Ryn Acosta

Monster Crush

Novel extract

Chapter Seven

The lounge distinguishes itself by its carpeted teal floor, two steps lower than the rest of the lobby. Plush cream couches and coffee tables mingle with mahogany table sets. The bar the attendant mentioned is built with dark wood and matching black leather stools, standing perpendicular to the floor-to-ceiling windows that give the lounge a perfect view of the hotel’s carefully sculpted tropical garden. There’s no hint of the city just past the luscious bushes and palm trees.

Compared to the event hall below, the lounge feels vast and empty. A couple shares coffee on a couch, while a businessman catches up on emails at one of the tables. Funny, how it makes Tristan feel smaller, here, than in a room full of people and party lights.

He takes a seat at the very end of the bar and puts his head in his hands.

Why here? Why now? Just his luck—the night he needs important business shit to work out, his fucking ex shows up and ruins everything.

He needs to pull himself together. Just because Rafael is there doesn’t mean he gets an excuse to flake out on the party. The agency needs this. He needs to make a good impression, follow up with those sirenas from Coralwear, scout out the influencers invited to the event, check which companies adjacent to Maharlika are releasing products soon and might be looking for models to hire. 

The stretch of his back pocket around his phone tugs at him, tempting him. He knows what he’ll see. [Sorry] from Sfi, left on read; the short exchanges he had with Tala leading up to the party; the thumbs up he sent to Erik.

[If you need anything, I’m here.]

He wants to text him so bad. But he doesn’t pull out his phone.

Erik is his friend—but he’s also his gym trainer. Tristan isn’t going to message him at 9PM on a Friday night about his shitty ex from six years ago. 

Tristan’s 28, not some mopey teenager. He can handle seeing his ex just fine, dammit.

“Can I get you anything, ser?” 

The bartender approaches, offering him a small menu. 

“We have a wide range of wines and spirits on offer po, as well as unique cocktails inspired by both Filipino and international recipes.”

Tristan takes the menu and skims it. The names of the wine bottles blur together. So do the numbers. He can afford a glass, but why waste his money when he needs to keep his head for the party?

He puts down the menu.

“Thank you. I’ll have a—”

“—classic margarita. Whisky for me, Hibiki, double, straight.”

Rafael slides into the seat next to him. Sweat dews on his forehead, like it always did after a performance. He smooths his hair back, the chain on his ear jingling.

“Unless your drink has changed?” he adds, turning to Tristan.

For a moment, Tristan considers going ahead and ordering orange juice. What kind of face would Rafael make? 

Angry? Embarrassed?

But the bartender is watching. His expression is calm, neutral—but his eyes are trained on Rafael. He clearly recognizes him.

Tristan presses his lips together.

“What he said,” he tells the bartender. “Separate bills, please.”

The bartender nods. They wait in silence as he prepares their drinks, ice, steel, and glass clinking against each other over the lounge’s generic “Classical Filipino Guitar” music. 

Even after their drinks have been served, Tristan keeps his mouth shut. He swirls the ice cubes and kalamansi slices around his glass with his straw, pushing the decorative tropical umbrella along its rim.

Rafael sips his whisky, his eyes trained on Tristan’s face.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says at last. “Kuya Dave talked about you, and I saw your posters, but…”

“We all get unwanted surprises from time to time.”

“It’s not unwanted.”

Tristan rolls his eyes. “Trust me, I’ve heard.”

“You’ve heard?” 

Rafael puts down his glass. Tristan silently curses himself.

“What do you think?” Rafael asks, propping his head on one hand.

“Of what?”

“Of the song.”

Tristan side-eyes him. “It’s shit.”

Rafael doesn’t laugh. 

“Which part?”

“‘Which part?’” Tristan swivels around to face him, incredulous. “You’re asking me which part?”

Rafael flicks his fingers at Tristan.

“You used to have so much to say about my songs. Where’d it all go?”

Tristan stares at him.

“Your lyrics are shit. You rhyme ‘me’ with ‘me’ three times in a single stanza. And what’s with slapping ‘sinta’ and ‘mahal’ on plain English? It sounds fake deep. Did you pull out a thesaurus for that one?”

Rafael is smiling. That little curl at the corner of his lips just makes Tristan even angrier.

“Are you going to tell me I sound like a sad 15-year-old boy writing in my diary after I got dumped by the girl I was dating for a month?” Rafael says.

“I didn’t say that, you did,” Tristan says.

“But you’re the one who repeated it loud enough for Jessica Bayani to hear.”

Tristan’s face heats at the memory. That was the danger of hanging out in the open space near the escalators everyone took to get to class. Anyone could hear you and your boyfriend ripping apart a batchmate’s—and another aspiring singer’s—lyrics.

