Lust Abroad

by Whitley Cox

  “So… where uh…where in Lima are you staying?”

  I took a sip of my water. “The uh…The Inca Treasure Hostel, in Miraflores. What about you?”

  The cart wheeled between us, and I had to wait. I ordered and accepted my wine, pleased and surprised that the Argentinian Malbec they had was actually pretty decent.

  “So…” I asked, noticing the beer in front of him.

  He popped the tab on his can and looked at me; my whole body was vibrating from the intensity of his stare. He’d stripped me down to nothing but my earrings and my travel wallet with those dark gray eyes of his. He’d slowly relieved me of each scrap of fabric, dragging his knuckles along my skin, feeling it warm and tingle from his touch. And then when I was down to nothing but my panties, which at this point were already sopping wet, he’d shredded those between his big capable hands. Dear lord, the man was handsome. “The Inca Treasure Hostel…in Miraflores,” he said with a wicked grin, as he tipped back his beer.

  I took another sip of my wine; suddenly my mouth had become incredibly dry.

  “So, did you opt for their free airport shuttle?” I asked, still trying my damnedest to check to see if his left hand had a wedding ring on it or not.

  His head bobbed in a nod. “Yeah, may as well, right?”

  I smiled. “Exactly.”

  He took another sip of his beer, this time with his left hand, and from the looks of things he didn’t have a ring. But then, I chastised myself, that meant very little these days. And he could have just taken it off.

  “I guess we’re going to be neighbors, then.”

  “I guess, yeah.”

  “You uh…you meeting anybody in Lima?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m traveling alone. I’ve got a bit of a bucket list myself that I’m trying to tick off. Just saw the Canal in Panama and went to the San Blas Islands for a week, and now I’m off to Machu Picchu.”

  Another sip. Damn how I wished I was that beer can right now. His plump lips sucking and tasting, savoring the flavor. But instead I just continued to drink my wine, rolling it around on my tongue to distract my brain from it’s current dirty thoughts.

  “So…um…would you like to grab dinner, maybe?”

  My eyes flew to the book in the pocket of the seat in front of me, sudden feelings of betrayal and unease pierced my heart like a javelin. It’d been nearly two years. He’d want me to be happy. It wasn’t a betrayal; it was finding happiness again, right? I swallowed, suddenly wishing that my drink was something far stronger than wine — I really needed tequila.

  I chewed on my lip. “Uh…sure…why not?”

  Well, damn, if his smile didn’t make me want to drag his ass back to the bathroom so we could join the mile-high club.

  We spent the remainder of the flight chatting. Innocuous chit-chat that would generally take place on a first date. Was this our first date? But whether a first date or a Tinder “interview” before a hookup, we talked about all the usual stuff, where we’d traveled in Central America. Our plans for Peru and where we were from.

  It turns out, like myself, he was Canadian. Calgary-born and -raised. A farm boy, but also the black sheep of the family, because instead of raising cattle like his daddy had wanted him to, and his brothers had stuck around to do, he went and became a journalist and photographer. Traveling all over the world and documenting his adventures.

  Gorgeous, almost too gorgeous, but not quite…maybe just gorgeous enough, yeah, just gorgeous enough. But he was also not my usual type. Sure, most of the guys I’ve dated have been handsome, but all my previous boyfriends, Ray included, had been blond and buff. I think the blond was more by pure coincidence than anything, but that seemed to be my type. Blond, buff and blue-eyed.

  But Derrick, he was dark and tapered, not skinny. His build was slighter, muscles honed from hard work, labor — not hours spent at the gym. Silky hair the color of charcoal and eyes as gray as the stormy skies of Tofino in November.

  “So…I guess we’ll be taking the same shuttle,” he chuckled as we shuffled our way down through the aisles after the plane had landed. And like docile little lambs, we followed the ram in front of us and unloaded off into the Lima airport and toward customs and immigration.

