Keeping Her (losing it)

by Cora Carmack

  I kept calling Tamás, István. Or was that András? Oh well. All three were hot with dark hair and eyes, and they knew four words in English as far as I could tell.

  American. Beautiful. Drink. And dance.

  As far as I was concerned, those were the only words they needed to know. At least I remembered Katalin’s name. I’d met her a few days ago, and we’d hung out almost every night since. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She showed me around Budapest, and I charged most of our fun on Daddy’s credit card. Not like he would notice or care. And if he did, he’d always said that if money didn’t buy happiness, then ­people were spending it wrong. So if he got mad, I’d just say I was finding my joy.

  “Kelsey,” Katalin said, her accent thick and exotic. “Welcome to the ruin bars.”

  I paused in ruffling István’s hair (or the one I called István, anyway). The five of us stood on an empty street filled with dilapidated buildings. I knew the whole don’t-­judge-­a-­book-­by-­its-­cover thing, but this place was straight out of a zombie apocalypse. I wondered how to say brains in Hungarian.

  The old Jewish quarter—­that’s where Katalin said we were going.

  Oy vey.

  It sure as hell didn’t look to me like there were any bars around here. I looked at the sketchy neighborhood, and thought at least I’d gotten laid last night. If I was going to get chopped into tiny pieces, at least I went out with a bang. Literally.

  I laughed, and almost recounted my thoughts to my companions, but I was pretty sure it would get lost in translation. Especially because I was starting to question even Katalin’s grip on the English language, if this was what bar meant to her.

  I pointed to a crumbling stone building and said, “Drink?” Then mimed the action just to be safe.

  One of the guys said, “Igen. Drink.” The word sounded like ee-­gan, and I’d picked up just enough to know it meant yes.

  I was practically fluent already.

  I cautiously followed Katalin toward one of the derelict buildings. She stepped into a darkened doorway that gave me the heebiest of jeebies. The taller of my Hungarian hotties slipped an arm around my shoulder. I took a guess and said, “Tamás?” His teeth were pearly white when he smiled. I would take that as a yes. Tamás equaled tall. And drop-­dead sexy. Noted.

  One of his hands came up and brushed back the blond hair from my face. I tilted my head back to look at him, and excitement sparked in my belly. What did language matter when dark eyes locked on mine, strong hands pressed into my skin, and heat filled the space between us?

  Not a whole hell of a lot.

  We followed the rest of the group into the building, and I felt the low thrum of techno music vibrating the floor beneath my feet.

  Interesting.

  We traveled deeper into the building and came out into a large room. Walls had been knocked down, and no one had bothered to move the pieces of concrete. Christmas lights and lanterns lighted the building. Mismatched furniture was scattered around the space. There was even an old car that had been repurposed into a dining booth. It was easily the weirdest, most confusing place I’d ever been in.

  “You like?” Katalin asked.

  I pressed myself closer to Tamás and said, “I love.”

  Tamás led me to the bar, where drinks were amazingly cheap. Maybe I should stay in Eastern Europe forever. I pulled out a two-­thousand-­forint note. For less than the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars I bought all five of us shots.

  Amazing.

  The downside to Europe? For some reason that made no sense to me they gave lemon slices with tequila instead of lime. The bartenders always looked at me like I’d just ordered elephant sweat in a glass.

  They just didn’t understand the magical properties of my favorite drink. If my accent didn’t give me away as American, my drink of choice always did.

  Next, Tamás bought me a gin bitter lemon, a drink I’d been introduced to a few weeks ago. It almost made the absence of margaritas in this part of the world bearable. I downed it like it was lemonade on a blistering Texas day. His eyes went wide, and I licked my lips. István bought me another, and the acidity and sweetness rolled across my tongue.

  Tamás gestured for me to down it again, so I did, to a round of applause.

  God, I love when ­people love me.

  I took hold of Tamás’s and István’s arms and pulled them away from the bar. There was a room that had one wall knocked out in lieu of a door, and it overflowed with dancing bodies.

