by Cora Carmack
I swallowed, my stomach twisting with a combination of emotions, too vast for me to really identify.
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “The doctor said she thinks it’s probably just stress that’s thrown off my cycle. Probably the combination of all the work and thinking about meeting your family.”
My heartbeat was slow, but loud in my ears.
“So . . . so we don’t have to worry about any of those things.”
“Not now, no.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t tell if I was disappointed or relieved. Not about the baby. The job though . . . that felt like I was a hundred times lighter.
“You okay?” she asked.
I kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, followed by her lips. I absorbed the calm from her warm skin, breathed in the balance from her closeness. I said, “Yes. I’m more than okay.”
She nodded. Her expression was just as hard to read, and I got the feeling that she was just as confused about how she felt as I was.
“Garrick? One more question.”
“Anything.”
Her smile widened, brilliant and beautiful. All her confusion disappeared.
“Marry me?”
Half a dozen responses flitted through my mind, from simple to snarky. But there was one thing that would always be true about me. I preferred action to words.
So, I pulled her close and answered her as thoroughly as I could.
Continue reading for a sneak peek
at Bliss’s best friend Kelsey’s story in
FINDING IT
Coming in October 2013
from William Morrow
1
EVERYONE DESERVES ONE grand adventure.
We all need that one time in life that we always get to point back to and say, “Then . . . then I was really living.”
Adventures don’t happen when you’re worried about the future or tied down by the past. They only exist in the now. And they always, always come at the most unexpected time in the least likely of packages.
An adventure is an open window, and an adventurer is the person willing to crawl out on the ledge and leap.
I told my parents I was going to Europe to see the world and grow as a person. (Not that Dad listened beyond the second or third word, which is when I slipped in that I was also going to spend his money and piss him off as much as possible. He didn’t notice.) I told my professors that I was going to collect experiences to make me a better actor. I told my friends I was going to party.
In reality, it was a little of all of those things. Mostly, I was here because I refused to believe that my best years were behind me now that I’d graduated from college. I wanted to experience something extraordinary. And if adventures only existed in the now, that was the only place I wanted to exist, too.
After nearly two weeks backpacking around Eastern Europe, I was becoming an expert at just that.
I trekked down the old cobblestone street, my stiletto heels sticking in the stone grooves. I kept a tight hold on the two Hungarian men that I’d met earlier in the evening, and followed our two other companions down the street. . Technically, I guess it had been last night when we met since we were now into early hours of the morning.
I couldn’t keep their names straight, and I wasn’t even that drunk yet.
I kept calling Tamás, István. Or was that András? Oh well. All three were hot with dark hair and eyes, and they knew four words in English as far as I could tell.
American. Beautiful. Drink. And dance.
As far as I was concerned, those were the only words they needed to know. At least I remembered Katalin’s name. I’d met her a few days ago, and we’d hung out almost every night since. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She showed me around Budapest, and I charged most of our fun on Daddy’s credit card. Not like he would notice or care. And if he did, he’d always said that if money didn’t buy happiness, then people were spending it wrong. So if he got mad, I’d just say I was finding my joy.
“Kelsey,” Katalin said, her accent thick and exotic. “Welcome to the ruin bars.”
I paused in ruffling István’s hair (or the one I called István, anyway). The five of us stood on an empty street filled with dilapidated buildings. I knew the whole don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover thing, but this place was straight out of a zombie apocalypse. I wondered how to say brains in Hungarian.
The old Jewish quarter—that’s where Katalin said we were going.
Oy vey.
It sure as hell didn’t look to me like there were any bars around here. I looked at the sketchy neighborhood, and thought at least I’d gotten laid last night. If I was going to get chopped into tiny pieces, at least I went out with a bang. Literally.
I laughed, and almost recounted my thoughts to my companions, but I was pretty sure it would get lost in translation. Especially because I was starting to question even Katalin’s grip on the English language, if this was what bar meant to her.
I pointed to a crumbling stone building and said, “Drink?” Then mimed the action just to be safe.
One of the guys said, “Igen. Drink.” The word sounded like ee-gan, and I’d picked up just enough to know it meant yes.
I was practically fluent already.
I cautiously followed Katalin toward one of the derelict buildings. She stepped into a darkened doorway that gave me the heebiest of jeebies. The taller of my Hungarian hotties slipped an arm around my shoulder. I took a guess and said, “Tamás?” His teeth were pearly white when he smiled. I would take that as a yes. Tamás equaled tall. And drop-dead sexy. Noted.
One of his hands came up and brushed back the blond hair from my face. I tilted my head back to look at him, and excitement sparked in my belly. What did language matter when dark eyes locked on mine, strong hands pressed into my skin, and heat filled the space between us?
Not a whole hell of a lot.
We followed the rest of the group into the building, and I felt the low thrum of techno music vibrating the floor beneath my feet.
Interesting.
