I watch her walk off as she disappears through the crowd.
One.
One . . . how is it one? Nobody is one.
My tongue swipes over my bottom lip. It’s still buzzing from that hot fucking kiss.
Hmm . . .
That was unexpected. She isn’t even my type.
“Christo,” I hear someone call.
I turn to see Bernadette. Her arms are wide as she rushes for me. “You didn’t kiss me yet, darling.” She slides her arms around my behind as she pretends to hug me. “It’s the full moon.”
Ugh, this woman is like a rash.
“You weren’t near me.” I fake a smile as I peel her hands off my behind.
Go away.
“That doesn’t matter.” She laughs as she leans in for a kiss . . . I lean back and glance over to see Hayden being led to the dance floor by some guy.
She’s laughing, and he spins her around.
What?
“Kiss me.” Bernadette smiles dreamily up at me.
For fuck’s sake . . . not now, woman.
“No, no, no,” I reply. “We’re roommates,” I tell her. “No hanky-panky.”
I crane my neck to see what Hayden is doing. The guy is talking to her, and she’s laughing as she listens attentively in return.
Hmm . . .
Bernadette goes up on her toes and leans in for the kiss. “Stop.” I wince, annoyed. I push her off me and march toward the dance floor. I fake a smile to the guy and lean in to Hayden. “Can I have a word?”
“What about?” she says loudly, so the guy can hear.
Great.
“Bernadette, our roommate, has gone completely mad, and I need you over here for a moment to talk sense into her.”
“Oh . . .” Her face falls.
“I’ll wait here for you,” the guy says.
“That won’t be necessary,” I reply. I drag her to the bar.
She begins to look around. “Well, where is she?”
“Oh, look, she’s better now. Listen,” I blurt in a rush. “We have other things to discuss.”
She frowns.
“That kiss . . . now, that was unexpectedly hot, and we need to do it again so that I can fully gauge the situation.”
“So Bernadette hasn’t gone completely mad?” She frowns.
“Who gives a fuck? Listen . . . ,” I continue. “About that one-lover thing . . .”
“Are you serious?” she snaps.
“Deadly.” I put my arms around her and pull her close.
“Stop it.” She pushes me away. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
“What?” I gasp. “Why not?”
“Ew . . . you’re not my type.”
“Ew?” I widen my eyes. How rude. “What are you talking about? I’m everybody’s type.”
“Not mine.”
“You don’t even know your type yet. There was only one. Here, I’ll show you.” I reach for her again.
“I like blond, skinny, and sensitive.” She bats her eyelids to be a smart-ass.
The exact opposite of me.
I can’t help myself. I retaliate. “We do have some things in common. I like blonde, skinny, and horny.”
Ugh . . . stop talking, fool.
“Good for you.” She holds her arms out to the crowd. “There are plenty of them here. Go get one.”
What is this woman doing? Nobody has ever knocked me back before.
“Don’t you think we should explore that kiss a little further, do some investigative research?” I ask her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“What?” I gasp. “That kiss was fucking hot, Grumps. What are you talking about?”
“Not for me. It was a bit sloppy, if I’m honest.”
I stare at her, horrified.
What do you mean?
“Well . . . that was all your fault,” I splutter. “You threw in the number one thing right before, and I was shell shocked, that’s all. I can do better.” I grab for her. “I’ll show you now.”
“Goodbye, Christopher.” She turns and walks back to that guy on the dance floor.
I stand still, outraged, my hands firmly planted on my hips.
Ha . . . what an idiot. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
I walk over to the side of the dance floor and size up the guy she’s talking to.
Blond and skinny . . . boring looking. I watch them for a while, and Hayden seems very interested in everything the fucker says . . . I can’t even imagine what dreary shit he’s talking about.
Screw this.
I march off to the bar.
“Oh, Christo.” Bernadette runs after me.
Fucking hell, this woman is killing me.
I need some rat bait.
An hour later I’m standing talking to a group of people, and I catch sight of the kid who works here. He’s walking around and collecting glasses. I watch him for a while: so young to be in an environment like this. He seems totally unfazed and getting on with the job.
“Where are you from, Christo?” a woman asks me.
“New York, originally. I live in the UK now.”
“Oh, I live in the UK. Where are you?” She smiles.
There’s a group of guys to the left of the dance floor, rolling blind drunk and being obnoxious. I sip my beer as I watch them. I’m not sure where they come from, but they are speaking French. One of them steps back and bangs into the kid. He knocks the glasses out of his hands.
