Page 22 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Hey!” one of the guys calls out to us, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We’re doing a scavenger hunt, and we get twenty points if we can nab a pair of women’s panties.” He leans closer, bats his lashes at me. “I happened to notice that you’re wearing a skirt, which would make them very easy to take off.”

I can barely contain my snort. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“We won’t do anything gross with them!” the groom assures me.

Next to me, Wouter stretches to his full height, at least a head taller than anyone in their group. “Hey, let’s move it along. And be safe.”

They let out a chorus of boos as we pass them.

“She wasn’t that hot anyway,” the first guy says, loud enoughthat I’m sure he fully intends for me to hear. “Am I already pissed, or did you see that thing on her face?”

They burst into laughter, drunkenly stumbling their way down the street.

Wouter’s head whips around, a muscle leaping in his jaw, and for a moment I think he may actually go after them.

“They’re not worth it,” I tell him, even if I’d love to see them fall into a canal.

“Fucking assholes.” He blows out a breath as we fall back into step. “Your face—”

I hold up a hand, not needing his pity compliment. “I’m fine. Really. More than used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be. I feel like I need to apologize on behalf of, well…men.”

“Then I think you might be apologizing for a very long time.”

Fortunately, the night air is cool enough to combat the rising heat on my cheeks, even if I’m regretting the long skirt and the breeze climbing up my legs. My high is peaking, and yet my mind won’t quiet down.

Your face is fine. Your face isn’t that bad.

Your face is beautiful.

Surely, trying to finish his sentence isn’t the best use of my time.

Aside from this interaction, the Red Light District is far less scandalous than I thought. Spread across a handful of streets and alleyways, the area may be packed on a Saturday night, with a few police officers to regulate traffic, but it seems like plenty of people are here to simply observe. All along the canal, neon lights advertise erotic shops, coffeeshops, and bars with names more groan-inducing than suggestive, nothing so risqué that it would make even my parents clutch their pearls.

“Sex show! Live sex show!” yells a man in a tuxedo T-shirt standing outside a theater. When I make the mistake of eyecontact, he lifts thick brows at me. “A bit of fun for you and your boyfriend?”

“Oh—no, thanks,” I say, fighting the urge to correct him, because this stranger doesn’t care if Wouter’s my boyfriend or not.

The man looks us up and down with a genial grin. “I can make you a deal. Ninety euros for both of you.”

We shake our heads and keep walking.

“Eighty-five!” he calls after us as Wouter tells me in a low voice, “Complete rip-off. The least sexy thing you can imagine. Went with some buddies in school and we left after ten minutes. If you’ve ever wanted to watch two people have mechanical, emotionless sex in an auditorium packed with a few dozen drunk people, all while loud electronic music is blaring, then that’s where you’ll find it.”

“You don’t know my kinks,” I say with mock offense.

Wouter lifts his eyebrows. “We can go back, if—”

“No!” I say it too quickly. Because even if it’s mechanical and emotionless, the idea of watching two people stripped naked, their bodies tangled with each other, with Wouter next to me…

It doesn’tnotsound sexy.

And that’s exactly why we shouldn’t do it.

We weave through the crowd, turning down a narrow street where sex workers pose behind windows with a red light on overhead, indicating they’re open for business. Although not all the lights are red, in fact—Wouter informs me that a purple or blue light indicates a trans sex worker. The windows are framed with red curtains, the majority of them open but a few of them closed, indicating a client is inside. Every block is plastered with signs that sayNO PHOTOS OR VIDEO,and none of it feels seedy or unsafe—there are too many people around.

At first I stare straight ahead, not wanting to appear as though I’m gawking at anyone. When I finally let myself relax, I make eye contact with a few of the women, most of whom offer friendlysmiles. They’re dressed as though to appeal to every fantasy: plenty of lingerie but some sweats and pajamas, too, some costumes. A few of them are even sitting and texting, passing the time between clients.

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