Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

  “Celebrating the start of my last year in school. You, hot stuff?”

  Hot stuff? Whoa, I’m so ready for a toddler clap, Andreas-style. Of course I don’t though. No shooting self in foot.

  I lean back on my heels, and mind you, my fake lashes are amazing. I’ve rehearsed using them in the mirror for occasions where absinthe makes a girl exuberant. “I’m celebrating the entrance into a strange new world where things are even colder than at home, clubs are super-tiny, and guys are…and then the absinthe.”

  “You had absinthe?”

  “Tasted it, yeah.” It doesn’t matter that my cheeks flame, because it’s hot in here. I want more absinthe. Jesus, no, what I need is a Coke. Or just plain water. Yes, that’s what I should have.

  “You like it?”

  “What, Coke?”

  “Absinthe.”

  “It tastes like malurt.” I pronounce it perfectly, thanks to a three-minute back-and-forth with Anna.

  “Malurt, huh?”

  “Yep.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, eyes on the restroom line. It’s never-ending. People should pee before they go out.

  “You have a lot of malurt at home?”

  Absinthe might just strip away embarrassment. I’m saying this because instinctively I lean toward him, and I don’t even blush this time.

  “No, but I’m pretty sure that malurt per se sucks.” I do my fake lash-blinking. “You know what doesn’t suck though?”

  He turns fully, blocking the view of his friends, with the exception of a curious redheaded guy peering around his shoulder.

  “Tell me.” The golden stubble from the airport is shorter but still there, and I am so tempted to run my fingers over it.

  I straighten enough to touch his nose with the tip of mine. I’m brave, so brave on a little bit of booze. Is this how the Vikings felt, take-on-the-world awesome and invincible? “It doesn’t suck that you’re here too. Airports, clubs. Ya know, all over the place.”

  He laughs, and it’s this low sexy chuckle of a laugh I somehow catch over the music. Wow, he caresses my nose with his, and I’m lighting up in so many places I don’t want him to know about.

  “What’s your name?” He kisses my cheek and smells like pine and musk and man. I wonder what he smells like naked.

  No, I don’t.

  Naked men smell the same anyway. Not really though, because you get all of them at once, the hidden places, hairy, warm, soft, as well as the external ones that you already know about, and then—

  Shit.

  “Bathroom break!” I leap. I do, and there’s no way I look better than a regular rabbit. Wait, rabbits have grace. This is not grace. This is Drunk Chick getting out of the way before she displays all the mating distress of a…of a rabbit.

  It’s something to keep in mind, I think, as I’m only four patrons away from entering the restroom. A girl might hold back and not say out loud how she feels, but males are preprogrammed to pick up on any reproduction instinct she displays. Right? Which means the guy whose name I don’t know is already aware that I—

  I procrastinate in the bathroom. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because tomorrow’s hangover will bring Olympic-level shame. What if I meet him somewhere later? Idly, I picture our run-in, both of us sober and him remembering me as the love-hungry foreigner who batted her lashes at him.

  In tomorrow’s hangover angst, I’ll be the chick who beamed like I wanted to roll his pants down his legs and latch onto his—

  I was the chick who didn’t want to let go until he totally started—

  I snort into my hands.

  “Alt i orden?”

  Sweet Vogue Girl staring at me over her crimson lipstick.

  “Ja. Thanks.” I say it because I know that she asked if I was okay. I rock at this language. And then I snort again.

  “You’re laughing?” Her smile eases over peach-perfect skin.

  “Um. Yeah. I just met this guy.”

  “Ohh, boys!”

  I’m more composed when I saunter out of the restroom. I used my new party friend Britt’s crimson lipstick and my own pearlescent lip gloss. Then I whipped out a coffee-colored eyeshadow, and my black-black mascara. Yeah. I feel pretty good.

  My heart bats like a…? Bat. When I approach his table, only three guys remain, and my crazy hot rope-lifter is gone. Wow, how long was I in the bathroom? It couldn’t have been longer than…

  I blink.

  Absinthe might be the devil.