  That was where I wanted to be.

  I tugged my boys in that direction, and Katalin and András followed close behind. We had to step over a pile of concrete if we wanted to get into the room. I took one look at my turquoise heels, and knew there was no way in hell I was managing that with my sex appeal intact. I turned to István and Tamás—­sizing them up. István was the beefier of the two, so I put an arm around his neck. We didn’t need to speak the same language for him to understand what I wanted. He swept an arm underneath my legs, and pulled me up to his chest. It was a good thing I wore skinny jeans instead of a skirt.

  “Köszönöm,” I said, even though he probably should have been thanking me, based on the way he was openly ogling my chest.

  Ah, well. I didn’t mind ogling. I was still pleasantly warm from the alcohol, and the music drowned out the world. And my shitty parents and uncertain future were thousands of miles away across an ocean. My problems might as well have been drowning at the bottom of said ocean for how much they mattered to me in that moment.

  The only expectations here were ones that I had encouraged and was all too willing to follow through on. So maybe my new “friends” only wanted me for money and sex. It was better than not being wanted at all.

  István’s arms flexed around me, and I melted into him. My father liked to talk, or yell, rather, about how I didn’t appreciate anything. But the male body was one thing I had no issue appreciating. István was all hard muscles and angles beneath my hands, and those girls were definitely a-­wandering.

  By the time he’d set my feet on the dance floor, my hands had found those delicious muscles that angled down from his hips. I bit my lip and met his gaze from beneath lowered lashes. If his expression was any indication, I had found Boardwalk and had the all-­clear to proceed to Go and collect my two hundred dollars.

  Or forint. Whatever.

  Tamás pressed his chest against my back, and I gave myself up to the alcohol and the music and the sensation of being stuck between two delicious specimens of man.

  Time started to disappear between frenzied hands and drips of sweat. There were more drinks and more dances. Each song faded into the next. Colors danced behind my closed eyes. And it was almost enough.

  For a while, I got to be blank. A brand-­new canvas. Untouched snow.

  I checked my baggage at the door, and just was.

  There was no room for unhappiness when squeezed between two sets of washboard abs.

  New life motto, right there.

  I gave István a ­couple notes and sent him to get more drinks. In the meantime, I turned to face Tamás. He’d been pressed against my back for God knows how long, and I’d forgotten how tall he was. I leaned back to meet his gaze, and his hands smoothed down my back to my ass.

  I smirked and said, “Someone is happy to have me all to himself.”

  He pulled my hips into his and said, “Beautiful American.”

  Right. No point expending energy on cheeky banter that he couldn’t even understand. I had a pretty good idea how to better use my energy. I slipped my arms around his neck and tilted my head in the universal sign of kiss me.

  Tamás didn’t waste any time. Like really . . . no time. The dude went zero to sixty in seconds. His tongue was so far down my throat it was like being kissed by the lovechild of a lizard and Gene Simmons.

  We were both pretty drunk. Maybe he didn’t realize that he was in danger of engaging my gag reflex with his Guinness-­record-­worthy tongue. I e
ased back and his tongue assault ended, only for his teeth to clamp down on my bottom lip.

  I was all for a little biting, but he pulled my lip out until I had one half of a fish mouth. And he stood there, sucking on my bottom lip for so long that I actually started counting to see how long it would last.

  When I got to fifteen (fifteen!) seconds, my eyes settled on a guy across the bar, watching my dilemma with a huge grin. Was shit-­eating grin in the dictionary? If not, I should snap a picture for Merriam-­Webster.

  I braced myself and pulled my poor, abused lip from Tamás’s teeth. My mouth felt like it had been stuck in a vacuum cleaner. While I pressed my fingers to my numb lip, Tamás started placing sloppy kisses from the corner of my lips across my cheek to my jaw.

  His tongue slithered over my skin like a snail, and all the blissful, alcohol-­induced haze that I’d worked so hard for disappeared.

  I was painfully aware that I was standing in an abandoned-­building-­turned-­bar with a trail of drool across my cheek, and the guy across the room was now openly laughing at me.