We traveled deeper into the building and came out into a large room. Walls had been knocked down, and no one had bothered to move the pieces of concrete. Christmas lights and lanterns lighted the building. Mismatched furniture was scattered around the space. There was even an old car that had been repurposed into a dining booth. It was easily the weirdest, most confusing place I’d ever been in.
“You like?” Katalin asked.
I pressed myself closer to Tamás and said, “I love.”
Tamás led me to the bar, where drinks were amazingly cheap. Maybe I should stay in Eastern Europe forever. I pulled out a two-thousand-forint note. For less than the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars I bought all five of us shots.
Amazing.
The downside to Europe? For some reason that made no sense to me they gave lemon slices with tequila instead of lime. The bartenders always looked at me like I’d just ordered elephant sweat in a glass.
They just didn’t understand the magical properties of my favorite drink. If my accent didn’t give me away as American, my drink of choice always did.
Next, Tamás bought me a gin bitter lemon, a drink I’d been introduced to a few weeks ago. It almost made the absence of margaritas in this part of the world bearable. I downed it like it was lemonade on a blistering Texas day. His eyes went wide, and I licked my lips. István bought me another, and the acidity and sweetness rolled across my tongue.
Tamás gestured for me to down it again, so I did, to a round of applause.
God, I love when people love me.
I took hold of Tamás’s and István’s arms and pulled them away from the bar. There was a room that had one wall knocked out in lieu of a door, and it overflowed with dancing bodies.
&nbs
p; That was where I wanted to be.
I tugged my boys in that direction, and Katalin and András followed close behind. We had to step over a pile of concrete if we wanted to get into the room. I took one look at my turquoise heels, and knew there was no way in hell I was managing that with my sex appeal intact. I turned to István and Tamás—sizing them up. István was the beefier of the two, so I put an arm around his neck. We didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand what I wanted. He swept an arm underneath my legs, and pulled me up to his chest. It was a good thing I wore skinny jeans instead of a skirt.
“Köszönöm,” I said, even though he probably should have been thanking me, based on the way he was openly ogling my chest.
Ah, well. I didn’t mind ogling. I was still pleasantly warm from the alcohol, and the music drowned out the world. And my shitty parents and uncertain future were thousands of miles away across an ocean. My problems might as well have been drowning at the bottom of said ocean for how much they mattered to me in that moment.
The only expectations here were ones that I had encouraged and was all too willing to follow through on. So maybe my new “friends” only wanted me for money and sex. It was better than not being wanted at all.
István’s arms flexed around me, and I melted into him. My father liked to talk, or yell, rather, about how I didn’t appreciate anything. But the male body was one thing I had no issue appreciating. István was all hard muscles and angles beneath my hands, and those girls were definitely a-wandering.
By the time he’d set my feet on the dance floor, my hands had found those delicious muscles that angled down from his hips. I bit my lip and met his gaze from beneath lowered lashes. If his expression was any indication, I had found Boardwalk and had the all-clear to proceed to Go and collect my two hundred dollars.
Or forint. Whatever.
Tamás pressed his chest against my back, and I gave myself up to the alcohol and the music and the sensation of being stuck between two delicious specimens of man.
Time started to disappear between frenzied hands and drips of sweat. There were more drinks and more dances. Each song faded into the next. Colors danced behind my closed eyes. And it was almost enough.
For a while, I got to be blank. A brand-new canvas. Untouched snow.
I checked my baggage at the door, and just was.
There was no room for unhappiness when squeezed between two sets of washboard abs.
New life motto, right there.
I gave István a couple notes and sent him to get more drinks. In the meantime, I turned to face Tamás. He’d been pressed against my back for God knows how long, and I’d forgotten how tall he was. I leaned back to meet his gaze, and his hands smoothed down my back to my ass.
I smirked and said, “Someone is happy to have me all to himself.”
He pulled my hips into his and said, “Beautiful American.”
Right. No point expending energy on cheeky banter that he couldn’t even understand. I had a pretty good idea how to better use my energy. I slipped my arms around his neck and tilted my head in the universal sign of kiss me.
Tamás didn’t waste any time. Like really . . . no time. The dude went zero to sixty in seconds. His tongue was so far down my throat it was like being kissed by the lovechild of a lizard and Gene Simmons.
We were both pretty drunk. Maybe he didn’t realize that he was in danger of engaging my gag reflex with his Guinness-record-worthy tongue. I eased back and his tongue assault ended, only for his teeth to clamp down on my bottom lip.
I was all for a little biting, but he pulled my lip out until I had one half of a fish mouth. And he stood there, sucking on my bottom lip for so long that I actually started counting to see how long it would last.
When I got to fifteen (fifteen!) seconds, my eyes settled on a guy across the bar, watching my dilemma with a huge grin. Was shit-eating grin in the dictionary? If not, I should snap a picture for Merriam-Webster.