“Well,” he mutters. “She had to find out somehow.”

Rafael’s smile widens. “They really were that bad, weren’t they? I’m not just misremembering things.”

“How could you misremember that? She would force her rhymes so hard the tone would have this weird up and down sound that made her songs sound like a nursery rhyme! And her metaphors—why are you laughing?”

“Nothing,” Rafael says. “I missed this. I missed your…”

He gestures towards Tristan.

Tristan’s face shuts down. He turns back to his drink, angry that he let his guard down for even a second.

Rafael sighs.

“And whose fault is that?” Tristan says to the tropical umbrella.

That earns him a scoff.

“How’s your sister?” Rafael says, saccharine sweet. “You two seem to be getting along better.”

Tristan bites down on his margarita straw, hiding his flinch. His cold [Ok.] to Tala weighs heavy in his pocket.

“Last I remember, you couldn’t stand the thought of even working in the same room as her.”

“The agency’s doing great, as you’ve seen,” Tristan retorts. “How about you? How’s your siblings? Kuya Goro hold a startup for longer than a year yet? Hope it didn’t cause any issues when he sponsored you.”

“He didn’t, actually.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Rafael draws a sweeping arc with his glass, as if to encompass his five older siblings.

“Oh, you know. I’ve hit the top of the charts, have a million followers on my socmed accounts, and everyone’s still asking me when I’ll settle down and invest in a more stable career.” 

He takes a long drink from his whisky, grimacing.

“Ate Nadia got curious enough to attend my concert last year with my niece. Does that count?”

Tristan bites his lip. He’d forgotten—no, he hadn’t, not really, but he’d assumed Rafael’s family would be behind him now, after he’d become famous. He can hate Rafael all he wants, but he can’t deny Rafael’s success. Sure, Rafael’s siblings might be accountants, businessmen, or CEOs, but even they had to see that. Right?

He thinks of Tala and their dad, hugging him after his lawyer’s oath-taking ceremony at the Supreme Court. Tries to imagine concert after concert without them there.

Then he regains his senses, and shakes his head.

“Bet Mark and Leo had a riot over that,” he says, remembering Rafael’s bandmates and their shared disdain for Rafael’s rich and stuck-up family.

“I wouldn’t know,” Rafael says. “They’ve moved on to more ‘sensible jobs.’ You know.” 

He smiles wryly. 

“It’s not easy, driving this train solo. Lucky I’m stubborn.”

Tristan makes a face at him.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have an army of assistants at your disposal.”

Rafael gives him an exasperated look. “No, yeah, you’re right, I should just ask Ate Nadia for help with my songs. It’ll be the same as asking Ate Chiqui from PR.”

“And what do you want me to do with this?” Tristan says, bristling. “What do you want, Raf? You just spent the past, what, ten minutes dumping your freaking sob story on me. What’s your point?”

Rafael stares at him.

“Is that what it sounded like?” he says quietly. “My sob story?”

This time, Tristan flinches for real. He looks away.

Shame and confusion flipflop inside his gut. Why isn’t Rafael angry? Tristan keeps expecting a fight to start, but every single time Rafael doesn’t follow through. 

What’s going on?

Rafael sighs again. As though he read Tristan’s mind, he says, “Look, Tristan. I don’t want to fight. I never even thought I’d see you again.”

His glass tok’s against the wooden bar. 

“I’m just trying to start over.”

“What makes you think I want anything to do with you after all that?” Tristan says.

“I could say the same to you.”

“I’m not the one writing songs about it.”

“No,” Rafael agrees. “You’re not.” 

His chair creaks. 

“Tristan.”

He waits until Tristan looks at him.

“I’m not asking you for anything. The set up, with Kuya Dave—I want it to work. That’s all. And that won’t happen if you can’t even look at me.”

“Why do you care?” Tristan says, furious that he noticed, furious at himself for being so obvious. “Just get another model. We’re a dime a dozen; between you and Ser Laos, you can get anybody else.”

Rafael shrugs one shoulder.

“We look good together.”

Tristan stares at him, stunned to silence at his audacity.

“Am I wrong?”

“That is the stupidest reason—”

“Am I wrong?”

Tristan glares at him. He wants to say yes so fucking badly. He wants to forget how good they had looked together, Rafael’s sandy complexion and sharp features softened by Tristan’s mahogany skin and gentler figure. Objectively, professionally, they would make a good pair in front of the camera.

“Not with that hair,” he says.

“I can dye it.” Rafael leans back, a smirk tugging on his lips. He knows he’s winning. “A new sponsor and a new image for me, with a model that suits me aesthetically and no secret agenda; you get more eyes on your work and a boost to your company’s reputation. Win-win, right?”

