by Jo Watson
“Jane, here’s a condom and have sex with me. Have sex with me now!”
He extended his hand, the bright-red box almost glinting in the overhead lights. I was going to kill my mother for this! Or maybe this was one of those incidents I would laugh about in years to come. “Remember the time… hahaha.”
I doubted it.
I cringed as I reached out and took the box from him and slid it into my bag. I looked up at him briefly, and he smiled.
“I can see you’re really going to love it here, Jane.”
CHAPTER SIX
I’d read enough travel brochures on the plane to know that I should have been looking out the window at the unsurpassed beauty that is historic Greece. But all I was thinking about was the unsurpassed beauty that was sitting next to me in the car, and how a few moments ago he’d been handing me a box of condoms, and a short time before that I had been having wild sex with him on a beach. Awkward.
It had been completely silent since we’d started driving, which I was grateful for. Had he asked me a question in my current state, I might have said something about head and brain injury being the most common type of injury caused by car accidents or that the most dangerous road in the world was in Bolivia or that—Stop it, Jane, get a grip. I was also still trying to figure out why a model who was also a tour guide, or so it seemed, had just picked me up at the airport?
“So pleasure?” he finally asked.
“What? I beg your pardon?”
“Business or pleasure?” He glanced at my bag, and if he had X-ray vision I’d say he was staring straight through to the box of condoms. “Pleasure I presume.” His smile was dazzling. Stunning. Despite the fact that I wanted to crawl under a rock or fling myself from his car, I couldn’t look away. But I had to get his mind—and mine—off condoms.
“I am definitely not here for any pleasure. I can assure you of that,” I said firmly, making sure I set the record straight. It’s funny how boxes of condoms kind of send the wrong message to people.
“So business?” He sounded slightly amused still.
“What? No! No!” Does he think I’m a working girl? “No, it’s not that kind of business at all. Not at all.”
“So what kind of business brings you to Santorini that is so important you aren’t here for a little bit of pleasure, too?”
Again with that loaded word! And the way he said it certainly didn’t make it sound like he was referring to innocent frolicking on the beach, sightseeing, or eating meze in the sun. I was suddenly feeling very hot again, so I proceeded to fan myself with my passport.
“It’s hot in here,” I exclaimed.
“At least two to five degrees hotter,” he said with a smile in his voice as he began opening his window. “The air conditioner is broken.”
I attempted to do the same, but the button didn’t seem to be working. I pressed it a few times, but the stubborn thing didn’t budge. And then suddenly, without any kind of warning, I felt his big muscular arm reach across me.
“There’s a trick to it,” he said in a playful tone. “You have to jiggle the switch.” He jiggled it and his arm brushed my stomach lightly and then the worst thing imaginable happened: His whole hand fell into my lap as the car went over a bump. I jumped, letting out a little gasp as he pulled away quickly.
“Sorry. Bumpy road,” he said casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. But I felt anything but casual. In fact, my entire crotch was now on fire and felt like it was melting into the seat beneath me.
What the hell was wrong with me that one touch from this guy had me feeling like I was losing all control of my body? (We’ve established that my mind was already lost.)
I felt I needed to say something in an attempt to act casual and unperturbed. “Yes, did you know that in Ireland there are some potholes that are so big you can actually swim in—” I stopped myself midway. “Never mind.”
He looked at me sideways and flashed me a small smile. Why is he smiling so much? “So what is your business then?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“A man.” I kept my responses brief. I wasn’t going to tell this stranger my whole life story.
“Mmmm,” he said knowingly. “I think that all the beautiful women who come to Greece are looking for a man.”
“What?” He’d just called me beautiful and for a second I almost let my imagination run away with me, but I quickly reeled it in, because this was obviously a blatant lie. I was not beautiful. He was obviously in default charmer mode. The quintessential Greek cliché: hot, romantic, charming playboy. He probably called all the women he drove around beautiful. I wondered—was this the kind of guy my biological mother had fallen for?
Well, not me! I would not be charmed by this Greek playboy. His act reminded me of that freshly polished floor in the mall—it was too smooth, and if you weren’t careful about watching where you walked, you might slip and break something. Or at least leave with a large, painful bruise.
“It’s not that kind of man!” I finally said after I had gathered myself.
“Oh?” he turned and arched his brow in query. “Not romantic?”
“Not all relationships with men are romantic, you know. In fact, I read a fascinating study stating that it has been scientifically proven that members of the opposite sex can just be platonic friends. The study was conducted with eighty-eight undergraduate students and—”
I stopped when I noted he was still smiling at me. That devastating smile again, as if what I’d said had amused him. That smile, coupled with the eyes and the dimples and the perfect face and hair, was almost too much to look at, like the Greek legend of Medusa. But instead of being turned into stone, it was the opposite: You were turned to jelly. I turned away from him and looked out the window, trying to focus on my surroundings instead.
“So what kind of man is he then?”
God, he wasn’t letting this go. He was like one of those children that kept asking “Why?” or “Are we there yet?”
