Bad Blood Books 1-3

Chapter III

Chapter III

LOCKED IN MY HOTEL room later that afternoon, I realized what a crazy promise I’d made while fervently googling Valletta nightspots. In the nearly two months I’d spent there, I’d never been to a club, concert, or bar. Long walks, late night drinks at the hotel bar while fending off all male interaction had been the extent of my after-dark adventures.

After a few unconvincing articles on Valletta nightly fun and games that were older than I cared to admit, I decided the waterfront would be the best place to go. We could take the ferry to Valletta, which was the fastest way. Unfortunately, it sometimes just didn’t make the trip across. Those long five minutes of sailing were too much to ask for at times; apparently, the sea was often too restless for the ferry. Worst case, I could rely on the local buses and taxis, so we had options.

I had read that smart casual would usually do the trick, so I chose a simple but sexy black dress, dug my expensive and painfully gorgeous high-heeled red shoes out of my luggage, then grabbed a red purse, a red necklace, and a matching dark jacket. Black and red were my favorite evening wear colors, although I felt a bit unusual sticking to the same color scheme for our second meeting. I ditched the necklace and went for a brightly-colored silk scarf instead.

The makeup took far less time than earlier in the morning, but that turned out not to be the best thing, as I was ready a good half-hour before Anthony was supposed to arrive. I powered up my laptop with the intent to work, but the lonely Word document saved on my desktop, my often-ignored novel, drew my attention instead. I felt like writing. I opened it, brushing off the cyber-dust, and kept typing until I my phone rang. The shrill sound scared me half to death, as I’d never heard it before. No one used my in-room phone to call me. I answered it, wondering who the hell used landlines anymore. It was Anthony calling from the lobby. I was ten minutes late. How had that happened?

I ran out of the room and had to come back for my purse. As the elevator was taking too long, I took the stairs. I hated being late and the disadvantage that came with it with a fiery passion.

Anthony was waiting on the same armchair he had been sitting in earlier that day. He smiled broadly, seeming all too aware of the upper hand I’d given him. I was late and I was supposed to apologize. I figured it was as good a time as any to pull the scatterbrain artist card. “I’m so sorry, Anthony. I felt like writing and never noticed how late it was.”

“That’s perfectly fine. Don’t worry.” The glitter in his eyes told a very different story, but I chose to take his words at face value. “I can certainly understand what being so caught up in your thoughts feels like. It’s happened to me on a few occasions.”

I smiled, waiting for the catch.

“Anyway, you’ll make it up to me with a drink. Let’s go, the car is waiting.”

Ah, there it was. Although a drink was a small price to pay, he’d claimed his compensation. “Did you call a cab?”

“Oh, heavens, no! I hired a car and driver for the night. I thought having someone waiting around for us would be far more comfortable.”

“If you tell me the magazine pays for this, I will apply for a job tomorrow,” I said, and was truly considering my future career path.

“They don’t, but I travel so much and work such crazy hours, I lack the time to spend what I make so I can go crazy every once in a while. Especially in new cities where I am not familiar with cab services and their schedules.”

I frowned and nodded slowly. “If that was supposed to make me forget about applying for a job there, you’ve failed.”

“I’m hardly trying.” He chuckled and put his hand around my shoulders, ushering me to the car, a big black one that reminded me of New York. Huge cars, bright lights, people on the streets of Manhattan at any hour, day or night.

He opened the door for me and then went around to get in. “So, where to?” he asked, after shutting his door.

I shrugged and tried for an innocent smile. “The Valletta Waterfront?”

“Sorry, is that a question?” he asked with a playful smile.

“More of a gamble, really,” I mumbled.

“Oh, my god! Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who never go out.”

I wasn’t sure if he was really curious or just mocking me and my reply came out a bit harsher than needed. “Oh, excuse me for not knowing all the Valletta nightspots by now! I imagine you were not paying attention earlier. I did not party my way out of my issues, you know.” I softened it with a smile, or at least tried to.

“Well, then, it will be a shared first-time experience.”

The car ride to the Waterfront was quiet and not terribly long. It gave me plenty of time to think. I couldn’t figure out why I got so defensive around Anthony. Maybe it was his dashing look for the evening. He wore a slim-fit black jacket, light blue dress shirt, slacks that seemed cut especially to complement him, an intriguing cologne, and the self-confident “I can have any woman” smile. Or maybe it was the dedication he showed to spending his entire trip to Valletta with me. I was his story, true, but it felt like a little too much.

Maybe I was a little paranoid and my past experiences with lying, cheating, and rejection made me doubt anyone showing any interest in me. I just had to look for ulterior motives and schemes. But what could Anthony have to gain from all this? A juicy story? That meant more attention for my novel if and when it was finally published.

I decided to just go with it, wherever “it” would take me. It was high time I allowed myself to enjoy something without overthinking it to death. I turned to Anthony and was taken aback by how intent his eyes were as he examined me closely. “You look absolutely stunning,” he said after several beats of charged silence.

“Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.” God, please don’t f*****g blush right now, Alexa! I decided looking out the window would be a smart move. I couldn’t see much as it was pretty dark outside, but I sure wasn’t going to let Anthony notice my beet-red flush.

