Lawless

by Ward, Tracey

  The first beer for Ben goes down rough. I feel for the guy. When you’re hungover drinking water can suck, but alcohol? That’s a fool’s errand. But he muscles through it and by the time we hit the second tent he’s feeling… not exactly no pain, but significantly less pain.

  After two tents of all beer, we go in search of food. I quickly find out that the rumors of the Germans being magicians with bread is one hundred percent true. I’m going to gain fifty pounds living in this country for the next three months, because my new diet plan is to carbo load until I burst. Brot is my new best friend.

  “I have to pee,” I tell Mel and Ben as we leave the food stalls and go in search of our next beer.

  Mel grabs my hand and looks at me with wide-eyed seriousness. “What if the toilets are flooding?” She bursts into giggles and pulls me into a random hug.

  “Yeah, what if,” I mutter, rethinking whether or not I can get sick of hearing that. “Do you need to pee too? Are you good?”

  She pulls back and gives me two thumbs up. “I’m perfect.”

  “Good.” I look at Ben, hoping he’ll be my ally here. Mel is a lightweight and she’s been drinking all day. She’s like a toddler at this point. “You’ll stick with her. That’s not a question.”

  He nods hard and I wish his sunglasses were off so I could tell how glassy his eyes are. “You got it, boss.” He grabs Mel around the waist and pulls her hard up against his body.

  She squeals in delight and wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his chest.

  “I’ll stick to her like glue.”

  “Awesome. I can’t see any of this going wrong. I’ll be right back.”

  If this were a horror movie, I’d be dead in five minutes just as punishment for saying something so stupid. As it turns out, an hour later I’m still alive but I wish I wasn’t. I’d rather be dead than standing in the longest line I’ve ever seen waiting to enter a filthy, overused public bathroom at a drinking festival with a full, screaming bladder. I’m literally bouncing from foot to foot by the time I get inside.

  I will not speak of the horrors that befall me in that little room. Not now, not ever.

  When I get out, I’m not surprised that I can’t find Mel and Ben right away. I was gone a long time and they’re drunk, impatient, and impulsive. I keep my eyes peeled for them as I make my way from the last place I saw them to the next beer tent we were planning on visiting. It’s one of the smaller ones, a little quieter and more subdued. I’m getting a little wiggy from the crowds and noise, so taking a small breather was my brilliant idea. But when I get there of course I can’t find them.

  “Shit,” I mutter, glancing around fruitlessly for the fourth time.

  “Miss,” an Italian accent calls to my right. I look over to find a guy about ten years older than I am with dark hair and warm eyes. He’s handsome in a very European kind of way. His clothes are tailored, his hair full of product and coifed, and I can smell his cologne from here, even in a tent full of people. It’s not bad—just a lot.

  “You are lost?” he asks me.

  I grin politely, shaking my head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. Just looking for my friends.”

  “Ah, you have lost your friends.”

  “Seems so, yeah.”

  “I help you look for them,” he offers, moving to stand from the table where he sits with four other men in similar clothing who can only be his friends—or brothers, for how much they all look alike. They’re like a gang. A really suave, handsome gang.

  I take a step away from them. “No, that’s—no. Thanks, but no. I’m fine.”

  “No, no, no, no. I help you. Or you sit, you join us. You wait,” he says, gesturing to his now vacant seat. Four pairs of warm eyes and brilliant white smiles look up at me expectantly.

  What big teeth you have.

  One of the men offers a cup to me, open and brimming with frothing beer.

  I take a step back. “No. I’d rather not. I’m fine.”

  “Is too dangerous you be alone. You sit, you join us. We help you.” He takes two steps toward me as he speaks, crowding my space.

  I know Europeans have a much smaller personal bubble than Americans. I understand that his proximity to me is not necessarily threatening, not to him. Not intentionally. But for me, it’s too close.