“He’s just someone who worked here a while ago.”
“And where is he now?”
“I don’t know. All I know is his name is Dimitri.” I felt mildly irritated and frustrated at this stage and I wasn’t doing a great job at hiding it.
The Greek god burst out laughing. “Everyone here is Dimitri. My name is Dimitri.”
“I doubt that,” I said drily.
He reached into his cubbyhole, pulled out his driver’s license, and passed it to me.
The photo was obviously old—his hair was much shorter and he looked more clean-cut—but he was still deadly gorgeous.
“Dimitri Spiros,” I read out loudly. “Oh. I see.”
We fell into a silence again. I couldn’t believe his name was Dimitri. The bizarre, uncanny coincidence did not escape me. Not that I wanted to draw any comparisons between myself and bio-mom. I was nothing like her. At all. Nor did I ever want to be. History was not going to be repeating itself; as far as I was concerned, this Dimitri was totally off the menu. Not that he was ever on it! The silence seemed to drag on, but this time I noticed him glancing over at me several times.
“What?” I heard myself asking.
“Do you always wear dark glasses in the evening?” He sounded amused again.
“Yes. As a matter of fact I do. They happen to protect your eyes against harmful UV rays, which I might add are still present at sunset, so…” I stopped myself again as my MIA took over: Male Induced Awkwardness. It’s not a recognized disorder per se, but the symptoms are very real and if there was a pill I could take to stop it, I would.
“So you’re not a celebrity hiding from the photographers?”
I tsked loudly. “Please. Do I look like a celebrity?”
“Definitely.” His response was instant, and the word was said so deliberately that I had an abrupt case of arrhythmia.
“In fact, you look a bit like one of our local pop stars, Helena. She’s consi
dered to be one of the most beautiful women in Greece.”
In one violent movement, my heart swapped places with my spleen. I sat up straight and adjusted my seat belt; maybe subconsciously I thought I was going to fall out of the moving vehicle in total shock.
This guy was a real pro. He probably told all women—no matter what they looked like—that they resembled some great beauty. Confirmation received (not that I needed much more)! He was, without a doubt, the local holiday fling. All those newly divorced women who went looking for themselves in Greece probably landed here and then immediately landed on his lap. I crossed my legs and angled my body away from him. My lap was sealed for business. We continued to drive a little more, until a small town came into focus.
“Welcome to Fira. This is where you’ll be staying. It’s one of the most beautiful towns in Santorini,” he said enthusiastically.
“I see.” I took in my surroundings. Everything was white—the homes, the hotels; even the streets were quaint little paths cobbled in light-gray stones. And because it was evening, the entire place was drenched in a warm golden glow. It looked magical, like something out of a fairy tale. We were forced to make an impromptu stop as a lazy donkey decided to cross the road.
“You will find the pace of life here is a bit different,” he said, looking relaxed.
“Mmmm.” I looked down at my watch, agitated by the holdup. I hated being late. I wondered what time check-in was?
“So, where’re you from, Jane?”
“South Africa.”
“Aaah,” he said, “the beautiful rainbow nation. Home to the greatest leader that ever lived, Mr. Mandela.”
I swung around and looked at him. Aha! The last bit of evidence that proved—beyond a reasonable doubt—that he was a “professional wooer of womenfolk.” Say something intelligent and thoughtful about the person’s country, and it reveals you as being not only sensitive but also knowledgeable and interested in the world around you. What a smart little addition to his seduction routine. I bet he had a “great” person lined up for every possible country. He probably Googled them regularly. Still, I wondered how many women had fallen for this particular little gambit. He was so good that he probably broke the air conditioner himself and orchestrated the bump in the road, not to mention the crossing donkey to give the women a chance to navigate their way onto his lap. The car finally started moving again as the donkey cleared the street. I gave it a once-over to check it wasn’t animatronic. We drove a little more before finally stopping outside my hotel. The Luxury Aegean Villas.
“Are you sure this is your hotel?” It sounded like he was trying to be polite.
I pulled out the large plastic envelope that the travel agent had given me containing all the pertinent details of my trip. *Terms and Conditions really had applied to the sunscreen, though; I’d received two small 0.05-ounce tester sachets of the stuff. I pulled out my itinerary and read it loudly.
“Luxury Aegean Villas.”
“Are you sure it doesn’t say Aegean Sea Villas?” he asked in that same strange polite tone.
“Why?”
“There’re two hotels here with a similar name.”
“Nope.” I read the words once more, but the word sea was very clearly absent.
“Okay.” He eased the door open and climbed out with über-cool confidence, as if he were starring in an ad for extra-strength Viagra and had the kind of rock-hard erection that had just brought an entire small village of women to their quivering knees.
Stop! Crapping hell, Jane. What had gotten into me? The only kinds of thoughts I seemed to have around this man were either of the dirty, filthy kind, or filled with irritation and disapproval. This was not a rational combination. I physically shook my head, hoping to dislodge them, and climbed out. It was getting too dark to wear my glasses now, and I took them off. Suddenly I sneezed. A cat skulked out of the shadows and walked past my feet. Dammit. I was completely allergic to cats. I hoped this place wasn’t full of them.