  “I guess so.” I smiled, unable to deny the stirring of something; interest, anticipation, fear…desire? Coming to life in my belly like a kaleidoscope of butterflies, all taking wing at the same time. Would we go out to dinner, and would one of us end up spending the night in the other’s room? Was this how it went? It’d been ages since I’d done the dating thing. I had no idea how it worked anymore. Let alone, the international dating scene. Did you date while you were backpacking, or was it simply an endless stream of orgasm-filled hook ups? Stamp your passport with as many international delights as you possibly could, before returning home to the boring local cuisine? But this guy was local cuisine, so what the heck was going on? I spent the next several minutes in quiet contemplation, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. I’d agreed to go to dinner with him, nothing more, right? But did I want more? Was I ready for more? Classic overthink.

  “You’re up next.” His throaty chuckle and velvet-smooth voice snapped me out of my lust abroad protocol reverie.

  I walked up to the immigration desk and answered all the questions like a robot. No, I didn’t have any drugs. Yes, I was here for pleasure. No, I didn’t have any plant-based materials or animal products. No, I didn’t have over ten thousand dollars U.S. on me. The officer stamped my passport, ignored my smile and gracias and told me to move along. I did the same thing through customs, and then before I knew it Derrick was back at my side, and we were marching along at a brisk pace toward the baggage claim.

  “What’s your bag look like?” The Ultimate Traveler was back out, his eyes scanning across the page. Meanwhile, an enormous red backpack sat at his feet. How the hell’d he manage to get that so quickly?

  I blinked a couple of times. “Uh…it’s blue.”

  He looked up at me and snorted. “Anything else distinctive about it? At the moment, I can count eight blue backpacks on that belt.”

  I felt my cheeks grow warm as I looked up into his beautiful eyes, while lashes a camel would be jealous of fluttered back at me. That gorgeous smile was back too and causing me to struggle with my words. Suddenly I spotted my bag and, without saying anything, lunged for it. But, of course, because life, in general, has a twisted sense of humor, no one moved over enough for me to get in and grab it, so I only managed to grab a dangling strap. But when I got hold of the strap and pulled, the stupid bag wouldn’t budge. It was stuck!

  I don’t know why I didn’t just let go and wait for the bag to come back around. That would have been the wise decision, the smart decision. But I didn’t let go and was instead hauled through the row of people standing with their knees knocking the carousel, and up on to the belt, landing with a painful oof on top of an oddly-shaped cardboard parcel.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Derrick called, having swung his monstrous bag up onto his back and even now elbowing his way through the endless sea of mindless, bag-waiting drones, following me as I went around on the belt.

  “What the hell does it look like?” I snapped, clambering up off the parcel, a flurry of skirts and hair, getting right down next to my bag to try to uncover where it was stuck. I felt around underneath, and sure enough, the thicker end of the strap was caught on a snagged piece of exposed metal on the belt.

  “Senora!” The thick Spanish accent of what I could only assume to be airport security interrupted my frustrated grunts. And then a slew of too-fast-to-comprehend Spanish came flying at me. I didn’t bother to look up but just continued to try and free my bag. I could see their military-type uniforms out of the corner of my eye. Their voices were getting stronger and their tone less forgiving and more “we’re going to throw your white ass in jail unless you get the fuck off the belt NOW!”

  “Ah ha!” I cheered, falling back on my bu
tt from the force of having finally freed my bag strap. Big tanned hands came up and under my arms, and suddenly I and my bag were being hoisted into the air and then tossed onto the floor. When I finally looked up, two very unhappy Peruvian men, who looked like they’d just stepped out of the rainforest after setting up landmines and fighting guerrilla forces, glared back at me, more Spanish vitriol flying from their lips.

  Suddenly Derrick was at my side, and in poor, butchered Spanish that I’m sure made both camo-clad men cringe, he managed to subdue them. Within a minute, they were both nodding, eyeing me up with vague interest and, if I wasn’t mistaken (because at this point in my life, I knew the look well), pity. And then they finally smiled at me, nodded, and were on their way.

  I gaped at my hero. The hero who, not five minutes ago, I was mentally calling a “stamp” on my orgasmic passport. “What the hell did you just say to them?”