  And he was fucking gorgeous, which made it so much worse.

  Sometimes . . . the now sucked.

  LOSING IT

  1

  I TOOK A deep breath.

  You are awesome. I didn’t quite believe it, so I thought it again.

  Awesome. You are so awesome. If my mother heard my thoughts, she’d tell me that I needed to be humble, but humility had gotten me nowhere.

  Bliss Edwards, you are a freaking catch.

  So then how did I end up twenty-­two years old and the only person I knew who had never had sex? Somewhere between Saved by the Bell and Gossip Girl, it became unheard of for a girl to graduate college with her V-­card still in hand. And now I was standing in my room, regretting that I’d gathered the courage to admit it to my friend Kelsey. She reacted like I’d just told her I was hiding a tail underneath my A-­line skirt. And I knew before her jaw even finished dropping that this was a terrible idea.

  “Seriously? Is it because of Jesus? Are you, like, saving yourself for him?” Sex seemed simpler for Kelsey. She had the body of a Barbie and the sexually charged brain of a teenage boy.

  “No, Kelsey,” I said. “It would be a little difficult to save myself for someone who died over two thousand years ago.”

  Kelsey whipped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. I must have made a face because she looked at me and laughed.

  “Relax, Princess Purity, I’m just changing shirts.” She stepped into my closet and started flipping through my clothes.

  “Why?”

  “Because, Bliss, we’re going out to get you laid.” She said the word “laid” with a curl of her tongue that reminded me of those late-­night commercials for those adult phone lines.

  “Jesus, Kelsey.”

  She pulled out a shirt that was snug on me and would be downright scandalous on her curvy frame.

  “What? You said it wasn’t about him.”

  I resisted the urge to slam my palm into my forehead.

  “It’s not, I don’t think . . . I mean, I go to church and all, well, sometimes. I just . . . I don’t know. I’ve never been that interested.”

  She paused with her new shirt halfway over her head.

  “Never interested? In guys? Are you gay?”

  I once overheard my mother, who can’t understand why I’m about to graduate college without a ring on my finger, ask my father the same question.

  “No, Kelsey, I’m not gay, so keep putting your shirt on. No need to fall on your sexual sword for me.”

  “If you’re not gay and it’s not about Jesus, then it’s just a matter of finding the right guy, or should I say . . . the right sexual sword.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gee? Is that all? Find the right guy? Why didn’t someone tell me sooner?”

  She pulled her blond hair back into a high ponytail, which somehow drew even more attention to her chest. “I don’t mean the right guy to marry, honey. I mean the right guy to get your blood pumping. To make you turn off your analytical, judgmental, hyperactive brain and think with your body instead.”

  “Bodies can’t think.”

  “See!” she said. “Analytical. Judgmental.”

  “Fine! Fine. Which bar tonight?”

  “Stumble Inn, of course.”

  I groaned. “Classy.”

  “What?” Kelsey looked at me like I was missing the answer to a really obvious question. “It’s a good bar. More importantly, it’s a bar that guys like. And since we do like guys, it’s a bar we like.”

  It could be worse. She could be taking me to a club.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” I stood and headed for the curtain that separated my bedroom from the rest of my loft apartment.

  “Whoa! Whoa.” She grabbed my elbow and pulled me so hard that I fell back on my bed. “You can’t go like that.”

  I looked down at my outfit—­flowery A-­line skirt and simple tank that showed a decent amount of cleavage. I looked cute. I could totally pick up a guy in this . . . maybe.

  “I don’t see the problem,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes, and I felt like a child. I hated feeling like a child, and I pretty much always did when talk turned to sex.

  Kelsey said, “Honey, right now you look like someone’s adorable little sister. No guy wants to screw his little sister. And if he does, you don’t want to be near him.”

  Yep, definitely felt like a child. “Point taken.”

  “Hmm . . . sounds like you’re practicing turning off that overactive brain of yours. Good job. Now stand there and let me work my magic.”