Win-win. Of course he fucking puts it that way. It’s Rafael—pragmatic to the core.

Worse yet: he has a point.

“Let me make one thing clear.” Tristan points between them. “This? What we had? I’m over it. I don’t care how many sad songs you write, it’s not happening again. This project is strictly professional, and after it’s done, we are never going to see each other ever again.”

“Of course,” Rafael says, after a pause.

“Promise me,” Tristan says, suddenly desperate. “I need you to promise it to me, Raf.”

Just this once. After everything that happened, after everything Tristan had given him and had to endure after, Tristan just wants to hear Rafael say it and mean it. Magical ties and all.

Rafael plays with the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. 

“I swear that this arrangement between you, me, and the Maharlika corporation to model for and promote their next perfume line is a strictly professional endeavor,” he says. “There. Happy now?”

“And promise you won’t tell anyone we used to date,” Tristan says, feeling bold. “Sing Takas all you want. But it’s not about me.”

That takes Rafael longer. He stares Tristan down, frowning, so much like the Rafael that scolded Tristan for being short-sighted and immature in their younger days. But Tristan swallows the anxiety bubbling in his gut and stands his ground. He doesn’t want anything to do with Rafael. And he most especially doesn’t want anything to do with Rafael dela Torre, pop star and social media influencer.

“I promise I won’t talk to anyone about how we used to date,” Rafael says. “Anyone who doesn’t already know.”

A weight lifts from Tristan’s chest. He sits back with a soft sigh. 

It was stupid, insisting on a promise for something so small. But it still feels like a victory.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll talk to Tala about finalizing the contract.”

Rafael doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at Tristan, head propped on his hand. Then, a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Tristan says, wary.

“You’ll kick me,” Rafael says.

“And why would I kick you?” Tristan’s eyes narrow. Rafael sips his whisky, chuckling to himself. “Just spit it out!”

“You still look gorgeous when you’re angry,” Rafael says.

Tristan kicks him.

Rafael laughs, tucking his aggrieved shin under his stool.

“You’re so annoying,” Tristan tells him, which only makes him laugh harder, unrepentant.

Tristan relaxes in spite of himself. This, at least, is familiar. Rafael’s teasing is territory he knows how to navigate, right next to his relentless ambition and their shared weakness for petty gossip.

“Are you done?” Tristan says. “I would like some alone time before I head back to mingle with the snakes, thanks. Preferably before ten o’clock.”

“You really won’t give me a chance,” Rafael says, more thoughtful now.

Tristan bites back his anger.

“No. You’ve had your chance.”

He’s had so many chances. He just had to let Tristan go. Release him from his vow and let him live his life. 

But he kept singing. He kept holding on.

Tristan’s lived with the pain of the promises he made for six years. He can live with it for six years more. 

He is not going to fucking beg Rafael to let him go.

“Just answer me one more thing, then,” Rafael says.

“What?”

“If you were to write Takas, how would you write it?”

Tristan glares at his margarita.

“I wouldn’t write it.”

“You wouldn’t write it?”

There’s a smile in those words. Tristan refuses to look at him. He’s not playing this game anymore.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

Rafael’s glass tok’s against the bar again. Drink finished, he flags down the bartender. 

“Put both drinks on my tab. Room 528.”

Tristan whirls on him, furious, but the bartender had already handed over the bill.

“Of course, ser,” the bartender says, with the glinting eye of someone who can’t wait to share his hot juicy gossip in the break room. Rafael scribbles his signature on the sheet and returns it, giving the man his superstar smile as thanks.

“I’ll see you around, Tristan,” Rafael says.

Tristan glares at him, then pointedly turns away. That’s just like Rafael too, to insist on paying for their meal, or that bracelet Tristan glanced at, or their tickets for a movie. Tristan should have paid for his drink the minute he received it.

Rafael just laughs at him. His footsteps fade away, as he heads back to the party.

Tristan stares out, unseeing, into the shadowy depths of the hotel garden. He feels small again, alone in the quiet of the lounge. But this time, there’s no pain burning like live coals under his skin.

Engkanto magic is so fickle and esoteric. The keeping and breaking of vows is as much up to the people beholden to it as it is bound by the words used to manifest it in the first place. So if he walks away from Rafael, his magic shits all over itself, but if it’s Rafael that walks away, he’s as peachy keen as ever.

Every day, he curses the stupidity of his younger self in love.

With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and sends a message to Tala.

[Got the next Maharlika project. Ser Laos will send details on Mon]

His phone buzzes as he puts it back in his pocket. He ignores it. The important part is he got them the project. Explaining to Tala what the project entails exactly—and with who—is once again future Tristan’s problem.