Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  “Really, George? Even when we’re on a holiday?” Hand on her hip, Kassia waited for an answer, but George was already looking for some place private to take the call.

  “A billionaire’s lifestyle. Tethered to his phone.” Joseph Uncle chuckled, but Kassia shook her head.

  “He knows better.” She watched him disappear around the building and sighed. “Well, I guess we’ll just go on without him.”

  We walked through the narrow, winding lanes to a lookout point at the top of the hill. Nikos singled me out the moment Isabelle left my side.

  “I like your hair up like his.” He slid his finger down my nape and an electric jolt shot all the way up to my ponytail. “I can’t wait to be alone with you tonight.” His voice was low and husky. For my ears only. And from my ears to my brain, where it fried things up good.

  While everyone was ooh-ing and aah-ing over the breathtaking views of the island from the top of the hill, I was suffering from the temporary decline in cognitive function that follows an encounter with a really hot guy. It happens to the best of us. Why? Because this is where your evolutionary instinct kicks you to the curb, jumps in the driver’s seat, and goes chasing after the potential to elevate your gene pool. There’s a science to swooning, compounded by providence dropping a sexy, three-thumbed man into my life.

  The rest of the day turned into a blur as I mentally flipped through my luggage for the perfect outfit to induce a mutual swoon. My trip wardrobe was nothing like my Chicago wardrobe. It was a projected wardrobe built around projected scenarios:

  Sunset in Santorini or having a drink over the caldera with Nikos: maxi skirt with a thigh-high side slit and a T-shirt to keep it from looking like I was trying too hard.

  Yeah, baby.

  Lounging by the pool: floppy hat, Jackie O sunglasses, high-waisted shorts, cropped top.

  Try to resist me now.

  Chance make-out session with Nikos: wide-necked top slipped seductively off one shoulder. Lacy, push-up bra. A swipe of highlighter on the boobs.

  Uh-huh. Shine on, girls.

  Unfortunately, I’d failed to anticipate a dancing scenario. It had been a while since I’d gone clubbing. Anytime I stayed out past eleven, I braced myself for an escalating stream of texts from Dolly. My mother was a highly evolved worrier. Not only did she cover all the worst-case scenarios, she also had dreams to back them up. Dead relatives were always showing up in her dreams with messages for me. I might have bought it, except the only things dead people wanted me to do were the things Dolly wanted me to do.

  They certainly weren’t chiming in with tips on what I should wear for my night out with Nikos.

  In the end, I opted for a curve-hugging black dress and metallic booties. The only accessory I needed was sex-bomb hair—amped up, but shiny and soft.

  Getting ready in the tiny en suite was a challenge. The lighting was horrendous, and I kept bumping my elbows as I tried to blow-dry my hair. I turned on my phone, searched for a track, and kicked up the volume.

  Elvis Presley, “It’s Now or Never.”

  Because this was it—my make-it or break-it opportunity with Nikos.

  I flipped my head upside down, spritzed on some spray, and tossed it back up. My hairbrush became a microphone as I sang along with Elvis.

  Switching out the hairbrush for my lipstick, I swiped on a shimmery layer and pouted. The siren in the mirror pouted back at me. She curled her eyelashes and applied mascara, her mouth open (because it’s impossible not to make that face when you have a mascara wand in your hand). Damn, she looked fine.

  Elvis and I crooned our devotion to her, our lips curling in tribute.

  I pumped up my boobies and backed away from the mirror, giving my reflection two pew-pew finger-gun salutes. When the chorus hit, I closed my eyes and swiveled my body around the door frame like it was a pole. My hips gyrated against it for good measure. Then I stood wide-stanced, bending my body at the waist, ass to the ceiling, and performed a saucy hair flip. Dark, sex-bomb tresses fell around my face as the song concluded. My breasts rose and fell in self-congratulatory exhilaration.

  It was at this point that I realized I had an audience. Exhilaration turned into trepidation, which turned into indignation when I saw who it was.

  “What are you doing here?” My arms crossed instinctively over my chest, as if Alex caught me naked.

  “I…uh…” He scratched his chin, like he’d forgotten how to string words into sentences.

