Finding It li-3

by Cora Carmack

  I said, “You’re awfully pushy, stranger.”

  And kind of dangerous. Who knew stranger-danger could be so hot?

  “You’re awfully drunk, princess.”

  I laughed. “Honey, I’m barely getting started. When I start talking about how I can’t feel my cheeks and get a little touchy-feely, then you’ll know I’m awfully drunk.”

  His eyebrow raised when I said touchy-feely, but he didn’t comment. My shot arrived, along with a cup of water. I glared at the latter, pushing it away from me, then grabbed my shot.

  This trip was about adventure, about living life with no baggage and no strings and no thought. Only now. It definitely wasn’t about drinking water.

  I tipped back the shot.

  Now.

  For a few seconds, the warmth settled in my middle, grounding me. I was beginning to get used to the lemon slices, sweeter than limes, but the sour taste still gave a tiny jolt on my tongue. I signaled for another, but my tagalong’s deep voice sliced through the lovely haze I was building.

  “If you’re trying to drink away the memory of that kiss on the dance floor, I doubt it will work. That’s the kind of kiss that sticks with you.”

  Cringing, I said, “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  I wiped at my cheek again even though the slobber was long gone.

  The cup of water slid back in front of me, pushed by his forefinger. I squinted up at him. His dark eyes were steel gray, hardened. But there was a hint of a smile in his gaze that was nowhere to be found on his mouth.

  And a fascinating mouth it was.

  I said, “You know, you could always help me find another way to erase the memory of that bad kiss.” He turned and leaned his back against the bar. His arm brushed mine, and I shivered. So, he was a bit on the aggravating side, but he was also big and warm and masculine, and, hell, I didn’t need to list anything else. I was already sold. My body didn’t so much care about what kind of tension was between us. Tension was tension.

  He kept his eyes fixed coolly on the dance floor across the room. With that strong, stubbled jaw and those delicious muscles, he was the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerous.

  My vocabulary narrowed to one word: yum.

  He said, “I could do that …,” glancing sideways at me.

  Oh, please. Let’s please do that.

  “But it’s so much more fun to keep picturing the look on your face as it was happening.”

  Damn it.

  His shoulders bounced in a silent chuckle. Great. Now he was laughing at me again.

  I let my arm brush his and said, “I can think of a few things that would be more fun.”

  He stopped laughing. His eyes broke away from the dance floor and trailed up my body, starting with my heels. I knew there was a reason I braved these stilettos. When his gaze reached my hips, he dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, and I was ready to jump him right then. I pushed my shoulders back, and like a charm his eyes settled on my chest.

  Bingo!

  Thanks for keeping my secrets, Victoria. The grin of victory was already climbing onto my face, and then he returned his gaze to the dance floor without a comment.

  What the hell?

  He didn’t look at my face. He didn’t even look at my body for that long.

  I was kind of offended. My girls, Marilyn and Monroe, were definitely offended.

  See! This was what I meant about not trusting a guy who wanted me sober. I’d been awake too long and had too many drinks to figure out what he wanted. And though he was gorgeous (of the drop-dead variety), he was also killing my buzz. Not to mention that alcohol and insecurity were a very bad combination.

  I said, “Well, this has been interesting. I better get back—”

  “To the dementor out on the dance floor? Really?”

  I took a few steps and threw a smile over my shoulder.

  “You got a better offer?”

  I’d expected the same cool once-over. Instead, his eyes blazed, and his jaw tensed. He leaned away from the bar like he was going to follow me. My steps stuttered, and something fluttered in my belly. I almost threw myself at him. Almost.

  He wasn’t nearly as uninterested as he wanted me to believe, and that was what made him interesting. I bit my lip and had the satisfaction of watching his eyes zone in on my mouth.

  Smiling, I stepped back toward him and leaned in until our chests brushed. His head tipped down toward mine, and though his expression was carefully blank, I saw his Adam’s apple bob once and then again as he swallowed.

  I braced a hand on his hard chest as I reached for the forgotten cup of water behind him. I bit my lip to keep from smiling too wide as I pulled the cup between us. Tilting my head to the side, I looked up at him as I wrapped my lips around the straw and took a long drink.

  He cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on my mouth. Excitement seized low in my belly. “Let me know if you change your mind,” I said.

  I turned and flounced back to the dance floor, my hips swinging a little more than usual. I made it over the rubble alone this time, though I had to be very cautious and careful about where I put my feet. It wasn’t until I was standing back on the dance floor and saw Tamás, the terrible kisser, that I regretted my killer exit.

  So when I spotted István, I made a beeline.

  Tamás was officially no longer on my to-do list.

  I looped my arms around István’s neck and spun so that he was stationed between me and droolboy. I didn’t even make it a few seconds before I found my thoughts once again drawn to my friend at the bar. His eyes lanced through me.

  Yeah, he was definitely interested.

  I smiled and took another sip of my water.

  Time for a little show.