“Well, Jane, it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope you find the Dimitri you’re looking for.”
And then, to my absolute horror, he leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks. I caught a brief whiff of his scent—it was exactly like I’d imagined in my dream, only better.
“I… I… yes, thanks for the lift.” I stumbled over my words while in my mind he was busy running his fingers through my hair and nibbling on my earlobe.
He nodded and strands of hair fell into his face again. It was as if all the fantasies about men that existed in the female collective consciousness had somehow coalesced and transformed into physical form. And its name was Dimitri Spiros.
“Do you know where you will look for your Dimitri?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No idea.”
“So if you don’t know who he is, or where he is, how do you know I’m not the Dimitri you came looking for? Maybe you were meant to find me.” He flashed his deadly Medusa smile again, and my skeletal system liquefied.
I smiled politely, trying hard to ignore the insinuations in that line. “Good night, Dimitri, thanks again.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Again with that bloody word. I turned and started walking away.
“Wait. I almost forgot,” he called after me. I turned and looked straight into one of the last shafts of sunlight.
“If you ever need anything, here’s my card. Call me when you’re ready for a tour of Santorini. I’m already taking a group around, so you can join us. Or maybe you want something more private?”
“Private?”
“Yes. If you don’t like groups, I do private tours, too. We could go island-hopping, or see some of the beaches here. Santorini has the best beaches in the world, you haven’t lived until you’ve walked on the red beach or—”
I cut him off. “Thanks, but I won’t be doing any sightseeing while I’m here.”
“You won’t?” He sounded disappointed. I wanted to add, “Especially not with you,” but didn’t.
“None? You don’t want to see anything?”
I shook my head. Why did everyone find this so hard to believe? I wasn’t here to get swept up in an exotic island trip. I wasn’t here to enjoy “romantic Greece and its red sands.” Besides, I wouldn’t like it even if I saw every beach and sunset and ate olives and sipped wine al-fucking-fresco! I didn’t like Greece, and no amount of touring would change that. This was a business trip! Plain and simple.
“Why don’t you just take it anyway? Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“I’m not the kind of person to change my mind,” I said quickly, tucking the card into my bag.
Dimitri smiled at me and started walking to the car. “This is Greece, Jane. This place has a way of getting under your skin and into your heart. Greece has a way of changing people.” He shrugged. “Maybe it will change you?”
He climbed into the car and waved at me before pulling away and driving off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mistakes can happen. Like the time I accidentally told my mother I was a lesbian over text:
Jane: Mom, I’m lesbian now.
Mom: OMG. That’s y u never have a bae.
(My mother has fully embraced texting language)
Jane: LEAVING. Leaving! Damn autocorrect!
So… it could have been an honest-to-God genuine mistake. But the more I remembered the look on Glitter-Talon’s face, the tone in her voice, and the snarky little look she’d given me, the more I began to think that this was very intentional.
But how could I have predicted that the absence of a tiny three-letter world like sea in the hotel name, Luxury Aegean Villas, could have had such a devastating effect?
The first thing I noticed when I walked into my hotel room was the thick blanket of moist and terribly uncomfortable heat that smothered me and coated my skin with a vile stickiness. The second thing was the smell, musty locker room jockstrap mingled with subtle aromas of moldy cheese. The carpets were in desperate need of
a cleaning—no, correction, they needed to be ripped up and burned. The curtains looked tattered, like someone had ripped them into shreds in a desperate attempt to escape. I took a brave step forward. The smell only intensified, and I was now aware of a strange dripping, banging, growling, hissing noise.
I heard a loud thud behind me as the doorman, although I doubt you call him that at an establishment like this, dumped my bags on the floor. Dust billowed up from the carpet, and I coughed. He glared at me for a moment or two before extending his pudgy paw. His palm was sweaty, and there were some glistening beads of moisture collecting on his upper lip.
“Sorry, I haven’t exchanged any currency yet,” I said, trying to force a polite smile.
He curled his lip up, revealing a particularly coffee-tarnished incisor. “Humph.” He turned on his heel and headed out the door.
Oh God, what’s that sound? There was a tiny door at the other end of the room and the noise was definitely coming from there. Note to self: Never walk toward strange noises coming from behind doors. Wasn’t this how all the slasher horror movies started? Except the first victim was usually a hot blond teenager with big boobs. But I did…
Hissing cockroaches and dripping tap? Gurgling sink and mice nibbling on steel showerhead? Donkey trapped in bathroom?
I would have put my money on any of those, because the last thing I expected to see was the “activity” that two people were “doing” in the shower with that peculiar “item” that looked like an inflatable pool chair.
I couldn’t even scream I was so shocked. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t natural and it wasn’t right! I rushed out of the room as fast as my legs could carry me, grabbing my bag on the way out and slamming straight into the greasy-looking doorman.