“Regardez ou vous marchez, putain l’idiot!” he yells at him. (Translation: Watch where you’re walking, you fucking idiot.)
The kid bends down to pick up the dropped plastic glasses. He glances up, but it’s obvious he doesn’t understand the language.
“M’as-tu entendu?” the guy yells as he stands over him. (Translation: Did you hear me?)
I pass my beer to the girl on my left and make my way over.
“Reponds-moi espece de putain de cochon grossier.” (Translation: Answer me, you fucking rude pig.)
Adrenaline surges through me, and I stand in front of the kid. “Recule la merde.” (Translation: Back the fuck up.)
HAYDEN
The music is loud, and the laughter is endless. This is the best night of my life. I’ve never had so much fun. I catch sight of Christopher on the other side of the dance floor, walking over to a group of men. His stance tells me something is off.
I stop dancing and watch him. What’s he doing? Without thinking, I begin to make my way over.
“S’excuser,” I hear Christopher say. (Translation: Apologize.)
“Va au diable.” (Translation: Go to hell.)
I frown as I walk closer. They’re speaking another language. Let me rephrase that: they’re fighting in another language.
Christopher is angry, and he pushes a young boy out of the way. Who’s he?
Huh?
What’s going on here?
“Hayden.” Someone laughs. “Got you.” I’m lifted up and playfully thrown over someone’s shoulder.
“Ahh, put me down.”
“Make me.” He laughs, thinking I’m joking. He runs me across the room, and as I’m trying to get out of his grip, I see Christopher push the guy in the chest. The guy stumbles back.
What the hell?
Next minute, all hell breaks loose.
There’s an all-out brawl.
Men, all-out fighting. Everyone is stepping in, and I have no idea who’s on whose side. But I see Basil and Bodie in there fighting alongside Christopher too.
What the hell?
The music stops, and the lights go on. Security guards grab the troublemakers and struggle outside with them. The guy Christopher was fighting seems super drunk, and he’s yelling something. Christopher is yelling back at him in another language as they get pushed outside.
Bernadette comes and stands beside me as we watch them get ushered outside.
I glance over at her, and she’s smiling goofily after them. “What?” I frown.
“He speaks French.”
I roll my eyes. “You mean fights in French.”
“That’s even hotter.”
I smirk, because she’s right . . . not that I’ll ever admit it.
The music starts, and she grabs my hand and pulls me to the dance floor, and we laugh as we twirl, the drama all but forgotten.
Still having the best night of my life.
I’m woken by the sound of hysterical laughter, men laughing like hyenas as they fumble and try to unlock the door.
I screw up my face. God, no . . . go away.
I roll over and snuggle back into my blanket in my bottom bunk. This is the first night I’ve actually been able to sleep all week. The three hundred drinks I had at the full moon party are responsible, no doubt.
The door busts open, and someone falls through it onto the carpet to deep belly laughter. It echoes down the quiet corridor. “Shh.”
“Shh.” They all giggle. “Shh, you noisy fucks.”
I screw up my face as I try to open my eyes. The sun is peeking through the blinds. It’s early morning.
More hysterical laughter.
What could possibly be so fucking funny at this godforsaken hour?
“Do it, do it,” Bodie slurs.
It’s the boys. They’re back from wherever they’ve been.
They line up in a row and start singing words that I can’t understand. “Ah, Macarena.” They all jump to the left and start doing the Macarena dance.
“They all want me. They can’t have me,” they sing.
Oh god . . .
Christopher and Basil have no shirts on. Bodie is missing his shorts and wearing underpants with his shirt open, and Christopher has a traffic cone on his head.
“What the hell?” I moan. Oh no . . . my head. It’s broken.
“Ah, Macarena.” They jump to the right and keep doing the dance.
“We’re fucking good at this,” Christopher says as they sing. “We should be strippers.”
“I know, right?” Bodie agrees.
They keep dancing to their off-tune singing, and I smile into my pillow as I keep dozing.
“Ah, Macarena,” they call as they jump to the left.
“Shut up!” I throw a pillow at them. I look up to the top bunk, and Bernadette is out cold. How is she sleeping through this?
“Ah . . . my number one favorite grump waited up for me,” Christopher slurs. He holds one finger up and raises his eyebrow. “Number one.” He drops to his hands and knees and crawls toward me until he’s millimeters away from my face. “See what I did there?”
I stare at him deadpan.
“One.” He widens his eyes as if making a great joke. “Get it?”
“I get it,” I snap. “And you’re going to get it if you don’t go to sleep immediately.”