The waterfront was breathtakingly beautiful. The brightly lit buildings, old and restored to preserve their spirit, were awe-inspiring. Their flowy rendition on the water, dotted by a myriad of reflected flickers from the streetlights made them even more stunning. We walked around for a while, taking it all in. The only name I recognized was Hard Rock, the international brand for good music, over-the-top friendly service, and delicious barbeque ribs. But as that culinary delight didn’t go well with my dress, we went into a little bar nearby.

It seemed cozy and the music wasn’t loud enough to require one to scream into the ear of the person next to them to make themselves heard. Anthony ordered brandy and I got a fruity cocktail, delivered with the proper assortment of umbrellas, flags, and neon-colored straws.

“Girlie drink for the lady,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“It complements the color of my scarf, so I couldn’t resist it.”

“Is that so? Or are you just afraid I’ll get you drunk and get all your dirty secrets on the record?”

I rolled my eyes and almost snorted. I stopped myself just in time to disguise it into some sort of huffing sound. “Oh, it does not take much to get me drunk. The challenge is to get the secrets out after that.” I shrugged and tried not to smile. I didn’t want to turn it into a real challenge.

“I take it alcohol does not loosen your tongue?”

“No, it just heightens whatever mood I am in. I’ve never gotten drunk enough not to know exactly what I was doing and what I was saying.”

“Have you actually tried?” He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the palm of his right hand.

“A few times. I failed miserably so I stopped trying.”

We bar-hopped until close to midnight, enjoying the drinks, the music, and the atmosphere. As time passed, the waterfront nightspots got busier. People were laughing and talking loudly, and we could barely hear each other. It was fun and casual, and I felt great. Soon after midnight, we decided it was time to go back to Silema. Anthony called for the car and our driver said he’d be there in five minutes.

“Let’s just walk around until he gets here,” Anthony suggested. It sounded marvelous to me.

“Oh, I love this song,” I said as we walked by a small bar where Ayo was begging on her knees for relief that never came. It reminded me of home, of old friends, and of drinking hot chocolate in Bucharest cafés.

“We shouldn’t waste it then,” he said in a low, husky voice. I felt his hand on mine, stopping me and turning me to face him.

“What? Here? In the street?”

“Why not?”

I was either too happy, too tired, or too intoxicated after downing a few cocktails earlier, because I couldn’t find a good reason to say no. I stepped closer to him and he placed his free arm around my waist. I followed his lead into a middle of the street dance, moving too slowly for that particular song. Other party people were walking past us, smiling and pointing in our direction.

Anthony looked into my eyes and I couldn’t make myself look away. His burning gaze, the windblown locks of hair falling on his face, his body so close to mine, and the general intimacy of the moment made me feel powerless. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time, and relief washed over me when the song ended. Something about Anthony made all of my alarms go off. They warned me of the high potential of my getting hurt if we continued to spend so much time together. I knew it might be just my fear talking, given everything that had happened in the past year, but if there was one thing I had learned it was to trust my instincts. And they were telling me to run.

Instead of screaming and making a quick getaway, I smiled and thanked Anthony for the dance, turning to our car which had just pulled up.

“My pleasure,” he said, taking my hand in his.

That small gesture felt more intimate than the dance and all I wanted was to yank my hand back and run away like a little girl, but I stopped myself. Just a few steps to the car and I’d be free.

On the way back, the car felt extremely small. Anthony never attempted to take my hand again, but I was sharply aware of his closeness. His presence, his scent, the thought of him sitting next to me were nauseating and scary, and my heart beat way too fast for my wellbeing.

I tried to understand where this restlessness was coming from. I felt like a deer hunted through the forest as the hounds closed in and sensing the killing blow long before the hunter even thought to squeeze the trigger. I wanted to slap myself, feeling silly and overcautious.

Why on earth did I have to see dark potential in any human contact? I always foresaw how it could hurt or disappoint me. Sure, I had experienced my fair share of heartbreak and betrayals, but I was too young to give in to mistrust, seclusion, and to barricading myself to make sure no one ever got close. Anthony was nothing more than a journalist I had met for an interview. After the weekend, I would probably never see him again. Worst case scenario? A fairly unsatisfying affair. Why couldn’t I just let go of all the things in my past and finally allow myself to fully experience each moment?

“We’re here.” Anthony’s voice brought me back to reality. “I’ve arranged for a private breakfast in a small meeting room at your hotel tomorrow morning. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Interviews over food and coffee are always more relaxed.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

He stepped out of the car and held the door open for me, offering his hand. I took it without realizing and then noticed I was no longer terrified by that simple contact.

“Thank you, Anthony. I’ve really had a great time tonight.”

“So have I. I never thought meeting a writer for an interview could be so much fun. Thank you for showing me around.”

He sounded polite and cold, like there was a distance between us that hadn’t been there just moments before.

“Good night.” I whispered it for some reason. Before I could stop myself, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. I didn’t wait for a reaction and headed to the entrance. I did notice that he took his time letting go of my hand.