Guarding Her: A Secret Baby Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  I shrug. “That I don’t know. But even if I can’t walk you home, I can walk with you. You can tell me then, if you even know. I’m a good listener, or so I’ve been told—”

  “By multiple tourist women?” She steps away, like she’s getting ready to leave.

  “Something like that.” I move from the wall and stub out my cigarette, ready to follow her. It’s more instinct than anything else, the urge to follow her, to see what it is she’s thinking, what she’s here to discover.

  She holds up a hand. “No thanks—I don’t think it’s a good idea to walk around with a stranger for the rest of the night.”

  “It’s not a good idea to walk around alone either, is it? Not in this part of town.”

  “I’m heading to the city center. And then to the apartment where I’m staying. It’s in some neighborhood with a J—”

  “Jordaan?” I don’t let her know that my little neighborhood is steps away.

  “It could be that. I don’t remember,” she says, scrunching up her face. “I need to check my phone. And right now, I need to go—”

  “The night is young. You sure you don’t want someone to walk with? I’m good company.”

  “So you say.” She adjusts her skirt, nervously again, and turns toward the city center.

  “It’s a smaller town than you might think,” I say into the darkness as she walks away, white skirt swaying. “I might see you around.”

  She turns back and looks at me, the white part of her tattoo catching a stray bit of streetlight. “Maybe.”

  I resist the urge to follow her as she walks on.

  I don’t follow women.

  I’m not the type. I turn towards my apartment and light another cigarette. My bed is calling my name, even if I’m not bringing her to it.

  Chapter Two

  Mallory

  “Stupid key, stupid lock, stupid apartment, stupid city.” I kick the bottom of the old wooden door and stub my toe hard, the pain spiraling from toe to leg to the very center of my nervous system. Like I’ve hit my funny bone, but worse. The pain is exacerbated by all the walking from last night. The sharp ache coincides with a fatigue unlike any I’ve felt in my ordinary life.

  I wonder, sometimes, if this was what Kim felt at the end. She talked about the tingling that traveled up and down her right leg, the words she often forgot, the clumsiness of her fingers and feet. I wished I could feel it for her. I still wish that.

  What she described was probably so much worse than the ache of muscles and the wash of tiredness I’m feeling right now.

  Mallory, you don’t know anything about it, I think. I’ve had this train of thoughts a million times before, and Kim wouldn’t want it. I keep reminding myself that she wanted me to come to this continent to have fun, to meet people, to start a new adventure. I’m doing nothing of the sort—I spend my days in museums, my nights walking because I can’t sleep.

  Instead of going down that hole right now, I shake off the feeling and growl in annoyance. I try the key again, sliding it in and then jiggling it like I have the past five times. That’s what it said in the email from this Albrecht guy from Air BnB. Hell, he’s a super host. He should have a key that works, especially for an 8:00 AM check in. The key sticks again, and I jiggle it, closing my eyes and hoping it works.

  This time—it does. I push the door open with my shoulder, hauling in the red suitcase that Kim gave me for Christmas three years ago. Since she was the one who told me to go to Europe in the first place, I figured I could at least bring part of her with me. It’s what I can do for her, I guess. Or her memory.

  But what would she have said about you walking away from that guy last night? She probably would have shaken her head and given you shit for a week. But what if he was dangerous? He didn’t look dangerous. Just beautiful, sensual. A good fuck. I blush and chew on my lip, trying to dismiss the image of him that keeps sticking in my brain.

  The door to Albrecht’s apartment swings open.

  “Albrecht?” I say, an empty apartment echoing back my own voice. The email says he’s not supposed to be here, but I’ve spent enough time in Europe on Air BnB this summer to know that empty spaces aren’t always what they seem. I’ve been surprised by Finnish couples in compromising positions one too many times, not to mention unprepared hosts who had no idea who I was. And once, a drunk Icelander on holiday in Spain—he thought my room was supposed to be his. “Anyone?”

  I wait for an answer before I walk in. Only silence greets me.