  It’s okay. I’m better off not babbling anymore to him anyway. Mari and Anna are still there. Silvina never came, but that’s okay. Mari waves. Anna turns super-fluffy lips up in a pouted What? It makes me feel included, like we know each other super-well and where have I been all this time?

  I throw my hands up, pointing at the line in the hallway. Honest to god, the path to the bar is the funnel out of baggage claim!

  “Where is he?” someone wheezes into my ear. I jump, like, really jump, and Britt giggles quietly. She might be the only quietish person in the city at this hour. “Sorry. Did you lose him?”

  “How did you guess?”

  She shrugs drunkenly. “Happens all the time.”

  Anna hauls me in and lowers another absinthe in front of me. I shake my head adamantly, but she bumps my shoulder.

  “Beer.”

  “Beer instead of absinthe? You like absinthe!”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s good for me.” My stomach quivers like I want to laugh. Apparently, it shows on my face too, because Mari’s brows rise in question, and then her mouth follows suit. Within seconds, the three of us are cracking up, and Anna orders me a draft I don’t even need because I’m way buzzed.

  Someone nudges me in the nook of the knees, and I catch onto the bar counter. That’s a nasty trick when a girl’s reflexes aren’t switched on. I whip my head around, Exorcist-style. No, but almost. Pretty far. And I glare really hard from within my awesomely long lashes.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Oh,” I gasp. “Hey, yourself.”

  “You left.”

  “I told you I was going to the bathroom. You left.” My words sound accusatory, but the tone is pussycat soft. The lashes totally help too. I feel vixen-like. Geez, on my fourth day in Norway, I’m checking off all the things Kara was afraid of. Drunk—check. Vixen—check. But my crush isn’t a rebellious Viking. Is he even drunk? If he is, he’s got nothing on Andreas.

  It’s nice to feel his body lined up against my back like that. His nose is there again, caressing my ear. Britt lifts a thumb from the opposite side of the bar. I can’t help the grin spreading over my face, because yeah, this is him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kristen.”

  “Kristen what?”

  “Kristen Johansen.”

  “Hmm.” He touches my ear with his lips. I don’t know if that’s a kiss or just a random stroke of skin against skin—which is too hot of a thought in the first place. Geez, skin against skin. Stop it.

  “Yours?”

  “Haakon.”

  “Like the prince of Norway?”

  “Mhm, you know your Norway facts.”

  Let’s not discuss this with Kara. “Of course. Is it a common name here?” Small talk. Even I know that it is.

  “Yeah, pretty common.”

  I turn in his arms, because brave, and angle my head up so I can look into his eyes. Whoa, and there they are again. That total rainbow-oval, hooded look that I’m pretty sure could make a girl come on the spot.

  I need to chill. “You look like a Haakon. The old lady you helped at the airport—did you know her?” I subject-change seamlessly.

  “Who, Grandma?”

  “Ah t’all makes sense now. I was wondering how you could give up on me so quickly.” I even wink at him. I’m not a winker. It makes him bite his lip in a really impish way. Oh that’s almost painful.

  “Yeah, I know my grandmother.”

  His retort surprises me, so I pull in a gasp. He starts
to laugh. Haakon, the not-drunk Viking-slash-prince-of-Norway, is laughing at me! I feel like a million bucks and wish I felt this way on a daily basis, because what if I bottled it and magic-poofed it into becoming the truth? I’d pay for virgin-cabs all over the place and eat at restaurants like a madwoman.

  “You’re pretty.” He tells me.

  “You’re not so shabby yourself.” I let my eyes flirt all over his straight forehead and hair that’s slightly grown out on the sides. His mouth looks damn kissable. I must linger there, because suddenly his gaze lowers.

  “And you have a pretty mouth.”

  Caught, I open said mouth to object, but before I can, he bends and—

  Haakon inhales sharply through his nostrils as he tastes me. My face tips up, and my fingers grab to pull him closer. Instantly, he steadies me, hands cradling my cheeks. His lips become more insistent, hotter, until I think the moisture between us is going to do me in. Like. Everywhere.

  “Geez,” I manage once his mouth lets go of me. Holy mother of all that’s hypnotic.