  My eyes begin to swing around the room, searching for my quick solution out of this awkward moment. Luckily, I’m already saved. I just don’t know it yet.

  Chapter Two

  “Hey,” a deep voice hums in my ear. A warm hand touches me lightly on the arm. “Did you get turned around? We’re over here, remember?”

  I look at the guy standing beside me talking to me like he knows me, and I’m surprised to find it’s not Ben. He’s taller than I am by a few inches, probably about six foot two with heavy, broad shoulders, startling blue eyes, and close-cropped brown hair. The haircut has me pegging him for military immediately and the American accent and perfect English says U.S. military for sure. Put a football in his hands and he’s a thick slice of American pie that already has my mouth watering.

  “Hey,” I respond, trying not to sound as unsure as I am. I hope he’s trying to save me from the Armani Mafia, but I’m worried he’s just mistaken me for someone he knows.

  “Come on, I’ve got your beer waiting at the table.”

  I nod, giving him a small smile. “Thanks.”

  My new best friend (brot will need to step up its game to compete with this guy’s eyes if it wants the title back) puts his hand out toward the Italian still standing. “Thanks for steppin’ up to help her out, man.”

  Italy’s smile loses some of its luster, but the guy doesn’t hesitate to take American Pie’s hand. “It is no problem. I am happy she find you.”

  They shake hands quickly, then American Pie puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me down the row of tables.

  “Thanks,” I mumble to him. “That was nice of you.”

  He shrugs. “You looked uncomfortable and there’s a language barrier. That could have gone on for a while. I thought you might want an easy out.”

  I nod as I smile at him. “I did, yeah. Thanks again.”

  I give him a small wave and start walking faster, outstepping him.

  “Hey, wait.”

  I turn to face him and part of me jolts. Lord, his eyes are blue. That color should be illegal. “Yeah?”

  “Was he right? You’re separated from your friends?”

  “Yeah, we got separated about an hour ago. This was the next place we were going so I thought I’d find them here, but I don’t see them.”

  “So what are you going to do? Do you have a meeting place set up?”

  I shake my head, feeling dumb that in a crowded situation like this we don’t have that kind of a plan. I didn’t even think of it before but it sure as hell makes sense now.

  “Why don’t you come sit with us?” he suggests, gesturing to a table farther down the aisle.

  I glance to where he’s pointing and see three other guys with military haircuts sitting at a table and watching us. It’s another pack of similar-looking guys, not too unlike the Italians I just escaped from, but they’re American boys. I can handle American boys. There’s no language or social barriers to be confused by. This is the devil I know.

  “It’s probably better to stay in one place,” he says, seeing me waver undecidedly. “Especially somewhere that you all planned on going eventually.”

  “What if they do the same thing? Sit down, have a beer, and wait for me to show?”

  He grins, his lips pulling up higher on one side than the other. It’s crooked and adorable. “Then you don’t find each other, but at least you’re not alone.”

  I glance at his friends and mistakenly take another look at him. The guy is handsome in a comfortable kind of way. Like your older brother’s best friend; he’s been around forever but one day his good looks and sweet nature sneak up on you and BAM!, you’re a goner. Plus, the military thing
does it for me and I find myself nodding in agreement and following him to his table.

  “This is Haskins, Sanchez, and Birchart,” American Pie tells me, pointing to each of his boys. Sanchez is the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen and I wonder if there’s a joke there I’m not getting. “Guys, this is—I don’t know your name.”

  “Wren,” I supply.

  “Rent?” Birchart, a stocky guy with the greatest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, asks.

  “No, Wren. Like the bird.”

  “That’s different,” American Pie says.

  I shrug. “My mom likes birds. I have a sister named Robin and we have a dog named Sparrow.”

  “Themed names kill me,” Sanchez groans. He looks at me apologetically. “No offense.”

  “None taken. Try having one. Trust me, it doesn’t make you love it more.”