  He helped me put my backpack on, and with a warm, firm hand on my elbow, he led me toward the front door. “I told them that you’re a psych patient who was just released from the mental hospital after a nervous breakdown. Your one and only wish was to see Machu Picchu, and you thought your dead grandmother was inside your backpack. I told them I’m your caregiver and I needed to get you to the hotel quickly so you could take your anti-psychotic meds.”

  The humidity and heat of the city hit me like a grimy slap to the face when we burst through the airport doors. But that didn’t stop me from tossing on the brakes, jerking my elbow from his grasp and rounding on him. “You said what?” Not entirely sure what emotion I was feeling at the moment.

  God, that smile. “Nothing. But I had you going for a second.” His chuckle was diabolical, while that devious grin sent a zing of need straight to my lady parts. “I told them you’re bringing your deceased grandmother’s ashes, which are in your backpack, to Machu Picchu. Because it was her life’s dream to climb it, but she was never able to make it before she passed. Not quite as entertaining as you being a psych patient. I kind of wish I’d gone with that one now. I said you started to panic about the ashes and you got pulled onto the carousel. Which was true. Your book gave me the idea.”

  Holy shit, that was more accurate than he knew…only they weren’t my grandmother’s ashes.

  As hard as I tried to fight it, I couldn’t help but smile. Quick thinker, and funny. He just kept ticking all kinds of boxes. “Well…” I punched him in the shoulder. “Thanks…I guess.”

  He pointed to a man with a sign that had both of our names scrawled on it, and we started to walk toward him. “You can buy me dinner as thanks.” And then, as if we hadn’t just met three and a half hours ago, on the airplane, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward our driver.

  2

  It was about a thirty-five-minute drive from the airport to our hostel, and Derrick spent the entire time reading out facts and pointing out random landmarks, as dictated and described by The Ultimate Traveler. I was quickly realizing, aside from being drop-dead gorgeous, funny and clever, he was also kind of nerdy — another ticked box; I seriously loved me some nerds.

  Ray had been my first real nerd, buff on the outside but brilliant on the inside. I always felt challenged by him. Our conversations were stimulating and interesting. Not a day went by where I didn’t learn something from him, and I loved that. Being the first person in my family to graduate from university, I valued education, whether it be formal or simply sitting on the couch and hearing about the amazing discoveries and things he did in the lab each day. I always felt like I’d bettered myself and enhanced my intelligence somehow just talking to my husband. And I got that same vibe from Derrick, that this man could teach me things. I knew I’d never be bored or left feeling unchallenged or unstimulated. Tick, tick, tick in the boxes.

  “Did you know,” Derrick started…again, “that Miraflores is a district of the Lima Province in Peru? It’s known for being safer than other districts, and for its exclusive residential houses and upscale shopping district. Apparently, as a city in itself, Lima isn’t overly special, but Miraflores is where most tourists come and stay.” He looked up from his book and grinned at me. “So, we’re headed in the right direction.”

  I smiled back, my eyes drifting back out the window of the van, watching an entirely new world zoom by. A short while later, and after several interesting facts about Lima and Miraflores from my sexy new travel buddy, hostel neighbor and walking, talking Wikipedia article, we pulled up to a wrought-iron gate with spikes on top and barbed wire hugging the spikes. Looming above was a five-story banana-yellow building made of stucco and brick with barred windows and more spikes and barbed wire around the balconies. Was this a hostel or a prison?

  Our shuttle driver helped us unload and then buzzed the front door. It clicked open a second later, and we were ushered inside. The lobby and entranceway weren’t overly memorable or inviting — a small desk, a couple of old couches, some stands and racks of pamphlets for tours. Nothing out of the ordinary, but also nothing exciting. At least the last place I’d stayed, in Panama, had a pinball machine in the front entrance, and the place before that had a bird cage with a talking parrot that said “Welcome” in fifteen different languages.

  I handed over my passport. The woman behind the desk scanned it, then she brought out a big reservation book and started trailing her finger down the pages to find my booking. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Really? This was the twenty-first century; I booked it online. Surely, they had some online record. And her computer was right in front of her…something was starting to smell a little fishy.

  Suddenly her head popped up, and she bit her lip, her eyes flying back and forth between me and the reservation book. “I…I’m very sorry, Ms. Valentine.” Her lip trembled. “We…we no longer have your room.”