  And by magic, she meant torture.

  After vetoing three shirts that made me feel like a prostitute, some pants that were more like leggings, and a skirt so short it threatened to show the world my hoo-­hoo in the event of a mild breeze, we settled on some tight low-­rise denim capris and a lacy black tank that stood out in contrast to my pale white skin.

  “Legs shaved?”

  I nodded.

  “Other . . . things . . . shaved?”

  “As much as they are ever going to be, yes, now move on.” That was where I drew the line of this conversation.

  She grinned, but didn’t argue. “Fine. Fine. Condoms?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Brain?”

  “Turned off. Or well . . . dialed down anyway.”

  “Excellent. I think we’re ready.”

  I wasn’t ready. Not at all.

  There was a reason I hadn’t had sex yet, and now I knew it. I was a control freak. It was why I had done so well in school my entire life. It made me a great stage manager—­no one could run a theater rehearsal like I could. And when I did get up the nerve to act, I was always more prepared than any other actor in class. But sex . . . that was the opposite of control. There were emotions, and attraction, and that pesky other person that just had to be involved. Not my idea of fun.

  “You’re thinking too much,” Kelsey said.

  “Better than not thinking enough.”

  “Not tonight it’s not,” she said.

  I turned up the volume of Kelsey’s iPod as soon as we got in the car so that I could think in peace.

  I could do this. It was just a problem that needed to be solved, an item that needed to be checked off my to-­do list.

  It was that simple.

  Simple.

  Keep it simple.

  We pulled up outside the bar several minutes later, and the night felt anything but simple. My pants felt too tight, my shirt too low-­cut, and my brain too clouded. I wanted to throw up.

  I didn’t want to be a virgin. That much I knew. I didn’t want to feel like the immature prude who knew nothing about sex. I hated not knowing things. The trouble was . . . as much as I didn’t want to be a virgin, I also didn’t want to have sex.

  The conundrum of all conundrums. Why couldn’t this be one of those square-­is-­a-­rectangle-­but-­rectangle-­is-­not-­a
lways-­a-­square kind of things?

  Kelsey was standing outside my door, her high-­heeled shoes snapping in time with her fingers as she roused me out of the car. I squared my shoulders, tossed my hair (halfheartedly), and followed Kelsey into the bar.

  I made a beeline straight to the bar, wiggled myself onto a stool, and waved down the bartender.

  He was a possibility. Blond hair, average build, nice face. Nothing special, but certainly not out of the question. He could be good for simple.

  “What can I get for y’all, ladies?”

  Southern accent. Definitely a homegrown kind of boy.

  Kelsey butted in, “We need two shots of tequila to start.”

  “Make it four,” I croaked.

  He whistled, and his eyes met mine. “That kinda night, huh?”

  I wasn’t ready to put into words what kind of night this was. So I just said, “I’m looking for some liquid courage.”

  “And I’d be glad to help.” He winked at me, and he was barely out of earshot before Kelsey bounced in her seat, saying, “He’s the one! He’s the one!”

  Her words made me feel like I was on a roller coaster, like the world had just dropped and all my organs were playing catch-­up. I just needed more time to adjust. That’s it. I grabbed Kelsey’s shoulder and forced her to stay still. “Chill, Kels. You’re like a freaking Chihuahua.”

  “What? He’s a good choice. Cute. Nice. And I totally saw him glance at your cleavage . . . twice.”

  She wasn’t wrong. But I still wasn’t all that interested in sleeping with him, which I suppose didn’t have to rule him out, but this sure would be a hell of a lot easier if I was actually interested in the guy. I said, “I’m not sure . . . there’s just no spark.” I could see an eye roll coming, so I tagged on a quick “Yet!”

  When Bartender Boy returned with our drinks, Kelsey paid and I took my two shots before she even handed over her card. He stayed for a moment, smiling at me, before moving on to another customer. I stole one of Kelsey’s remaining shots.

  “You’re lucky this is a big night for you, Bliss. Normally, nobody gets between me and my tequila.”