by Zoe Chant
Delicious, Raluca thought, gratefully discarding the rest of hers. It tasted primarily of chemicals. In fact, she was not entirely convinced that it was not made of plastic wrapped in plastic.
“...fine dining,” Nick finished. “I’ll take you to the hotel. You must be beat.”
By the time she’d figured out that he meant “tired,” it was too late to agree. Once he’d mentioned it, the exhaustion of the entire day came crashing down on her. She fell into something of a doze as he drove her to the hotel, took a duffel bag out of the trunk and got a bellboy to collect the shoe boxes and her bags, checked them both in, and then escorted her to the hotel shop and bought all the necessities that a guest might have forgotten to pack — toothpaste, a nightgown, a hairbrush.
“Thank you. I was so weary, I would have forgotten,” Raluca said.
“No problem.”
Nick escorted her to her two-bedroom, two bathroom suite. He put the bag down on one bed as she glanced around the rooms. It was an average five-star hotel, nothing special— Raluca had stayed at converted castles and palaces— but for a modern hotel, it was quite adequate.
“My hoard —” Raluca began.
“We can fetch it tomorrow.” Nick didn’t move away to go to his own room, but stood over her as she sank down to the bed.
Stood guard over her, she realized. He didn’t make a show of it, but by now she had noticed that he always placed himself between her and any possible danger, with her unguarded side by something relatively safe — a wall, perhaps, or a room he’d already checked. His intense green eyes never stopped taking in everything around them, watching for danger.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You can go to your own room. I’ll lock the door.”
He shook his head. “No, don’t lock it. If I have to get in fast, I don’t want to waste seconds breaking down the door. Don’t worry, if it’s not an emergency I’ll knock first.”
“But...” Then she realized: the other room of the suite was for him. Of course he wouldn’t leave her alone; of course he’d taken the room with the door to the corridor, where danger might come from. Her door led only to his room. “I know you will knock.”
He shot her a look. Raluca gritted her teeth: he’d obviously figured out her mistake. She seemed forever doomed to have him catch her being naïve.
“Good night,” she said firmly.
“Night. Call me if you need anything.” Nick closed the door between their rooms.
Raluca quickly made her bedtime toilette, by now used to doing such things by herself rather than with the help of her maids, then went to bed. She was so tired, she expected to fall asleep instantly.
Instead, she tossed and turned, preoccupied with thoughts of the man in the room next door. The door that wasn’t even locked. Had he gotten undressed? At some point while she was naked, had he been naked too? Or was he still sitting up, guarding her?
She cursed herself for not stripping him naked while she’d had the chance. He’d have let her. He’d clearly have done anything at all. And now she’d forever lost her chance to see his hard nude body, let alone to have it pressed against hers.
Raluca squirmed, wet and throbbing between the thighs. But she didn’t dare touch herself. Nick might hear the sounds of her private pleasure with his finely tuned werewolf senses. She glared in the dark, toward the general direction of his room. If he was pleasuring himself, she’d never know. Her dragon abilities did not include enhanced hearing or smell, and Nick wore no jewelry. If he wore precious metal, she might be able to sense its movement, though she wasn’t sure if she could do so from a room away.
We must gift him with silver, her dragon said unexpectedly. An earring or necklace for everyday, perhaps. And when we are alone, we could wind a long silver chain around his naked body.
The picture her dragon sent her made Raluca blush hotly, and sent even more heat lower down.
We’re not gifting Nick with anything, she snapped silently. He wouldn’t take a... a bacon-wrapped hotdog from me!
Undeterred, her dragon replied, You must find out what jewelry men wear in America.
None, Raluca retorted. Then, remembering Hal, she said, Just wedding rings.
Her dragon gave a snort. All humans adorn themselves.
Shaking her head, Raluca turned over and tried to banish thoughts of Nick, of naked Nick, of naked Nick wrapped in silver chains, of Nick laughing as she rose to his challenge of Big Bacon. It was a long time before she fell asleep.
