Page 13 of Mercenary
Mayday.
“How about it?” he persists, placing his finger on my arm and running it along my skin. Nada. Nothing.
“I’ll help you find a decent summertime roommate. Maybe one of the regulars riding the surf?”
He pauses in his caress. “Babe, do I need to spell it out for you? I don’t wanna roommate. I want you. I love . . .”
Quicker than my aching heart, I roll, then scamper to my feet. Sucking in a breath, I wipe pebbles of sand off me, smoothing my palms across my legs, my arms, my stomach, over and over. Still, my skin feels covered in it. Smothered in it.
Mayday. Mayday.
“Mad, you okay? What happened, a sand bug bite ya?” Brendan might be a ten-stroke wonder but empathy gushes out of him. A standup guy. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“I’m going to go and shower this sand off. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” Without waiting for his answer, I pivot on my heels and walk away. Not looking at him—yet well aware of his reaction. The disappointment. The alarm.
Kicked to the curb. A left-behinder.
Guess it takes one to know one.
* * *
For what seems like hours,I walk along the water’s edge, watching as the clouds slowly float in to swallow up the moonbeams. Shadows shift across the sand, and I realize that there’s a strong possibility I’m not alone. Kylie would have my head for taking such an unwise risk, a woman alone on a beach in a foreign country.
Alone, not lonely.
I call Luciana with a “heads-up alert”—in case the sexy bartender lasts longer than all the other men that have come before him—but the room phone rings busy. Which probably means she’s taken our conversation on the beach to heart.
I’m about to squeeze my cell phone back in my too-tight shorts’ pocket, but instead pause and roll my thumb across my contact information. Scrolling . . . scrolling . . . until I come across a number I’ve programmed in my phone and in my head. My lifeline to my past. Even though I’ve never called it, I keep it, just in case.
I’d noticed the number scrawled below Ben Franklin’s face, on the first bill in what ended up being ten grand in all, which my stranger’d stuffed inside my pink duffel bag. Coincidence? Hardly. Two words had been scribbled beneath it. Emergency was one—although my panicking because some surfer boy got me running instead of getting me off doesn’t qualify, right? The second word was a blatant, ying-yang kind of gesture, a contradiction to his “forget me” warning. An endearment.
Cupcake.
He’d dropped me off, barefoot and confused. But not feeling completely abandoned, after all.
What are the chances he’ll remember me?
I sigh, then wiggle and worm until my cell is back inside my shorts pocket, safe in the knowledge that the few hundred dollar bills I always carry with me didn’t fall out of the case. Being a practical girl is nothing to snicker at. Especially with my past. Call it emergency preparedness—like hoarding jugs of water or flashlights with batteries.
In case the unexpected happens.
Again.
I pause on Costa del Rio’s white tiled patio to shake off the sand on my legs and feet. Funny how it doesn’t bother me this time like it did with Brendan on the beach.
My thoughts keep me company as I climb the outdoor stairs to our third-floor landing. How am I going to deal with the Brendan situation tomorrow? Surfing is out—I’m supposed to be on a deep-sea excursion, right? And crushing Brendan’s heart isn’t foremost on my agenda, but if our roles were reversed and I was the ten-second wonder . . . Maybe I’ll sleep in or, better yet, catnap by the pool?
I push my room key into the lock, then frown when the door falls open without my turning it. Luciana might be a risk-taker, but she’s a stickler for keeping our apartment locked. Her stories about growing up in a violent, cartel-ridden neighborhood almost make Shelby seem like a country-club paradise.
I enter the darkened living room. My bare foot slides out from under me and I lose my balance as I slip and slide on someone’s spilt drink. Dang it. I can’t make out what I stepped in because Luciana’s forgotten to leave on a light, something we’ve been doing for each other since becoming roommates. The sexy bartender better be worth it.
Then I hear it. A moan. And not a deep-throated, pleasure-filled kind. But . . . pained. Goosebumps prickle my skin as I fumble for the light switch.
The first thing I see is that someone has spilled a cosmopolitan martini, made with very thick cranberry syrup instead of juice, all over the white tiles . . . Oh my God. Blood.
Has Luciana fallen and hurt herself? A trail of it runs across the floor.
“Luciana,” I shout, yet it comes out like a croak. “Luciana,” I repeat, louder this time.