  What if I had let him walk with me last night? Would he be here with me now, his broad hand resting against my waist?

  No, I would have been dumb and left him downstairs by the old wooden door.

  Like most places I’ve stayed in this area of Europe, the apartment is clean and neat. The kitchenette has one of those dwarf refrigerators I’ve become so familiar with, and there’s a murphy bed that’s already been lowered down from the wall. There’s a single burner hot plate, a tiny bathroom with a tiny shower and a separate room for the toilet. Everything is small, compact, and European.

  Is there enough for two? I sent you to Europe to get laid, not look at shit in art museums all day. Maybe that guy would help you carry the suitcase up the stairs next time. I hear Kim’s voice in my head and smile for a moment, patting my suitcase. I have been looking at a lot of art, and in Amsterdam, there’s even more to see. Sorry, Kim. I blame you for making me too depressed to pick up guys. You had to up and leave me, and now I don’t have a sister anymore. I have museums, I have art, I have design, and I have Europe. But nothing and no one else.

  I swipe my index finger against the aging stone counter in the kitchen. It comes away clean.

  “Everything’s how it should be, Albrecht. I give you that.” I walk over to the bed and sink down into it, looking around at the simple, empty room. Like I always do when I enter one of these places, I feel vaguely uncomfortable, like there are the ghosts of other people watching me. There might be. The building is over a hundred years old, and that’s new architecture for places around here. I push my backpack and the red suitcase from Kim up against the wall. Now is the time for sleep, the time for forgetting. Later, I’ll walk the city again and see the fountains, maybe try a few of the things Amsterdam has to offer.

  “Bet I won’t get laid, Kim,” I say to the walls. “I’ve only got two weeks until school starts, and then I’m down to business. But here’s what I’m going to do—I’m going to see some Van Gogh, meet some interesting people, smoke a joint, see the penis fountain, and sketch some designs. Does that work for you?”

  Kim doesn’t answer.

  She never does.

  I consider what the guy from last night said—that a girl alone in the city stands out to him. He didn’t know anything about me besides the fact that I stopped to look at him and the red bruise, swelling across his face. How did he know there was something different? Did I somehow stand out to him? I want to shake off the feeling he gave me, the one that made me feel like he was looking right through me, straight to the damage inside.

  He’s right, though. It could be because he knows women, and he knows them well. And I can’t blame a single woman who’s slept with him. A man like that even wakes something in me. And I’m depressing as shit.

  Tall, without being lanky. Well-muscled shoulders and chest, evident through his tight button-down shirt, but not bulky.

  I sit down on the bed and think about the silky tone of his voice, reaching out to me like it was a physical thing. The way his deep green eyes locked on mine the moment I walked up to him. It’s the first real connection I’ve made since I started traveling. It seems funny that a twenty-three-year old girl wouldn’t meet a single person in Europe. But I am what I am, and maybe I’ve been trying not to.

  Not even I could escape that gaze.

  In all my time in Europe—three months now—I haven’t met a man. Not a man like him, anyway. I made out with one guy in Prague, but I barely remember his name and ce
rtainly not his face. I can’t blame that lapse on drinking, since I’d only had two vodkas, and the alcohol had faded from my system long before I met him. Even though I was alone and desperate for human contact, I didn’t go home with him.

  He didn’t have that thing, the thrall. The man outside of the bar had that thing, and I entered his world for just a few moments. I close my eyes, and all I can see are those lips.

  “And you were silly enough to walk off. Silly, silly.” My words fall flat in the empty apartment. I’ve noticed, in my time traveling through Europe, there’s a thing that happens when I’m this tired. Even though I haven’t indulged in sleeping with anyone since I arrived, I often want to go grab someone—anyone—when I haven’t slept in so long. Maybe it’s the longing for release that will provide me with a deeper sleep. I don’t often indulge—but the vision of the man’s body, leaning against the wall, won’t leave me even as I close my eyes.