I braced myself and pulled my poor, abused lip from Tamás’s teeth. My mouth felt like it had been stuck in a vacuum cleaner. While I pressed my fingers to my numb lip, Tamás started placing sloppy kisses from the corner of my lips across my cheek to my jaw.
His tongue slithered over my skin like a snail, and all the blissful, alcohol-induced haze that I’d worked so hard for disappeared.
I was painfully aware that I was standing in an abandoned-building-turned-bar with a trail of drool across my cheek, and the guy across the room was now openly laughing at me.
And he was fucking gorgeous, which made it so much worse.
Sometimes . . . the now sucked.
If you’ve missed any of Cora Carmack’s Losing It series,
read on for a look at where it all began . . .
LOSING IT
1
I TOOK A deep breath.
You are awesome. I didn’t quite believe it, so I thought it again.
Awesome. You are so awesome. If my mother heard my thoughts, she’d tell me that I needed to be humble, but humility had gotten me nowhere.
Bliss Edwards, you are a freaking catch.
So then how did I end up twenty-two years old and the only person I knew who had never had sex? Somewhere between Saved by the Bell and Gossip Girl, it became unheard of for a girl to graduate college with her V-card still in hand. And now I was standing in my room, regretting that I’d gathered the courage to admit it to my friend Kelsey. She reacted like I’d just told her I was hiding a tail underneath my A-line skirt. And I knew before her jaw even finished dropping that this was a terrible idea.
“Seriously? Is it because of Jesus? Are you, like, saving yourself for him?” Sex seemed simpler for Kelsey. She had the body of a Barbie and the sexually charged brain of a teenage boy.
“No, Kelsey,” I said. “It would be a little difficult to save myself for someone who died over two thousand years ago.”
Kelsey whipped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. I must have made a face because she looked at me and laughed.
“Relax, Princess Purity, I’m just changing shirts.” She stepped into my closet and started flipping through my clothes.
“Why?”
“Because, Bliss, we’re going out to get you laid.” She said the word “laid” with a curl of her tongue that reminded me of those late-night commercials for those adult phone lines.
“Jesus, Kelsey.”
She pulled out a shirt that was snug on me and would be downright scandalous on her curvy frame.
“What? You said it wasn’t about him.”
I resisted the urge to slam my palm into my forehead.
“It’s not, I don’t think . . . I mean, I go to church and all, well, sometimes. I just . . . I don’t know. I’ve never been that interested.”
She paused with her new shirt halfway over her head.
“Never interested? In guys? Are you gay?”
I once overheard my mother, who can’t understand why I’m about to graduate college without a ring on my finger, ask my father the same question.
“No, Kelsey, I’m not gay, so keep putting your shirt on. No need to fall on your sexual sword for me.”
“If you’re not gay and it’s not about Jesus, then it’s just a matter of finding the right guy, or should I say . . . the right sexual sword.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee? Is that all? Find the right guy? Why didn’t someone tell me sooner?”
She pulled her blond hair back into a high ponytail, which somehow drew even more attention to her chest. “I don’t mean the right guy to marry, honey. I mean the right guy to get your blood pumping. To make you turn off your analytical, judgmental, hyperactive brain and think with your body instead.”
“Bodies can’t think.”
“See!” she said. “Analytical. Judgmental.”
<
br /> “Fine! Fine. Which bar tonight?”
“Stumble Inn, of course.”
I groaned. “Classy.”
“What?” Kelsey looked at me like I was missing the answer to a really obvious question. “It’s a good bar. More importantly, it’s a bar that guys like. And since we do like guys, it’s a bar we like.”
It could be worse. She could be taking me to a club.
“Fine. Let’s go.” I stood and headed for the curtain that separated my bedroom from the rest of my loft apartment.
“Whoa! Whoa.” She grabbed my elbow and pulled me so hard that I fell back on my bed. “You can’t go like that.”
I looked down at my outfit—flowery A-line skirt and simple tank that showed a decent amount of cleavage. I looked cute. I could totally pick up a guy in this . . . maybe.
“I don’t see the problem,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, and I felt like a child. I hated feeling like a child, and I pretty much always did when talk turned to sex.
Kelsey said, “Honey, right now you look like someone’s adorable little sister. No guy wants to screw his little sister. And if he does, you don’t want to be near him.”
Yep, definitely felt like a child. “Point taken.”
“Hmm . . . sounds like you’re practicing turning off that overactive brain of yours. Good job. Now stand there and let me work my magic.”
And by magic, she meant torture.
After vetoing three shirts that made me feel like a prostitute, some pants that were more like leggings, and a skirt so short it threatened to show the world my hoo-hoo in the event of a mild breeze, we settled on some tight low-rise denim capris and a lacy black tank that stood out in contrast to my pale white skin.
“Legs shaved?”
I nodded.
“Other . . . things . . . shaved?”
“As much as they are ever going to be, yes, now move on.” That was where I drew the line of this conversation.