  With my eyes on Dark and Dangerous, I ran a hand down István’s chest. I shook out my fair curls and pressed myself closer to him. I twisted and wound my body around his, putting a little extra intensity into my movement for my audience.

  From here, I could see the way his fist clenched on the bar.

  I leaned my back against István’s chest and faced my real target. Running a hand down my body, I shot him a sly smile.

  This was going to be a piece of cake.

  One of István’s hands slid around my waist to my abdomen, and I dropped my head back on his shoulder. My eyes fluttered closed, and my lids were almost too heavy to lift again. My muscles tingled pleasantly.

  There was that buzz again. Hallelujah. The tequila was kicking in.

  This … this was how I wanted to feel all the time. Set adrift, no longer tethered to the earth and her demands and troubles. I wanted to float out to sea, drift out to space, forget who I was.

  It was perfect.

  But I could think of one way it could be better. I opened my eyes, and had to blink away the blur before I could focus on the bar.

  Dark and Dangerous wasn’t there.

  I looked back to the wall where I’d first spotted him, but he wasn’t there either. I searched for his broad shoulders and his olive skin, but couldn’t see him anywhere. He’d vanished into the crowd, taking tonight’s most interesting option with him.

  Damn it. I’d played too hard to get. I should have just jumped him as soon as I saw his interest at the bar.

  I frowned and fought off my disappointment. I tried to settle back against István, but suddenly the heat from his hands on my hips and his breath against my shoulder felt much less exciting. I took a deep breath, stretched my neck, and turned to face him.

  He must have thought that was the go-ahead to make a move because he leaned in to kiss me. I pulled back and his lips grazed my chin instead.

  I stepped back and shook my head. What was wrong with me?

  I looked at the cup of water still in my hand and decided that maybe I just needed another drink.

  Traveling alone wasn’t easy. There was too much quiet, too much time spent in my head. Sometimes it felt a lot like work. And the antidote to work was more play.

&nbs
p; When István and I reached the bar, he smiled and said, “Drink, beautiful American.”

  Right. Maybe it would have been nice if he knew a few more words in English.

  I ordered another round of shots. At any other time—hell, yesterday—I would have made things interesting with the lemon wedge or some salt, but I wasn’t up to it at the moment. That would take too much effort.

  I knew the minute I put the glass to my mouth that it wasn’t a good idea. My mouth was watering, and my stomach felt like it was residing somewhere up in my rib cage. But I took it anyway.

  I’d stop after this one, ride it out for a while. I had it totally under control.

  Or I thought I had anyway.

  Five minutes later, that shot didn’t just hit me. It bulldozed me, backed up, and flattened me again. Just trying to walk made me feel like one of those lame inflatable flailing-tube guys. The ground kept bending up toward me, no matter how carefully I walked. The air seemed to ripple with each thump of the base. Neon lights bounced around the space. With the dancing people, the trippy décor of this place, and the noise, the inside of my head made the Harlem Shake look like a garden party.

  “I think … I think I need some air.”

  “Dance?” István asked.

  God, no.

  “No dancing. I just need …” I pushed back through the crowd to the hallway that we’d arrived through. I ping-ponged between drifts of people and the walls like a pinball before reaching the exit. I burst out into the cool night air, and took a huge gulp of fresh air.

  That was my downfall.

  I balanced myself with a hand on the building, and then was atrociously, epically, mortifyingly sick on the street. The quiet, empty, not-yet-zombie-infested street.

  Footsteps came up behind me, and warm hands pulled back the hair that was hanging on both sides of my face.

  Okay, so not entirely empty.

  Eyes watery and my throat sore, I looked over my shoulder expecting to see István or maybe Katalin.

  Instead, I found the guy who’d disappeared on me earlier reappearing at the absolute worst moment. And that trace of a smile I’d seen in his eyes was long gone.

  Kill me now.

  3

  I WAS SCARED that if I opened my mouth, I would hurl again … from the alcohol and the embarrassment.

  The world was spinning, but his face—the straight nose and chiseled jawbone—that was still and clear, almost as if the universe wanted this moment imprinted on my brain forever.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  No. I was so very far from okay (though still very much in four-letter-word territory).

  “I’m fine.” I pushed off the wall where I’d been bracing myself and tottered out into the street.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away.” Just … away.

  The night air was cool, and it felt exquisite against my sweat-dotted skin.

  “Hold on,” he said, trailing behind me.

  “Seriously?”

  He should be running right now. That’s what you do when someone makes a supreme asshat out of themselves. You look the other way and keep walking.

  He stopped before me, his face cast in shadows from the street lamps. “I’m not letting you walk around by yourself.”

  Oh. He was one of those.

  Couldn’t he take a hint? My head was spinning, and my mouth tasted like something too disgusting for me to name. I never thought there would be a moment where I wanted a hot guy to leave me alone, but it appeared there was a first time for everything.

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Bad things happen to people who are fine every day.”

  So, Dark and Dangerous was really just a Prince Charming with a buzz cut. That shouldn’t have been appealing. Normally, I couldn’t stand that kind of thing. But against all odds, I could feel myself softening, the edges of my will blurring.