  “So, Wren,” American Pie says, touching my arm again, “I was headed to get a drink before swooping in and saving the day. You want one?”

  I look around at what everyone is drinking and shake my head. “Everything is in cups. I’ll just go with you and get one myself.”

  When I look at him I realize I basically just told him I’m afraid he’s going to roofie me, which I am, but I shouldn’t have said it. Not out loud. Luckily he doesn’t look offended. He just smirks at me.

  “That was the idea. You coming with me.”

  “Sorry, yeah, it’s not that I don’t—” But it is: I don’t trust him. I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name.

  Not needing more explanation, he gestures for me to come with him. I fall into step beside him, noticing that we’re taking a long route that goes around my Italians.

  “You introduced me to your friends but I never got your name,” I tell him.

  “Right, sorry. It’s Jax. Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “It’s not my actual name.”

  I eye him shrewdly. “It’s weird to tell me that you’re giving me a fake name.”

  He chuckles. “It’s what everyone calls me. It’s just not my real name. My last name is Jackson. In the military almost everyone goes by their last name. People shortened it and started calling me Jax.”

  “So what’s your real name?”

  He looks at me sideways. “Kenneth. Ken.”

  “Jax is good.”

  His responding laugh gives me goose bumps.

  “What branch of the military are you in?” I ask, stepping up to stand in line next to him. It’s crowded and I have to stand close to him, shoulder to shoulder. I notice either he or one of the twenty other guys milling around smells faintly fantastic.

  “Air Force.”

  I’m jostled from behind and I stumble a half step forward. It’s nothing outside the hazards of being in a crowded area, but Jax takes a step slightly behind me, his body now half shielding me from the people behind us. If we’re crowded by them again, he’ll take the brunt of it. It’s a subtle gesture, like when a guy offers you his jacket or moves to the street side of the sidewalk when walking beside you, leaving you more protected. It’s an old form of gentleman that feminists find insulting but I see as sweet. Yeah, of course I can open a door for myself and I’m not gonna hate on a guy if he doesn’t do it for me, but I will give him bonus points if he does. I’m doing my part to be a lady, not running around flashing my goods like it’s Mardi Gras and beads are the cure for cancer, so I don’t see the harm in appreciating a guy who still knows how to act like a gentleman.

  “Did you come to Germany for Oktoberfest or are you traveling around?” he asks, his new closer stance putting his mouth right beside my ear, his breath tickling my hair across the lobe.

  “School, actually. I came to do a semester abroad.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Heidelberg. Just south of Frankfurt.”

  “I’m at Ramstein. It’s not far from Frankfurt.”

  “We’re probably pretty close to each other.”

  He’s bumped from behind, his body and scent cascading into me.

  It’s him, I think definitively. He smells faintly fantastic.

  I try to breathe the scent in deeply without looking like a freak.

  “How long will you be here?” he asks me.

  “Uh, four months. You?”

  “Two years.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. It’s a long stretch.” He puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me forward in the line a little. “I’ve been here a year already so it’s really just another year to go.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s a nice country,” he replies indifferently.

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “I’m being diplomatic.” He smirks, ushering me forward again. “We’re up. If you let me buy your drink, I promise not to touch it—with my hands or my illicit drugs.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you’re a creeper.”

  He waves me away, pulling several euro from his wallet and signaling for two beers. “Don’t apologize for being careful.”

  I grin at him. “I never said I was sorry.”

  “I guess you didn’t,” he agrees with a chuckle. He hands me my beer: frothy, golden, and beautiful. “So can this creeper ask what you’re studying?”

  “Business.”

  “International business?”

  I nod my head, taking a sip of the beer and weaving back past the crowded line with him. “Yep.”

  “Does the school in Heidelberg have a good program? Is that why you came here?”

  “No, I came to Germany to get away. To see something new.”

  To hide from the future.

  I push the heavy thought down, smiling lightly to blanket it. “I’m going to college in my hometown, the same town I was raised in my entire life. It’s a great school and I love it, but I had to get out at least once, you know?”

