cologne, sweet mango vape, and this faint, sharp tang of gasoline odd, but fitting for a club built inside a converted warehouse on the roughest edge of campus. Neon signs bled pink and electric blue across the crowded floor, casting everyone in shifting, washed-out colors that made everything look half real, half dream. ‎ ‎Mercedes tugged her thrifted leather jacket tighter zipper stuck halfway up, like always and leaned in to yell over the noise. “Remind me again why we’re here? I could be home finishing that essay on macroeconomics. Not that I’m even sure what it’s got to do with my major, but still!” ‎ ‎Layla, her best friend since freshman year, the girl who knew every scar, every bad decision, every quiet fear twirled around, her dark hair catching the light like spun silk. She was wearing a dress so short it would’ve broken three school dress codes, and a grin so bright it could’ve outshone the neon. “Because, Merc,” she shouted back, grabbing both her hands and pulling her forward, “you’ve been buried under textbooks and tuition bills for three whole weeks. You’re one bad night away from losing your mind. And I am not losing my best friend to student loans.” ‎ ‎Mercedes laughed, half-sigh, half-relief. “I’m not losing it. I’m just… broke. Behind on rent. And my bike’s transmission died yesterday.” ‎ ‎“Exactly!” Layla stopped at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face her. “Which means you need this more than anyone. Free music. Good vibes. And if we play our cards right? Free drinks.” She winked, looping an arm through Mercedes’s. “Besides—look at this place. For a few hours, nobody cares about deadlines or empty bank accounts. Can’t we do the same?” ‎ ‎Mercedes scanned the room, and for the first time all week, let her shoulders drop. It was true. Everywhere she looked, people were laughing, shouting, dancing like they didn’t have a care in the world. For a second, she let herself pretend she was one of them. “Fine. But if I wake up tomorrow with zero dollars and a throbbing head? Blame’s all yours.” ‎ ‎“Fair.” Layla beamed, tugging her toward the bar. “Now come on. I saw someone at the door handing out free shot tickets. We are not leaving without getting our entrance money’s worth.” ‎ ‎ If you’d asked anyone on campus who Mercedes Marquez was, you’d have gotten a dozen different answers. Professors would tell you she was sharp top of every class, hand always up, first to turn everything in. Dorm neighbors would say she was quiet, kept to herself, left early and came back late. The few who’d actually spoken to her would call her hardworking. Responsible. Too serious for her own good. ‎ ‎Only Layla knew the rest. ‎ ‎Mercedes was twenty-two, five-foot-four, with warm brown skin that glowed in the sun and wild dark curls she could never quite tame. A thin scar sliced through her left eyebrow souvenir from trying to jump a fence at twelve and miscalculating the landing. She studied mechanical engineering because it was practical, because it would pay eventually, because her dad had told her since she was little the world didn’t owe you anything and you’d better be able to build your own way. ‎ ‎She worked twenty hours a week at a campus bike shop. She ate instant noodles more often than real food. Patched her jeans instead of buying new ones. Counted every cent, every dollar, every penny that came in and went out. She didn’t do anything reckless. Didn’t do anything impulsive. Definitely didn’t do one-night stands. ‎ ‎But tonight? Tonight she was just tired. Tired of counting. Tired of scrimping. Tired of feeling like she was running faster that her shadow she always wished she could just stay in the same spot and today was that day. ‎ ‎“Earth to Mercedes!” Layla snapped her fingers right in front of her face, laughing as they leaned against the sticky bar top. “You’re doing that thing again. Thinking too hard. Stop it immediately.” She waved a hand around them. “This is neither the place nor the time, my love.” She smoothed a stray curl back from Mercedes’s face, soft and familiar. ‎ ‎“Sorry.” Mercedes smiled, genuine and quiet. “Just… thinking.” ‎ ‎“Dangerous pastime.” Layla flagged down the bartender—a tall guy with a full sleeve of tattoos and a very bored expression. “Two strawberry daiquiris, please!” ‎ ‎“Layla—” Mercedes warned, glancing at the price list. Even the cheapest drink was more than she could really afford. “We can’t—” ‎ ‎“Relax. I’ve got this one. Consider it a celebration.” ‎ ‎“Celebration of what?” ‎ ‎“Of us. Of being alive. Of the fact that we survived midterms.” Layla handed over a crumpled bill, ignoring Mercedes’s protest, and pushed one frosty glass into her hand. “Here. Drink. And loosen up. Please? For me?” ‎ ‎Mercedes looked at the drink, then at her best friend. Layla was the only bright spot in a semester that had been nothing but gray. She was the one who’d showed up at her dorm with soup when she had the flu. Who stayed up till three helping her cram for calculus. Who listened while she cried about her parents, her brother, everything she couldn’t say to anyone else. ‎ ‎“For you,” Mercedes said, lifting the glass. “Anything.” ‎ ‎Layla Chen was everything Mercedes wasn’t. Loud. Unapologetic. The kind of radiant that turned heads the second she walked into a room. She studied fine arts, something her parents hated, calling it “a waste of potential” but she chased it with a fire that never burned out. Painted until her fingers ached. Sketched on napkins, textbook margins, the back of her own hand. Believed in magic, in soulmates, in the idea that the world was only as big as you let it be. ‎ ‎Where Mercedes planned five years ahead, Layla planned the next five minutes. ‎ ‎They were an odd pair careful, practical Mercedes and wild, dreamy Layla but they fit. Like two puzzle pieces no one else had realized belonged together. ‎ ‎“Dance with me,” Layla said, setting her glass down untouched and tugging Mercedes toward the floor. “Please. This song was made for us.” ‎ ‎“I don’t know how to dance to this!” Mercedes laughed, stumbling a little as she got pulled along. ‎ ‎“You don’t have to know! You just feel it!” Layla spun her around, and for the first time in weeks, Mercedes let go. Let the music take over. She laughed as Layla grabbed both her hands and they moved together no rhythm needed, no judgment, just pure, unfiltered joy. People bumped past them, someone spilled a drink near their feet, the lights shifted from blue to violet to hot pink—and for a little while, Mercedes forgot about rent, tuition, and broken bikes. Forgot everything but the music, her best friend, and the simple, wonderful fact that she was here. Alive. Free. ‎ ‎They danced through three songs, breathless and grinning, until Layla finally collapsed against her, chest heaving, hair wild around her face. “Okay,” she gasped, “I am way out of shape. Water. I need water.” ‎ ‎Mercedes nodded, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I’ll get it. You stay here. Don’t move.” ‎ ‎“I wouldn't dream of it.” Layla sank onto a low bench by the wall, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin. “And Merc?” ‎ ‎“Yeah?” ‎ ‎Layla smiled, soft and sure. “I’m glad you came. You look… happy. Like yourself again.” ‎ ‎Something warm and tight twisted in Mercedes’s chest. “Me too. Thank you, Layla. Truly.” ‎ ‎“Go get the water, you sap. Before I die of dehydration.” ‎ ‎Mercedes pushed back through the crowd toward the far end of the bar where the soda fountain sat. The music shifted slower, heavier, bass thrumming deep enough to wrap around her like something solid. She kept her head down, murmured apologies when she bumped into people, until she reached the counter. ‎ ‎“Two waters, please,” she told the bartender. ‎ ‎He nodded, turning away. Mercedes waited, one hand resting on the cool edge of the bar, and her gaze drifted toward the entrance. ‎ ‎That was when she saw him.