***
The next morning, Raluca awoke to bars of sunlight across her face. She had slept late. When she went to the shower, she found that the borrowed clothes and nightgown she’d worn yesterday had been laundered and were folded on the table, along with the bulletproof vest and several other sets of clothing and shoes, none of which she’d bought the day before.
A piece of paper lay atop them. In slashing capitals that she knew had to be Nick’s writing before she even got to the signature, she read,
HAL FOUND A FORMAL BALL FOR TOMORROW. DINNER AND DANCING. IT’S WHITE TIE, WHATEVER THAT MEANS. DON’T WORRY, RAFA’S GETTING MY OUTFIT. I BET YOU ALREADY HAVE SOMETHING, BUT IF NOT, WE CAN GO BACK TO THE FREE COCKTAIL SHOP.
DESTINY DROPPED BY WITH CLOTHES FOR YOU. WANT TO DO MORE AMERICAN THINGS TODAY? WEAR ONE OF HER OUTFITS OR YOU’LL GET FUNNY LOOKS. OR WE COULD GO TO A MUSEUM OR SOME OTHER CLASSY THING. YOUR CHOICE.
NICK
Raluca showered, then inspected the clothing. Apart from the fatigues and undergarments, Destiny had provided two business suits, one in blue and white, one in gray and red, along with polished black pumps that would go with both, one set of blue jeans with a red and pink floral print blouse, a pink cloth jacket, and strappy red sandals, and one set of black jeans with a white tank top, a black leather jacket with multiple straps and buckles, and black boots with short heels.
She considered them. All were obviously meant to be worn with the jacket zipped over the bulletproof vest. Raluca had no desire to ever wear Fiona’s fatigues again. They would forever remind her of her stupidity in the dressing room. That left the business suits, which would be reasonable attire for visiting museums or other elegant attractions, or one of the jeans-based outfits. The black leather one would not have been out of place at Big Bacon.
The buckles and chains on the jacket were merely polished metal, not real silver, but they couldn’t help catching Raluca’s eye. She liked the boots, too, which went over the jeans and halfway up her thighs, and were also adorned with sparkling buckles and zips. They were obviously the “American things” outfit — a feminine version of Nick’s clothes, in fact.
Raluca considered the possibilities, then shrugged and put on the jeans. She had wanted to give American commoner things a try. If she hated them as much as she’d hated Big Bacon, at least she’d know rather than wondering forever. And she had the fancy party the next day.
That being said, she ordered room service breakfast. She couldn’t face Big Bacon or its breakfast equivalent (Big Bagel?) first thing in the morning.
When someone knocked on her door, Raluca called, “Come in!”
Nick kicked open the door between their rooms, holding a tray in both hands. His own door, which opened to the corridor, was closed, and no hotel employees were in sight.
Raluca, noting the scuff his boot had made on the door between their rooms, pointed out, “You could have just asked me to open the door for you.”
“Didn’t think princesses opened doors for people.”
“I’m not a princess, and if the alternative is kicking them open, I certainly do.”
Nick stood still, staring at her. Ah. The black leather. He had undoubtedly expected her to wear one of the business suits. She smiled inwardly, keeping her expression bland until she saw him suddenly realize that he was frozen with a tray in his hands. He hurriedly came forward and set the breakfast tray on the table.
Raluca indicated the other chair. Uncertain if Nick had already eaten, she’d o
rdered enough for two. “Breakfast?”
“I already ate.”
“Big Bacon?” Raluca inquired.
“Nah. They don’t deliver.”
Uncertain whether he was teasing her or not, she said, “You could have coffee... Do you drink coffee?”
“My life’s blood.” Nick picked up the china coffee pot, his boyish grin flashing. He poured for her first, then for himself.
Raluca added plenty of milk and half a spoon of sugar to her coffee. Nick took his coffee black, with two heaping spoons of sugar. Sugar and caffeine, no milk. If he was an ordinary man, she’d think he wanted a jolt of energy, a jittery edginess vibrating through his nerves. Though he’d said that because he was a werewolf, it took a lot of alcohol to affect him, so maybe caffeine and sugar worked the same way.