  “If anyone is here, you’d better come out now,” I say to the empty room and look around suspiciously. After a few seconds of silence, I lift my skirt over my hips and slip my hand into my panties, finding my clit and touching it, fingers circling over its tip until the heat and energy rush through me in shocks and waves.

  Normally, a flashing series of images roll through my mind, all unrelated. Men from movies, one old boyfriend, faces shifting into one another as I fantasize with my eyes closed tight. This time, the shifting images melt into one—his quizzical, intelligent face and aquiline nose, his full, sensual lips running over my body, the secrets that lie beneath his shirt and jeans. I imagine him entering me, taking me forcefully, his words letting me know how I should move my body beneath his as he fills me.

  I might feel shame if I were the quiet, good girl I was before flying across the Atlantic. After all, he’s a man I met once—a man I don’t even know. Instead, I let what small embarrassment I would have felt fall away from my body as I rock against my hand and come hard, envisioning the tall, blond man’s body colliding with mine.

  I open my eyes after that, half expecting to see him standing above me. But there’s no one. I close my eyes and sleep for two, maybe three hours. When I wake, I’m thinking of him again.

  And when I leave the apartment and lock it behind me, it’s him I’m hoping to see.

  But Amsterdam is a big city, and it looks like I let that one opportunity for fun go sometime late last night.

  “This isn’t the movies, Mal. And there’s no Prince Charming. Especially not one who looks like that. Besides, he’s probably the world’s biggest asshole. Certainly seemed like it.”

  I shrug and sigh, trying to shake off the feeling that I missed out on something big.

  It’s noon, I tell myself. I need a strong latte, something starchy to eat, and hell, I might even buy some pot. It’s Amsterdam, after all. I’ve never tried anything like that, but maybe it’s time.

  All bets are off in a city like this.

  Chapter Three

  Matthias

  My face still smarts from where the bouncer punched me last night. I know that I might have lost the guy some money, but that’s what I’m good at. Actually, I’m good at a fair number of things—picking up women, playing cards, swindling people out of their money, and taking photos.

  I don’t advertise that part much since it doesn’t go with my image.

  Rich aristocrat, bad boy, disinterested player. That’s the face I show to Amsterdam. The image that inhabits the Albring building my parents own.

  This morning, I wish I was a little better at getting rid of bruises. I didn’t have enough mental capacity at three in the morning to ice it properly.

  It might have been the girl I met. She distracted me.

  I did, however, get the money to the safe. I don’t need the cash, no. But it’s nice to have, even if it did come with the black and blue imprint of knuckles on the side of my chin.

  It’ll be a good story if I meet a girl. That girl. She shouldn’t be that hard to find. Americans stick out around here. If I ask around… maybe…

  Why would you care, Matthias? Why?

  I get myself together and shuffle around the room, head throbbing.

  After my hair is combed and I put on the button down shirt and jeans that I wear like a uniform in this neighborhood, I rattle down the stairs and out into the street. It’s noon. That means it’s time for coffee.

  The cobblestone feels somewhat unsteady beneath my feet, and I wonder if it’s because the guy from last night rattled the insides of my head when he punched me last night. Fucker was strong.

  When I turn towards the coffee shop I usually stop at, there’s something anomalous. Something off. There’s a girl, sitting outside at my table, sipping something frothy and contemplating a joint she must have had rolled inside. Like she doesn’t know quite what to do with it. I watch her watching it. Instead of taking out a match or a lighter, she pulls a flaky pastry out of a paper bag and takes a big bite, following it with a long sip of coffee. Without thinking, I take out my phone and snap a picture of her, short brown hair falling over her sunglasses, a tattoo peeking out from the edge of her tank top. Not one of those unfortunate Chinese symbols that I see on American girls these days, but instead, two blossoms—one white and one pink. Simple, respectable, feminine.

  It’s her.

  At that moment I realize I was ready to spend the day looking for her, and I don’t entirely know why. I lean against a tree and watch her for a while.

