Mediterranean features, coupled with my sudden arrival, are the main reasons why men swarmed to me all morning. At first glance, it’s obvious I’m not American, but not one person asked directly. They all waited until I betrayed my roots with a thick accent, and then their mouths curled into knowing smiles.
“You’ll make a killing in tips,” Cass says when we restock the cart after the break. “We haven’t had a foreigner here in two years. Men sure love you, European girls. Two years ago, a Polish chick made enough cash in tips after three months that she paid off her entire college tuition.”
“Inthreemonths?” I echo. No way she earned a few hundred dollars a day... I reach into my pocket, pulling out my tips. My hands grow clammy because what I initially considered a ten-dollar bill from Jerry is a hundred.
One-hundred-dollartip fromoneman.
I’d need to work nine hours straight to earn that, but he casually slipped it in my breast pocket as if it wasn’t more than a few dollars change. I didn’t even flirt with him! How much money could I make if I put more effort into my smile?
My initial nervousness vanishes when the break is over. I’m here to make a living. If innocent flirting is the way to go, then so be it. I’ve spent three nights at the motel, but I’m desperate to rent a place now, regardless of how tiny it’ll be. Paper-thin walls of my temporary room and a bed that’s probably ridden with STDs drive me crazy. I’m more than willing to use my European good looks to flee the motel faster.
By four o’clock, I’m exhausted, but my spirits are lifted when I count the tips. The stack of money spread out on the table makes my eyes water. Three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Three day’s worth of work earned within nine hours.
I swallow the sour disgust burning my throat and lock my conscience in a puzzle box somewhere inside my head. This is not the time to act dignified and self-sufficient. This is the time to use all means available to survive and build a new life, safe from my sketchy past.
“Good, huh?” Cass taps her long, red nails on the tabletop. “Listen, I’m going out with my girls tomorrow evening. Come with us. I’m sure you could use a few friends.”
I can’t fault the girl. We spent nine hours together, chatting and laughing. She’s cheerful, charming, and surprisingly helpful. She’s also right; I could use new friends. Accepting the invitation isn’t a practical move, considering I should save every penny, but she might not invite me again if I say no, and nobody wants to be a loner. I’ve always been a social person, surrounded by a group of friends. When they were brutally taken away from me, courtesy of my cuffed hands and my face on the cover of every newspaper in the country, I struggled with my mental health.
“Sure, that sounds great. Thank you. What time and where should we meet?”
“We haven’t decided which bar we want to hit. Give me your phone number. I’ll text you later with the details. I booked tomorrow off, so I won’t see you here.”
We exchange numbers, and I shimmy out of my uniform, changing back into jean shorts and a loose t-shirt before I head outside, ready for the five-mile trek back to the motel.
TWO
Thalia
THE MOTEL'S RECEPTIONIST LENT ME AN IRON after I found my best clothes crumbled at the bottom of a suitcase. The room is equipped with a moth-ball-smelling closet, but I keep my clothes in my bags. I’m already self-conscious about the moldy odor trailing behind me like a putrid shadow.
I ironed the creases out of the outfit I chose for tonight—a simple spaghetti-strapped crop top matched with a high-waist mini skirt—both black. The mass of my outrageously curly hair could not be styled into anything other than a standard, boring, over-done ponytail. I’ve considered chopping my hair short, but while they’re long, they’re heavy, and the curls drag out instead of bouncing close to my head.
Cassidy and her friends chose a bar by the harbor, three miles from the motel. I wouldn’t make the distance wearing black stiletto heels without earning a few nasty blisters. Bleeding feet is not the look I was going for tonight, so I downloaded the Uber app and booked a ride toTortugo—a Brazilian-themed cocktail bar by the main street.
I overestimated the time it’ll take the driver to get me there, so now I stand on the sidewalk, clutching my purse in both hands and eying the door with twenty minutes to kill before Cassidy arrives. Loitering outside sounds less appealing than waiting at the bar with a drink, even if I’ll stand there alone.
With a deep breath, I push the door open, eyeing the decor as I walk across the room toward the bar at the back. Latin music filters through the air, an energetic soundtrack to the excited conversations buzzing over most tables. A satisfying, heady scent of soil, passion flowers, and candy fans my face as the air moves with me.Warm, earthy tones dominate the space, and hundreds of matching clay pots holding natural plants stand on the floor, hang from the ceiling, and fill rusty metal shelves screwed into the bare red-brick walls.
My heels click happily against the worn, concrete floor as I approach a long bar. My foreign features draw attention again, and heads snap toward me when I pass a few tables, feeling the burning gaze of men inspecting my every move.
Definition of Greek beauty—my grandmother said through the years. I don’t see the beauty. Pretty, sure, but not beautiful.
“Good evening.” The bartender asks, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt partly hidden under a matching vest. He rests his hands on the bar, leaning closer so he won’t have to raise his voice over the excited hum filling the air. “What can I get you?”
Five screens above the bar display a long cocktail list with sixty-eight options. Kudos to the bartender if he knows how to prepare each one. Back home, I kept things simple—bottled beer, wine, or Ouzo. Sometimes champagne. During my bartending days, I tried many different cocktails while mastering the skill of preparing colorful drinks, but only three of those are served here—all too sweet for my liking.
“I’m not sure,” I say, ignoring how his mouth curls slightly at my flaring accent. “I’d like a cocktail, not too strong and not too sweet. What can you suggest?”
“Make her a caipirinha,” a man says, stopping beside me. “You’ll like it,” he adds when I angle my head, treating myself to a cursory look.
Ah,shit...
I’ve crossed paths with many handsome men in my life. As I settle into my new life here, the number constantly grows—Americans are hot, but this guy? He’s handsome in a hair-raising, nail-biting kind of way. Not a cover model type. I doubt any magazine would feature him with the long scar running from his jaw to his eyebrow. His nose, slightly crooked at the bridge, must’ve been broken at least once in his life, and he’s got a small scar over his top lip. As far as scars go, this one might be the sexiest one I’ve seen.
An artistic muddle to his dark-brown hair adds ten points to his undeniable, boyish charm even though he isn’t a boy. He’s a red-blooded, broad-chested, testosterone-oozing man. He looks like he knew what his hair should be styled into tonight but discarded the idea halfway through the task and raked his fingers through the thick strands, making a mess. A sexy mess.
I’m held captive by his deep brown eyes, the shade of fine cognac peppered with black flecks. A barely-there stubble frames his full lips that he’s touching with the pad of his thumb, ghosting it left and right, waiting for me to speak. My body reacts with a throbbing pulse between my legs.