  Haakon’s chest heaves, mirroring my own. His gaze is stuck on my lips, and I lick them, transfixed. Ah I want so much more with him right now. I mean—look at his eyes. They simmer!

  “‘Geez’ is right.” He puffs his cheeks up. “So…what’re you doing after?”

  “Going home. Studies. I’m here for studies.” Haakon just electrocuted my brain with his mouth. It’s why full sentences become short and meaningless.

  “Right. Where, at Blindern?”

  “Yeah. Peace and Conflict.”

  He prepares another question, but then someone slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Haakon? Kommer du, eller?”

  “Yeah, coming.” Hazel eyes. I thought all Norwegians were blue-eyed. His kind of hazel, even in the dim light from the bar, is a lighter shade than what I’m used to from home. “So…I’ll see you around, pretty Kristen?”

  I bob my head.

  He takes a step backward, accidentally knocking some people into the table behind us. I can’t let go of his eyes. Which return to my lips.

  “Haakon, skynd deg. Taxien venter.”

  He doesn’t answer his friend’s plea to hurry up. His lips crash to mine again, and he’s groaning, freaking groaning against my mouth. I don’t even know what to do with everything I feel right now.

  “You’re hard to leave, did you know?” Haakon backs away from me and into the same people again. This time there’s verbal disgruntlement going down. He ignores it, which makes me smile.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “A little bit?”

  He shakes his head like I’ve been bad. Just, I think I’d have preferred to be much badder.

  Chapter Three

  Interview

  “Don’t get sucked in over there. Vikings were super-well groomed and bathed once a week. They were the bad-boy rock stars of the time, and even the enemy women swooned over them.”

  Kara again. I need to stop Skyping with her. I’m wondering about her actual studies too—I mean, does she have time for them in the midst of her Viking obsession? Yesterday, I told her that I’ve yet to run into a single Viking since they’re as extinct as saber-toothed tigers.

  “Whatever. It’s in their blood to be hot and bad and sexy and well-groomed.”

  “Really, well-groomed too? You think they still bathe every week?”

  “I wouldn’t rule that out. Just be careful, okay?” She suppressed a grin, because god forbid I didn’t take her seriously.

  Mari and Anna are my go-to Norwegian friends. I’m four weeks into my studies, and I’ve stayed away from Schroeder’s and drinking in general, because that was one hell of an outing. Talk about focusing on school, right? I acted like a (saber-toothed) cat in heat, all but rubbing up against Haakon. I bet I’d have left with him too, given the opportunity.

  Yeah, my time with Mari and Anna is of the lunch-and-occasional-movie variety. They have classes in the same building as me, which makes it easy to get together.

  “Have you heard anything on the internship?” Silvina’s question brings me back. We’re on a fifteen-minute break between classes, and I’m accompanying her to get her soda fix from the cantina.

  “Not yet. You?”

  “I’m applying next time around. I wonder when they decide on this one?”

  “It was supposed to be a quick turnaround.” My pulse thuds at the thought. What if? Wow, that would’ve been something to have on my resume. Oh yeah, I interned with the prime minister of Norway. No big deal. I do a sideways head-waggle at the thought. Silvina sends me a puzzled look but doesn’t comment.

  Today, I get to ride home with Andreas. He’s tightlipped as usual. Barely nods as I drop to the passenger seat. “What’s up, Andreas, my man!” I can’t help messing with him sometimes.

  “…”

  “Partying it up this weekend?” I small-talk on. Of course he will. Andreas and his three-day Viking-drunk weekends.

  “Hmm.”

  I suck in a breath. “What? Is that a no?”

  His face ticks with the urge to break into a smile.

  “You philosophized any today?” I continue.

  “Mhm. Over women talking too much.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shake the letter and even grab onto Andreas’ shoulders in the kitchen. He tries to escape, shifting toward his own room, but I don’t think so. No, not when Jill and Jack are out and we’re the only ones home to celebrate my letter!

  “I got it! I got the interview.”

  “It’s just a first interview,” Andreas mutters.