  “You what?”

  His infuriating dimple took over. “That was hot.”

  I took a step toward him. My intention was to walk past him and out the door—maybe get a face transplant while I was at it. I was tired of the permanent cringe that altered my face whenever I was around Alex.

  He must‘ve thought I was about to cause him bodily harm, because he stepped aside and held his palms up. “Captain Bailey’s given me the night off. Kassia’s cousin in Mykonos has invited all the passengers to her place for dinner. We’ll be dropping anchor in a little while. I thought I’d freshen up before heading out. I didn’t realize that you’d be…uh…making out with Elvis.” He gestured to the door frame I’d been gyrating against.

  “Oh no.” I sat down on my bed. If we were all expected at Kassia’s cousin’s place, Nikos and I would have to cancel our plans.

  “Don’t look so dejected.” Alex tossed his chef’s coat on the top bunk and shot me a cheeky grin. “We still have many nights together. You just have to put up with someone else’s cooking tonight.” His T-shirt hugged him in all the right places. Too bad his ego ruined the effect by bulging out in six stupid lumps where his tummy was supposed to be.

  Hannah rapped on the door. “Sorry to disturb. Dolly is asking for you, Moti. She said Nikos is looking for you.”

  “Thanks, Hannah. I’ll be up in a minute.” As far as Thomas’s side of the wedding party was concerned, I was still sharing the suite with my mother. Nikos must’ve dropped in, hoping to find me. I slipped my phone into my evening bag and was about to leave when I caught Alex’s look.

  “You and Nikos?” he said. “I thought your grandmother was joking about the whole…” He wiggled his thumbs at me.

  “It’s written in the stars.” I got up, forgetting there was another bed on top of mine. My noggin hit the steel frame and I yelped, pretty sure it would leave a nice, egg-sized lump.

  “This is all your fault.” I glared at Alex, rubbing my scalp.

  My life was chapter after chapter of awkward, embarrassing scenes, but did this jerk have to stand there, witnessing them all?

  Double jerk, I thought when his laughter followed me out of the room.

  As it turned out, Nikos and I didn’t have to cancel our date. Clubs in Mykonos didn’t start coming alive until after midnight. While everyone waited for the tender to take them back to the yacht after dinner, Nikos called for a limo.

  Naani pulled me aside while he was on the phone. “Have fun, beta. You need to get out there and taste life. But not all in one bite, if you know what I mean.”

  I giggled and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be good.”

  “Good-schmood. You’ll know the minute you kiss him.”

  “Teri!” Isabelle yelled for her maid of honor.

  “Look.” Naani pointed to the Christmas tree dashing toward us. Teri’s arms were laden with gifts from Thomas’s relatives in Mykonos. “That would’ve been you. Aren’t you glad things worked out the way they did?”

  “Wait.” Isabelle intercepted Teri and threaded another gift bag through her arms. “Oh, there’s the boat. Let’s go, Naani. Dolly, watch your step.” She rounded everyone up before cornering me. “You’re going to be okay, right? No offense, but all your dates have been pretty mild so far. This is the big leagues. Nikos is intense. Smooth but intense. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like a hungry wolf. Just say the word and I’ll throw a tantrum to get you back on the boat.”

  “Oh my God, stop, will you? Maybe I want a hungr
y wolf.” I pushed her toward the boat. “Goodnight.”

  Then it was just Nikos and me. You know the feeling when you’ve thought about something forever and it finally happens, and you want to say something witty or funny or cool, but you also really, really want to puke, so you keep your mouth shut because you don’t know which will come out? Yeah. That.

  Nikos had a whole different way of dealing with nerves. He morphed into an octopus the minute we got into the limo—one hand around my shoulder, the other on my thigh, a third wrapping around my waist. All the while, he was on the phone with the club, arranging a private booth.

  We pulled into an alley behind the club and were ushered in through the back entrance.

  Two burly bouncers escorted us through a dimly lit hallway.

  “We get a lot of celebrities dropping in,” Nikos said. “The back entrance keeps them happy.”

  “We?” I raised my voice over the music. The whole place reverberated with a pulsating beat.