  I blamed the stubble. I never could resist the scruffy look.

  “Listen, I get the whole protective thing. It’s what guys like you do. And don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda hot. But I don’t need a babysitter. So put the knight-in-shining-armor fantasies on hold for the night.”

  I thought I sounded firm and very adult (but then again, I was drunk). The roll of his eyes told me that he wasn’t taking me very seriously.

  “And I already told you that I don’t care what you think you need.”

  “So, what? You’re going to follow me whether I want you to or not?”

  His lips pulled together, and I could see the mirth written in the curve of his mouth. Such a tempting mouth.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Someone needs to get you home.”

  Not even a measly one percent of me managed to believe that “get you home” meant anything other than dropping the pitiful drunk girl off at her hostel to wallow in her nausea and misery.

  We couldn’t have that now, could we?

  I sidestepped him. “I’m not going home yet. So run along and find yourself another damsel.”

  He smiled, but there was an edge to it. He ran a hand over his short hair, and I made myself walk away.

  He called after me, “You’re a real piece of work.”

  That made me smile. I stopped and spun, walking backward. I stretched out my hands and yelled, the sound echoing through the street, “You bet I am.”

  If there was a museum filled with people who were a “piece of work,” I’d be the main fucking exhibit. I would have said as much, but the whole walking backward thing wasn’t the best idea in my current state. I stumbled, just barely managing to catch myself, but my stomach felt like it had plopped down to the ground anyway. I didn’t look at him, knowing I probably looked twice as foolish as I felt, which was a lot.

  I took a steadying breath, afraid I might be sick again.

  The funny thing about alcohol … when it makes you feel good, you feel amazing. But when it makes you feel bad, you’ve never felt worse. Not just the nausea, but all of it. I might be a piece of work, but I knew myself well enough to know that if I went back to my dingy hostel—mattress springs pricking at my back, the cacophony of snoring roommates, the threadbare blankets—it was a recipe for hitting rock bottom.

  Most hostels were devised so that you met other people, and yet they were the loneliest damn places in the world. Everything there is temporary—the residents, the relationships, the hot water. I felt like a flower trying to plant roots into concrete.

  Nope. I needed to walk off the alcohol before I went home if I wanted to avoid a breakdown of child-star proportions. And this time, I should walk facing the right direction.

  After only a few steps, my tagalong was right at my side. I scowled and tried to walk faster, but my stilettos weren’t having that. And I didn’t trust myself not to face-plant into the cobblestone with the kind of night I was having.

  And though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I was a little glad for the company.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  He arched one dark eyebrow.

  “You waited long enough to ask that.”

  I shrugged. “Names aren’t exactly the important bit in places like this.” I gestured behind us to the bar we’d just left. “And, honestly, I couldn’t care less.”

  Or that’s what I was telling myself. And him.

  “So, then why ask? If names aren’t important and you don’t care?”

  “Well, first, we’re no longer in said bar. And second, you’re following me, and I’m asking questions to fill the silence because otherwise things will get awkward. And talking keeps me from thinking about how you’re probably a serial killer, hence the whole following thing.”

  “From a knight in shining armor to a serial killer.”

  “The nice-guy bit could be an act. And you definitely look like you could be dangerous.”

  “Are you always this honest?”

  “Not even close. It’s the alcohol talking. Totally powers down
my filter.”

  The smile was back in his eyes, and maybe it was because I was drunk, but this guy didn’t make a lick of sense. That should have worried me. Maybe there really was something off about him. But at the moment, my brain was full just trying to stay upright and breathe.

  He said, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me something about yourself.”

  “Like what?” My pin number?

  “It doesn’t matter. Something else honest.”

  I couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line. My path kept veering toward his. Probably because I was drunk. Or his muscles were magnetic. Both completely plausible options.

  My arm brushed his, and the sensation went straight to my head, electric and fuzzy, so I said the first thing I thought of.

  “Honestly? I’m tired.”

  He laughed once. “That’s because it’s almost dawn.”

  “Not that kind of tired.”

  “What kind of tired, then?”

  “The bone-deep kind. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Just tired of … being.”

  He stayed quiet for one, two, three steps down the narrow, echoing street. Then his pace slowed, and I could feel his eyes on me. I strained my peripheral vision to see more of him. He said, “You don’t show it.”

  “I don’t show much of anything.”

  Three more silent steps.

  He said, “I bet that gets tiring, too.”

  What was I doing telling him this shit?

  I looked over at him. My stilettos apparently weren’t safe unless I was watching them, because they slipped between two stones on the street. My ankle turned for the second time that night, and I teetered sideways. I reached out to try to balance myself on his shoulder, but I was falling away from him, and I was too slow. Luckily, he was faster. He turned and caught my elbow with one hand and wrapped the other around my waist. He pulled me upright, and I could feel a stubborn blush creeping up my neck. I had no problem playing the ditzy blonde to get what I wanted, but I hated that I was living the stereotype unintentionally at the moment.