  I gaped at her. “Then how did you know to pick me up from the airport?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. B-but, your room is now occupied. We are full.”

  I blinked at her, not quite sure what to do next. “I booked this three days ago. I have my confirmation receipt… See?” I opened up my travel file folder, went to the tab marked “accommodation” and thrust it into her hands. My OCD for organization and my law-student meticulous attention to detail were coming out in droves. She took it from me and studied it, her eyes flying too quickly across the page to truly be paying attention to anything.

  She shook her head. “I—I’m sorry. We can give you your deposit back if you’d like to store your bag here while you go and find somewhere else to stay.” That was a weird thing to offer; why wouldn’t I take my bag with me? Maybe it was a cultural thing, or something was getting lost in translation.

  I blew my bangs off my forehead and rolled my eyes. “Yeah…sure…I guess.”

  “What about my room? Could we share?” Derrick asked, tucking his Ultimate Traveler under his arm and stepping forward, flashing a dashing grin at the shaking little Peruvian woman. He’d been quietly watching the entire exchange while standing just a couple of steps behind me. She’d already checked him in and confirmed his reservation. Lucky duck.

  I shot him a dubious look. “Share?”

  “Well, do I have twin beds? Could we share?”

  The little Peruvian woman, whose name tag said “Gladys,” perked up. “Si, si…yes…yes, you can share. You can share.” And then she grabbed a key from the panel of hooks and keys behind her and practically threw it at him.

  My mouth just hung open. “Uh…”

  “This way.” And before I even knew what was going on, we were following her up four flights of stairs, sweat trickling between my breasts and misting my brow by the time we made it to a door marked “4.”

  Oh crap!

  I’m not superstitious or anything, but my best friend, Emily, is Chinese, and her family is very superstitious, and according to them, the number four is bad. Very, very bad. I don’t know why it’s bad, but it is. Hotels and apartments in some parts of Asia don’t even have a fourth floor; it�
��s that bad. An ominous shiver ran through me despite the heat in the building and in my body from just hiking half the Andes up to the room. But I pushed the bad thoughts about the number four out of my head and waited for Derrick to open his door with the key. That was a bad number in Asia; we were in South America, so it didn’t count, right?

  “Yes, you share.” The front desk woman grinned, believing that the problem had been solved. That it was no biggie for two total strangers to share a room.

  The door swung open, and there it was. A giant king-size bed. Staring at us, taunting us.

  “You uh…you can take the bed if you’d like,” Derrick murmured, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Ever since Gladys, from the front desk, had taken her leave of us, we hadn’t made eye contact. We’d just stood there, at the foot of the bed, taking in the lush red duvet with gold embroidery and matching pillow cases. The whole thing screamed: “Come have sex on me.”

  “I can sleep on the floor.” He was unable to meet my eyes.

  I didn’t say anything. I just swallowed. And my eyes fell to the bathroom door, and I suddenly longed for a shower. The water at my last hostel had stopped running two days ago, so I’d been bathing with baby wipes. I needed to wash my hair and shave my pits.

  “I, um…do you mind if I have a shower?” I asked, the red from the bed drawing my gaze like a waving flag before a bull.

  His head snapped up, gray eyes dancing. “No, no of course not. Go right ahead.”

  Nodding, but not saying anything, because the enormous bed in the middle of the room was saying enough for the both of us, I yarded my bag over to a corner and started rooting around inside looking for clothes and toiletries.

  Naked as a jay bird and ready to get clean, I stepped into the shower and turned on the water, loving the feeling of the warm spray as it cleansed my body of the hot tropical grime. I was rinsing my hair when squeaks and groans from the faucet and pipes made me squint through the soapy bubbles, and all of a sudden, like a bullet from a gun, the on/off handle burst from the wall and smacked me in the leg. Then the spray nozzle squealed and shot from the wall as well. Before I knew it, water was everywhere, all over the bathroom — because of course, the bathroom had to be open concept with just a shower, no doors or curtains — nothing. The room was soaked in seconds, the toilet, the sink, the floors, the mirror. It was as if the skies had opened up and the roof had flown off.