He chuckles and then flops down, his face resting on my mattress, his body on the floor beside my bed. His eyes close in exhaustion. His traffic cone digs into my pillow, and I take it off him and hurl it at the other two fools who are still doing the Macarena. “Where are your pants?” I bark at Bodie.
“They got caught on the fence.”
“The fence?”
“The kebab man chased me, and I had to jump over the fence.”
I sit up onto my elbows. “Why did the kebab man chase you?”
“He stole his sauce bottle.” Basil hiccups. “Fucking funniest night in history.”
Christopher stirs, and I push his head back down hard. “Go back to sleep, you.”
“Go to sleep,” I tell the two Macarenas.
With more singing and lots of grumbles, they finally undress and get into their beds, and ten minutes later the room falls silent as they drift off.
The morning light is just creeping through now, and in the filtered light I can really look at him without anyone knowing.
A secret-spy kind of mission . . .
I stare at the face beside me, his body on the floor, his face on my pillow. He has dark wavy hair and stubble that’s nearly a beard. Big red lips and perfect olive skin. My eyes roam down over his shoulders and muscular back. His long dark lashes fan across his face. His forearm is strong with thick veins that course up onto the backs of his hands. They have a dusting of dark hair in all the right places. Just his close proximity swirls something in my stomach.
He’s a beautiful specimen of man; there’s no denying it. Large, virile, and playful.
I get what they see in him.
Even after seven hundred drinks, a traffic cone, and kebab-sauce thieving, he still smells good. How, I don’t know.
“Hmm,” he rumbles with his eyes closed. I smile as I watch him.
Pity he’s such a dick.
I’m just too tired to wake him to move him back to his bed. He’s harmless there and isn’t hurting anyone.
I close my eyes and begin to relax.
“Oh no. Oh no . . . oh. No.” A soft moan sounds through the room. “My head.”
“Fuck my life,” Bernadette whispers.
“Waaaattttttteeeeer,” someone whispers in a husky-dry-voice kind of way. “I need water.”
I smile with my eyes still closed. Hell. What a night.
Hungover doesn’t come close.
“It’s so hot, like an oven. Someone open a fucking window or something,” Bodie whispers. “I’m being cooked alive here, man.”
My heavy eyelids slowly open, and the first thing I see is Christopher propped up on his elbow, watching me from his place on the floor. He gives me a cheeky smile. “Morning, Grumps.”
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“You know.” He smirks. “Just admiring the view.”
Who knows what I look like, but it can’t be good.
“I need a swim,” I whisper.
“Yep. I’m coming.” He sits up and then frowns. “Why did I sleep on the floor?”
“You didn’t make it to your bed.”
He frowns as he looks around the room. “Why is there a traffic cone in my bed?”
“You were wearing it as a hat.”
“Hmm.” He looks around as he assesses the damage. “Good night.” He stands and looks down at me. “Let’s go, Grumps.”
“Can you stop calling me Grumps?”
“It’s a term of endearment.”
I roll my eyes. “I have to get changed.” He takes my hands and pulls me up to my feet.
“I’m coming,” Bernadette says.
“Me too,” Bodie chips in. He gets up and hits Basil. “Wake up, we’re going to the beach.”
“Oh fuck.” Basil whimpers as he puts the back of his arm over his face. “I can’t face peopling today.”
“Tough. You’ll feel better once you eat.”
I pull my T-shirt down over my boxer shorts, suddenly feeling exposed. “I need to get my things from my locker.”
“Yeah, me too. Come on.”
I look down at myself. “I can’t walk out into the corridor like this.”
“Nobody’s eyeballs can even focus today. You’re safe.”
“Good point.”
We walk out to the corridor and down to the lockers. “How come our room doesn’t have our lockers in it?”
“Fossils don’t need clothes, apparently,” he mutters dryly as he undoes his bag and rummages through it. “I’m buying a big towel today. I don’t care if I have to throw it out tonight—I am not taking that pissant towel to the beach. I hate the fucker.”
I smirk. “If you hate that damn towel so much, why did you buy it?”
“The wanker from the outdoor store said it was a must-have.”
“I have one, too, although it doesn’t bother me like yours does,” I reply.
“Yeah, well . . .” He keeps looking through his bag. “My particulars are bigger than yours. I need more material.”
I smile. Particulars . . . Where does he come up with this stuff?
Two guys walk down the corridor, and one turns to face me as he walks past, doing a full circle.
“Keep walking,” Christopher mutters dryly.