She opened her mouth to ask, then closed it, uncertain if that was a nosy question. She wished she knew anything about werewolves. Maybe if she knew more about his shifter type, she’d understand more about him. He was such a fascinating mystery.
Raluca thought about him as she ate and he drank, clearly pacing himself to match her. She had the distinct impression that if she hadn’t been there, he’d have finished his coffee in two gulps. He clearly knew the basics of manners, though it was obvious that he’d never been taught formal etiquette.
Still, the rudeness was at least partly deliberate. He did know how to behave properly, more or less. The f-word, on the other hand, was clearly something that had been ingrained into his speech for a very long time, given how it slipped out even when he was trying not to say it. And even his basic manners slipped when he wasn’t paying attention. That was the mark either of someone who’d been taught as an adult rather than a child, or of someone who had lived a very long time without even the most basic of niceties.
He’d said he was a common criminal and had a record, and that had sounded completely honest. She wondered what he’d done, why he’d stopped, and how he’d come to work for Hal. But there was no polite way to bring up the first two. The third, though, was ordinary conversation. Every guide book on America had said that so long as you didn’t ask how much money a person made, inquiries about employment were normal topics of conversation among strangers, as neutral and common as remarks about the weather.
“Being a bodyguard must be such an interesting job,” she began.
“It’s got its moments.” Nick topped off her coffee and poured himself another cup, then absently began pouring sugar straight from the pot into his cup, rather than using the spoon. There he went again, his manners slipping when he got distracted. Raluca hoped it was because he was engaged in the conversation, not because she’d annoyed him.
“What made you choose it as a profession?” she asked.
Raluca instantly knew that she’d made a mistake. Nick froze. Infinite heartbreak flickered in his emerald eyes before it was replaced with anger, then guilt. Sugar cascaded into his cup in a white waterfall, pouring and pouring until his coffee trembled at the rim of the mug, about to overflow.
Then his expression went blank, a calculated look that she knew all too well. He put down the sugar pot and lifted his coffee to his lips with impressive steadiness. The cup was filled to the brim, but not a drop spilled. He drank, made a face, and set it down.
With a less-than-convincing shrug, he said, “Pay’s good. I get to drive fast and fight, and it’s all legal. There’s not many jobs like that. If I was in the military, I’d have to follow orders. If I was a cop, I’d have to do my own paperwork. Bouncers make lousy money. Being a bodyguard’s a good fit for me.”
I’m sure that’s all true, Raluca thought. But I don’t think that’s why you just poured the entire pot of sugar into your coffee.
“You done?” Nick asked.
Raluca stood up. “I am.”
“So what’s your pick? Museums and art galleries? Or real America?”
“Real America,” Raluca replied. She’d already decided on that, but now she wondered if there might be a more subtle way of finding out more about Nick. She added, “Your America. You know, places that people like you go.”
Once again, she immediately knew that she’d said the wrong thing. Anger flashed in his eyes, and she knew she was in for it as he said, “My America. Okay, princess. You got it.”
Now what? Raluca thought glumly, realizing that whatever plans he’d had in mind had just been switched with the intention of annoying her.
What had she said to upset him? She replayed her words, but could find nothing offensive in them. The guidebooks said that Americans, like natives of any country, enjoyed advising foreigners on the best that their land had to offer, and were particularly fond of being asked about places off the beaten path.
Why was Nick so touchy? She didn’t even feel comfortable asking him what she’d said to offend him, in case that offended him. She wished she hadn’t agreed to go anywhere with him. But it would be undignified to suddenly change her mind.
Raluca followed him out of the hotel and to his Viper. Her heels clattered pleasingly against the floor, and the jeans and tank top were unexpectedly comfortable. She reminded herself to thank Destiny the next time she saw her.
This time Raluca remembered not to sweep away non-existent skirts as she got in. “Where are we going?”
“On a road trip.” Now Nick sounded more teasing than angry, to Raluca’s relief. “It doesn’t get any more American than that.”