  “You’re saying it doesn’t mean I’m getting the internship? Buzzkill.”

  “Saying they probably interview twenty applicants. They keep how many again?” He physically removes my hands from his person.

  “One. They keep one.”

  “That means you have a one in twenty chance to get it.” He needs to do something about that scruff. It’s post-stylish yet pre-hipster stage. Sadness.

  “Okay, and you have a one in a million chance at making me feel special.”

  “Wasn’t trying.” He flops to his butt in front of the fridge and opens the door from the bottom. Time for a sandwich, apparently.

  “Guess when the interview is?” Happiness starts to fizz in me again.

  “Do I have to?” Cucumber. On the floor. Next goes the lettuce.

  “Why do you put the food on the floor? Weren’t you going to make a sandwich?”

  He shrugs. “Can’t find the salami. Oh here.”

  “Andreas, that’s way anti-hygienic. You’re going to get sick.”

  He huffs half a laugh. “Yeah, right. So when?”

  “The interview?”

  He nods, busy pulling out salami slices and spreading them over his bread.

  “On Friday!”

  He actually turns at that. “Tomorrow?”

  “No, sorry, Friday after.”

  “Yeah. Short notice that would’ve been. I’d have to drive you.”

  “True. I have time to walk there now, what with it being in eight days.”

  He must not find my retort funny, because we’re back to: “…”

  Each minute consists of two-hundred thousand seconds while I thumb through government magazines and brochures in the waiting room. I’m drawn to the pictures, especially those of the prime minister. I swear: every feature on his face is crazy handsome, and his irises are the lightest hazel ever. I wonder how charismatic he is in person.

  “Please, come in.” A woman in business casual and comfortable shoes click-clacks me into a spacious office. It’s light, modern, yet subtly elegant and boasts the view of a big park. People stroll out there. Regular people, not kings or prime ministers.

  She greets me pleasantly. Introduces the three people there with her. She’s chief-of-staff and leads the interview. Her questions are easy enough, and I get to chat about my projects from my bachelor’s at home. We even joke about the similarities between Min
nesota and Norway.

  My twenty minutes pass quickly, and I breathe out my relief as I exit the building. Andreas’ car waits practically on the doorstep to the government headquarters. There are no-parking signs on both sides of his little Toyota, and he’s behind the wheel with the engine off. I jump in and swing expectantly to him. Andreas turns the key in the ignition.

  “Ask me.”

  “What?”

  “How it went.”

  “You’ll tell me anyway.”

  “It went crazy good! They’re doing the second round of interviews next Friday, and if I’m in, the prime minister himself will be there.” I suck in a gasp at the thought, because I can’t. Even.

  Andreas flicks an unimpressed gaze my way. “Dude, don’t faint in my car. I’m not carrying you out.”

  This week has been excruciatingly long. It’s Thursday morning. I wanted that phone call from chief-of-staff Rita Olsen so badly, but there’s no way they’ll call this late. I’d have to scramble like crazy to get ready for tomorrow in that case. They wouldn’t do that to their top three. Although she did mention short notice and being prepared?

  I’m in my Nordic Politics class when my phone buzzes, and I jump to my feet like I’ve been tasered. Silvina knows my state of mind this week. She slams a hand over her mouth when I show her the screen before I answer on my way out.

  “Hello, this is Kristen Johansen?” Smooth and calm. So far, so good.

  “Yes, I’m Rita Olsen from the prime minister’s office.” Squee!

  “Oh good morning. How are you today?” How are you today. Wow, I am the swagger. The cool cat. All of it.

  “Excellent. I have some news you might like.”

  “You do?”

  Her voice smiles. No, really—I can hear her smile. “Yes, the prime minister would like to meet you for a second interview. How is tomorrow at nine o’clock?”

  Oh yeah. Let me check my calendar.

  “I think I can swing that. Thank you very much, Ma’am.”

  A few pleasantries later, and I hang up. Then I do some weird sort of gallop around the empty hallway, hit a soda spill, and land on my ass. Crap, at least I didn’t face-plant. As much as my butt hurts, it would’ve been one for the books to meet the prime minister with a shiner.