  “Yeah, definitely. You don’t want to live and die in the same fifty-mile radius.”

  “Yes! Thank you. Not everyone gets that. Is that why you joined the Air Force? For a ticket out?”

  “Nah. I joined the Air Force to serve my country.”

  I’m a little floored by that—by the blunt honesty of it. The simple nobility.

  “So you’re a lifer then?” I ask curiously. “This is it for you, this is the career?”

  He flinches slightly, the look disappearing as quickly as it came. “Kind of. I’ll do my twenty, retire, then go civilian. What are you going to do with your degree in business?”

  “No idea,” I admit, trying not to flinch myself. “I’m having a hard time figuring that out lately.”

  “Forever isn’t an easy choice to make.”

  “You made it.”

  “I guess.”

  The flinch is gone from his face but I can still feel it in the air around him. I think it’s tied to this topic. To the future. It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one with baggage in that department.

  He turns to me, about to say something, but he stops when he catches me looking at him. I’m embarrassed he caught me staring but I don’t look away. Instead I smile easily, something about his eyes on mine making me sigh and settle inside.

  His mouth quirks into that crooked grin. “You have a great smile.”

  “That is an old, tired line.”

  “Maybe the line isn’t tired. Maybe your smile is classic.”

  I laugh at how cheesy that sounds, but then if it’s cheesy why am I blushing? And why am I still smiling my classic smile at him?

  We’ve made it back to his band of brothers and he offers me his seat, the only vacant one for miles. The boy actually pushes my chair in for me as I sit down, and then moves to the other side of the table to stand across from me, behind Sanchez. I have to admit, I’m liking the view.

  I’m hearing an awkward story about a German girl trying to get all up on Birchart at a bar, laughing at his terrible understanding of the German language, and making copious amounts of smiling, flirti
ng eye contact with Jax, when I hear it.

  My shame.

  “I am the Rally Queen!!!”

  I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. When I open them again, Jax is smiling at me.

  “Someone you know?” he chuckles.

  “Have they seen me yet? Is it too late to pretend I don’t know them?”

  “Wren! We found you!” Mel screams.

  Jax gives me a pitying look. “It’s too late.”

  I swear under my breath as I turn to face my humiliation. Red-faced and disheveled, Mel and Ben come running down the aisle toward me.

  “What happened to you?” Ben asks, his voice about ten decibels too high.

  “Um, I went pee and you ditched me,” I remind him incredulously. “That’s what happened.”

  “We got turned around,” Mel explains breathlessly. “We saw this adorable T-shirt—”

  “She saw an ‘adorable’ T-shirt,” Ben corrects.

  “And we had to go get it.”

  I look at her empty hands. “Where is it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t buy it. It was stupid.”

  “I thought it was adorable and you just had to go get it.”

  “Me too!” she says, getting excited. “I thought it was adorable too. Should I go back and get it?”

  “No, you shouldn’t. You should slow down a little.”

  “No, no, no. We have to go to the rides now. It’s ride time!” she screams in my face.

  “Wow,” someone behind me mutters.

  “Okay, guys, yes,” I tell Ben and Mel, looking them both in the eyes for as long as they’re able. “Let’s go do the rides, but let’s stick together, okay? No more ditching Wren. Got it?”

  “You got it! I was so worried when we lost you,” Mel says, becoming instantly solemn. She pulls me into a crushing embrace that nearly topples us both back onto the table behind me. “What if someone killed you?”

  “That’s cheery, thank you. I’m fine, though, so let’s go do the rides, okay?”

  “Ride time!” she cries, letting me go abruptly to jump up and down.

  I turn to face American Pie and the gang, feeling a pang of regret. I’d really rather stay here, hear the end of Birchart’s failed romance, and smile at Jax than leave, but drunk, loud hos before bros, so I grimace and wave goodbye.