He rolled down the windows and peeled out of the parking garage and into the streets, threading his way through Santa Martina. Raluca looked curiously around the city. It was different from the European cities she was used to. Less elegant, but it did have a certain quality she liked.
As Nick passed a group of skateboarders practicing jumps in front of a graffiti mural of a beautiful black woman with an explosion of rainbow-colored hair, she thought, Lively. Vibrant. Unexpected.
She wouldn’t have minded seeing more sights like that. But Nick soon left the city and began speeding down a highway that led into the countryside. Raluca watched the scenery, but soon became bored: it was nothing but field after field, with the occasional herd of cows. She could have seen as much in the countryside of Viorel, though the fields would have been smaller, the sky less vast.
They drove and drove, until Nick suddenly pointed at a billboard. He was going so fast, Raluca barely had time to read, WORLD’S BIGGEST CHAIR: NEXT EXIT before they were skidding off the highway, down the exit, and pulling up in front of another sign announcing, WORLD’S BIGGEST CHAIR.
Nick bounced out of the car and opened her door.
“What is this?” Raluca asked, before remembering the folly of asking Nick rhetorical questions.
Sure enough, he replied, “It’s the world’s biggest chair.”
He paid the admission fee as Raluca wondered if this was some bizarre prank. Then again, Big Bacon was real...
A moment later, they stood in an open lot, looking up at a gigantic armchair the size of a house.
“Well?” inquired Nick. His green eyes gleamed teasingly. “What do you think?”
Raluca was determined not to rise to the bait. If he had decided to pay her back for an infraction that she didn’t even understand, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her annoyance. “It’s certainly quite large.”
She waited, but there appeared to be no more to the attraction than its size.
“Okay,” Nick said. To her satisfaction, he seemed disappointed in her lack of visible reaction. “Onward!”
They returned to the highway and passed more and more fields. Raluca drew upon her training at enduring boring diplomatic meetings until Nick pointed again. This billboard read, WORLD’S BIGGEST LOBSTER: NEXT EXIT.
That actually intrigued Raluca... until they paid their admission and found, not an aquarium housing an immense live lobster, but a gigantic fake lobster, painted bright red and long as a city block.
“World’s biggest lobster!” Nick announ
ced.
“I see,” said Raluca.
They looked at it for a few minutes, then returned to the highway. As Nick began driving again, Raluca waited till he was distracted by passing a car, then stole a look at him. To her satisfaction, he seemed frustrated, no doubt by her lack of reaction; to her secret alarm, he also seemed determined. She wondered how many WORLD’S BIGGEST things were within driving distance of Santa Martina.
She sat silently, calmly watching the monotonous fields and sneaking glances at Nick whenever he wasn’t looking at her. He became more and more visibly impatient as time went on, shifting in his seat and tapping his fingers against the wheel, but was apparently unwilling to start a conversation. Raluca was also unwilling, given that everything she said only seemed to annoy him.
Then she caught his lips twitching in a way that she’d come to recognize as Let’s irritate Raluca.
He turned on the radio. Reception was bad in the country; the first few stations were nothing but sizzles and hisses. He stayed briefly on a preacher bellowing about fire and brimstone in between long bursts of static, skipped through several music stations that sounded at least potentially enjoyable, one Spanish and one classical, and then found one playing a type of music that Raluca had not heard before.
With a distinctly evil grin, he dropped his hand. Clearly this was something she was meant to hate. At first Raluca couldn’t tell why. The instrumentation had a heavy emphasis on twanging guitars, but was otherwise unobjectionable. Then she began to listen to the lyrics.
My wife done run off with my best bud
Now I’m in a bar drinking my fifth Bud
Wonderin’ how my life got to be such a dud
Raluca shrugged inwardly. Many popular songs had unimpressive lyrics. Nick would have to do better than repetitive rhymes if he wanted to get under her skin.
When the song lamenting the loss of the singer’s wife to another man ended, another song began. This one, also set in a bar, lamented the loss of the singer’s job. The third song didn’t begin in a bar, but the singer ended up in one after his dog died. The fourth was also set in a bar, this time because the singer’s beloved truck had been destroyed in a crash.