“Be nice,” I whisper. “My particulars need attention, too, you know.”
He fakes a smile, and then his face drops instantly as he throws a T-shirt back in his bag. “Get dressed.”
I exhale heavily and lean up against my locker. “I really don’t have the energy to even get my bag out.”
“Fuck’s sake, woman, where’s your bag?”
I point to my locker.
“Open it.”
I press in my code, and he drags my backpack out and unzips it. “What are you wearing?” He begins to look through my things. “Why is this bag so messy?”
“I don’t know.” I bend and push him out of the way. “I’m a backpacker. It’s supposed to be messy. Move.”
He stands and leans his head back onto my locker. “I’m fucking dehydrated.” He holds his arms out to look at his veins. They are in full glory and popping out everywhere.
“I wonder why.” I roll my eyes. “Where’s my swimsuit?” I keep looking.
“Seriously,” he whispers angrily. “Hurry the fuck up.”
“You don’t have to wait for me, you know?”
“I actually do. You’re wearing nana pajamas, and they are probably going to kick you out of here.”
“Probably a good thing,” I huff. “Seriously, I’m going to kill Monica.”
“Who’s Monica?”
“My best friend back home. She took some of my clothes out of my packed suitcase and snuck in ho wear.” I hold up the tiny black bikini. “Seriously, what would this even cover?”
He shrugs. “Works for me.”
I screw up my face. “Shut up.” I push my bag back in and march past him into the bathroom, too tired to look for a decent swimming costume for one minute longer.
I put the bikini on and look down at myself.
What the fuck?
This is obscene. I can’t wear this in public.
I hear Kimberly’s voice as she talks to someone. I like her; we clicked last night. I open the cubicle door.
“Hey, Hazy.” She smiles.
“Does this look ridiculous?” I whisper.
“What?”
I hold my arms out. “This bikini, it’s . . .” I widen my eyes as I search for the right word.
“Hot.” She looks me up and down. “Turn around.”
I do a 360.
“Perfect, you could eat cheese off your ass.”
I screw up my face. “That’s not a saying.”
“Yeah, it is. You know, you could eat cheese off her ass.”
“I’ve never heard of that in my life.” I frown. “You want to come to the beach?”
“You going now?”
“Yeah.” I peer down at my boobs as they nearly fall out. I try to stretch the fabric to cover more.
“Okay. Give me five minutes.”
“Meet by the front doors?” I ask her.
“Okay.”
I walk out to see Christopher walking out of the bathrooms at the same time. He looks me up and down, and his eyebrows flick up as if he’s surprised. “Hot . . . Grumps.” He readjusts his dick. “You’ve given me a semi in that bikini.”
I curl my lip in disgust. We begin to walk back to our room. “What is it with you and semi anyway?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” He frowns.
“Semikissed me, semidick . . . you seem to have a lot of semi going on.”
“You couldn’t handle the lot.”
“I wouldn’t want to.” I widen my eyes.
“Good.” He squares his shoulders. “Because you’ll never have the chance.”
“I wouldn’t want it.”
“Good.” We walk into the room, and everyone is ready to go.
“Let’s go.”
The beach is hot, and the ocean is cold.
Perfection.
We lie on our towels, the six of us. We’ve eaten lunch and spent nearly the entire day here. It’s weird. I don’t know these people, but I feel super comfortable already.
“What are everyone’s travel plans?” Bernadette asks.
“Well . . .” I shrug. “My plan is to stay at a central base in each country for a month. That way, I can get a job for a few days a week and travel around for the rest of the time. If I don’t work at least two shifts a week somewhere, I won’t have enough money to stay for the entire twelve months that I want to.”
Christopher sits up, his interest piqued. “Where do you want to go?”
“Well, I started in Spain,” I tell them. “I think I’ll go to Italy next. I want to do Prague. Greece. Switzerland. Germany, maybe?”
“Hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “That sounds like a plan. I’m coming.”
“What?” I frown.
“That actually is a good plan,” Kimberly says. “I need to start working a few days a week too. Mind if I come along?”
I shrug. “I . . . no. Guess not.”
“Yeah, I’m in,” Basil says.
“I’m not being left out,” Bernadette says.
We all look to Bodie. He shrugs. “Can we go to Portugal?”
“I guess.” I shrug. “I’m not set where I go. I just need to work a few days. That’s why I need a base. Totally flexible with where we go.”
Christopher looks between us. “Twelve months . . . twelve countries?”
Everyone smiles as a weird kind of excitement runs between us.
“Deal.”