  I half expect her to look up and see me taking a picture of her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks straight ahead and takes off her sunglasses, leaving the pastry, the coffee, and sadly, the joint, sitting in front of her on the table. She stands out, this one. She is beautiful—in a non-traditional way. Her face isn’t exactly symmetrical, and her body is far more solid and real than many of the girls I meet around here.

  I stride over to the table where the girl sits. I didn’t catch her name last night, and she didn’t want anything to do with me. But she had stopped—maybe it was because I was the only guy on the street. It could have been something more, and I guess I’m banking on that.

  Oh, Matthias. No. There are a thousand girls cycling through the city at any given time, ready to spend a night or a weekend with you. Why this one? The one who wasn’t interested?

  My mother’s voice echoes in my head. She’s always the naysayer, and she’s made it clear she’d prefer me to move into the estate in the North Islands like a well-behaved young man. Someone who doesn’t gamble, fight, get involved in unsavory illegal activity, or bring American girls home to the house in Amsterdam.

  I smirk.

  That’s just the point. Something different. A small gamble in the scheme of things, but an exciting chance nonetheless.

  It takes a solid minute before she notices me because she’s still staring off into space. But she slowly takes off her sunglasses and sits back in her chair, almost like she was expecting me. Her countenance is even chillier than it was last night, but a corner of her lip turns up with a small smile. It’s an odd juxtaposition, I admit—that cold stare and the grin that might look menacing if it was a big bouncer like Liam. On her, I like it. On her, as I told her bluntly last night, it’s like art.

  I stand a meter or so from the table, and then I sit down across from her. “I told you I’d take you to coffee, but I didn’t expect that you’d take me up on it.”

  “You followed me.”

  “No, I didn’t. This is my city, and this is my coffee shop. This is the table where I sit every morning.”

  “It’s noon. No longer morning.”

  “You’re treating it as such. You’ve got a coffee. Were you walking all night, like you said? Is that why the coffee? And the little spliff you’ve got there? Trying to be an adventurous American in Amsterdam?”

  She blushes slightly, a brief cascade of pink across the high planes of her cheeks. “That’s a lot of questions all at once.”

  “They’re on the same top
ic.”

  “What topic is that?”

  “You. And the reasons you came to this city. My city. I always take an interest when I see a tourist who doesn’t quite seem a tourist.”

  “I’m an ordinary tourist, like any of the girls you pick up on a regular basis. That’s just a guess that you’re picking up tourists but you and I seem to be in the business of making assumptions.”

  “Good guess. But I’m not usually the one doing the picking up. It’s the tourist girls. They’re looking for a good time when they come to Amsterdam. Good beer, good drugs, nice art to look at and tell their parents about. I’m just part of the package deal if they’re lucky enough to meet me.” I smile broadly. “I do want to know if you walked all night. That’s a good bit of strenuous exercise for the middle of the night.”

  She takes a sip of her coffee and a bite of her pastry, her eyes not leaving mine. “I did. Through the red light district and back down this way. I checked into my room earlier, but I couldn’t sleep.”

  I nod. “That will help.” I gesture to the lone joint sitting between us on the table.

  “I haven’t smoked one before. I bought it because it seems like part of the Amsterdam experience. Like something I can tell my friends when I get home.”

  “How romantic. Where’s home?”

  “Florida. But maybe not anymore. I might be going to design school somewhere in Europe. I haven’t heard back from everywhere just yet, but I was accepted in Paris, so I’m probably going there.”

  “Mom and Dad sent you here with a trust fund?” I want to bite my lip after I say it because the look she’s giving me could melt steel.

  “No. No trust fund. My sister left me what she earned after she died. She was a lawyer.” A shadow crosses her face, and she gives me a chilly look. “My dad never had anything to do with us, and my mother could care less about my existence now that my sister is gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You were close?”

  “She was ten years older, but yes. We were very close. She was only thirty-three. Why I am telling you this?” Her eyes remain dry, but she has the look of someone who’s spent time grieving, perhaps deeply in private. This isn’t the usual banter I exchange with a girl. But I find myself wanting to know, wanting to ask more.