  “My family and I. We own the club. And a few others in Athens, Rhodes, Corfu…” He waved his hand, like he was talking about apples and oranges scattered under the trees.

  So, Nikos is a nightclub owner, I thought, as he guided me into a reserved section overlooking the dance floor. This is what happens when the person you’re stalking on social media keeps some parts of his public life private. You get bits and pieces, never the whole picture. So inconsiderate, Nikos.

  Retro music blared around us—Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go back to my room—while a guy in an LED suit shot streams of cool, white mist into the crowd with a smoke gun.

  Nightclubs weren’t really my thing. A lot of people packed really close, squirming, moving, drinking, and making out. And let’s face it—clubs had nothing good to eat.

  But maybe I’d been doing nightclubs wrong all this time. Maybe I needed to do them with Nikos, because an impeccably clad hostess placed a platter of mezedes before us—cheeses, dips, cured meats, olives, pickles, salted fish. She returned with a carafe, two shot glasses and a bowl of ice.

  Nikos dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glasses and poured a clear liquid from the carafe over them.

  “Cheers.” He held up his glass.

  I raised mine cautiously. “What is it?”

  Apart from the occasional cocktail on vacation and a bottle of Ny-Quil that I downed while dying with the flu, I wasn’t much of a drinker.

  “This is tsipouro.”

  “Sip what?”

  “Tsipouro. It’s made from grape residue. This batch is from a Greek monastery.”

  “Ah.” I smiled.

  Grapes, meaning wine.

  And monks, meaning blessed wine.

  I followed Nikos’s lead and downed my drink.

  Holy Mother of All Fucking Firewater.

  “Oh-hwah!” I thumped my chest to jump-start my lungs.

  “What?” Nikos held his hand up to his ear.

  My throat had just swallowed an entire colony of red ants. My eyes watered as I set the record for repeatedly choking in front of the same person.

  Nikos finally clued in. “Are you all right?”

  I fanned my face and nodded as the pungent spirit receded into the pit of my stomach. How can something that looks like water taste like hell?

  “Would you like something…?”

  “Sweeter,” I said.

  A Coke. Lemonade. Kool-Aid. Anything to wash out the taste of Crap-In-A-Carafe. Sorry, monks.

  Nikos called the hostess over. “Make her one of these…” He held up my empty glass. “But with saffron syrup and something fruity.”

  I was okay with the fruity part and the saffron syrup sounded nice, but I wasn’t convinced anything would make the crap taste less crappy.

  “So?” Nikos cozied up to me. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and when he put his arm around my shoulder, the gap widened, giving me a glimpse of smooth, bronzed skin. “What do you think?” He waved his other hand, showing off his domain.

  It was a wickedly indulgent setting—soaring ceilings, an open terrace overlooking the garden, a glimmering cocktail bar with pearlescent finishes. Sleek panels wrapped around our booth, creating an intimate multi-sensory make-out oasis for two. Or three. Whatever your heart desired. Food, music, drinks, possibilities.

  “Thank you,” I said, when the hostess returned with my drink. I took a sip, thankful that it didn’t taste nearly as awful now.

  “You have to eat something with that.” Nikos fed me an olive and licked the glistening residue off his finger. He took another shot from the carafe and leaned closer.

  “I like these.” He played with my earrings. “And I really like these.” His finger traced my lips.

  I jumped when he touched me and tried to cover it up by lunging for my drink.

  Nikos surmised I wasn’t ready to lock lips with him and asked if I wanted to dance. As we made our way downstairs, he was stopped several times—friends, staff, men in expensive suits, women who weighed me up and down—all wanting a word with him. Drinks were offered, shots were downed. Vodka, tequila, rum, gin, whiskey.

  “Sorry,” Nikos said to me. “I haven’t been around much this season.”

  Just as we were about to hit the dance floor, one of the bouncers pulled him aside. “Olympia Aravani just arrived with her entourage. Party of six.”

  “Olympia Aravani? The model?” Nikos’s hand dropped from around my waist. “Escort her upstairs. Booth 4. Find Dina. Tell her to get the bubbly going—six bottles of Perrier-Jouët. Caviar, truffles. She knows the drill. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Nikos adjusted his collars after the man left. “Wow. Olympia Aravani. It’s your lucky night, glikia mou.” He held his arm out for me to take.

  “Wow.” I’d never heard of her Olympia Aravani, but she was obviously a big deal. No Crap-in-a-Carafe for her. And if the height of Nikos’s collar was any indication of her effect on men, she was also beautiful.

  When we got upstairs, the stunning model and her friends were lounging in one of the private balconies. It was easy to pick her out. The attitude. The sequin-encrusted hoodie. Perfect, poreless skin. I disliked her immediately, because Nikos forgot all about me the minute introductions were made.

  I sat next to one of Olympia’s friends—a greasy-haired guy whose eyes sparkled a little too brightly. The growing stub of ash at the end of his cigarette fascinated me. I wondered how long it could grow before it fell off.

  Now.

  Now.

  Now?

  By some miracle, it held fast. When it finally dropped, I grinned with a sense of personal satisfaction and took another sip of the fancy champagne that was going around.

  Cheers. I raised my glass to the powdery ash on the floor.

  “Hey.” Cigarette Man thought I was saluting him. “I’m Kostas.”

  “Moti.” We were the only ones not having a Wi-Fi party on our phones. Nikos was sidled up next to Olympia, laughing at something on her screen. Two of her girlfriends were taking selfies at angles that would have challenged Pythagoras himself, and the couple was filming their make-out session.

  “You want to dance?” Kostas stubbed his cigarette out and got up.

  “Sure.” Anything was better than watching your soul mate cozy up to a sequined celebrity. It’s not like I didn’t already have the inner dialog going. You know the one. It makes you feel like everyone else is way ahead of you, more accomplished, more fun, more interesting, more with it. I didn’t need to measure myself up against Olympia Aravani. She had Nikos’s attention at the drop of her name. My name and I were forever quibbling over pronunciation.

  The room whirled as I followed Kostas downstairs. I grabbed the railing and slid down the stairs. It struck me that the club’s moving walkways and hallways might actually be stationary, that I was the one zigzagging like a loose cannon in a pinball machine—an image that made me giggle uncontrollably. Apparently, I was really happy when I drank.

  Kostas claimed some s
pace for us on the dance floor. As if on cue, the bass dropped, the synthesizer kicked in, and the whole place exploded with lights and lasers. Swirls of acid green and hot pinks swept around us in psychedelic flashes.

  Kostas scooped me up and started grinding against me, his hands on my butt cheeks. I was drunk, but I could still hear my internal alarm bells going off.

  “Hey. Stop it.” I untangled myself from his clutches and teetered away.

  I’d barely taken a few steps when Kostas grabbed my waist and started rubbing his junk against my backside.

  Trapped in a pulsing, screaming nightmare of lights and sound and rough hands, panic rose in my throat. Bodies thronged around me, but nobody could hear me. And worse, nobody cared.

  “Let her go, dickhead.” Someone gripped my wrist and pulled me away from Kostas.

  “Mind your own business.” Kostas shoved the guy in the chest. “She was asking for it.”

  “Touch her again and I’ll rip your face off.” Through the blinding strobes of white light, I caught glimpses of the other figure moving toward Kostas until they were nose to nose. Everything looked like it was happening in slow motion.

  It wasn’t until he turned to face me that I realized it was Alex.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and started steering me through the crowd.

  “Hey, asshole.” Kostas yanked him back and threw a punch. Alex ducked. The punch landed on someone else’s head.

  “What the fuck?” The girl’s boyfriend launched himself at Kostas. They tumbled and landed on another group of dancers. More yelling and screaming. More fists getting involved.

  Alex pulled me away from the circle of expanding chaos. “Where the hell is Nikos and why aren’t you with him?”

  “He’s up there.” I pointed to the balconies overlooking the dance floor. “With Olympia Aravani.” I figured dropping her name would soften the smoldering expression on Alex’s face. I was wrong. All at once, I felt like shit. Cold sweat glistened over my lip and waves of heat coursed through my body. My body was starting to quiver with the aftershocks of alcohol, the sensory overload of lights and music, and my encounter with Kostas. Everything was going foggy.