More so toward the women than the men. Never really found the urge to touch a pipe, but I can’t say no to a good taco.
“I’m sure it’s password-protected.” I lean toward her, pulling it out of her hands. When I tap all the side buttons trying to turn on the screen, I realize we have an even bigger problem. “It’s dead.”
Jacopo-Johnny shrugs a shoulder and huffs out a laugh as he walks away. Not wanting to deal with her, I get up from my barstool, leaving my still-empty glass on the bar and dropping fifty euros on the counter before walking away.
I’m not getting in trouble for touching a woman. I’ll never make that mistake again.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself until my mind races, wondering what will happen to her if she isn’t returned to her hotel room. Would someone put her through the worst night of her life? Leading her down a path that will end at the hospital, having test after test done to prove she was raped?
I stop, sigh, and turn back to the bar where Drunk Woman is still comatose.
“There’s no way I’m actually making this my problem,” I grumble to myself as I walk over to the bar and shake her. Looking around the room, I don’t see any signs of my team, which is a good thing. Shocking, since they findevery opportunity to sample alcohol at every venue, but I’m grateful they are anywhere but this bar.
“Hmmm,” she groans, her eyes practically glued shut.
“Listen, lady.” I pull her from the barstool. “Jacopo-Johnny says I need to take you to your room.”
She mumbles something else, but thankfully doesn’t fight me as I pull her from the barstool and steady her against me. She smells like a tropical bar as her strawberry-blonde, coconut-scented hair drops over her shoulders.
Damn.
Her skin is exposed again. I bet she tastes like heaven. Pale skin, coconut hair, pouty, lip-glossed lips.
Stop. Get her to her room.
“What’s your room number?” I hope the people in the bar don’t think I’m kidnapping this woman. “I need to get you very far away from these bottles filled with bad decisions.”
“Four,” she mumbles, and I know that can’t be right. “…teen.”
Fucking kill me.
I get her to the elevator, to her floor, down the hall, and hold her upright outside the door with a large, gold fourteen in the middle.
“I need your key,” I tell her, not wanting to dig through the little pink clutch she’s holding. I only carry a magnetic wallet that attaches to the back of my phone, but even I know that a woman’s purse is sacred ground and“thou shalt not stick thy hand inside.” Even with permission.
“Pocket,” she whispers, letting her head fall against my chest.
Ain’t no fucking way I’m digging through a drunk woman’s pockets.
“Get it, please,” I say through clenched teeth. I very rarely use the word please, but I feel like desperate times call for desperate measures.
I try to remind myself she’s going through a lot. For whatever reason, she’s in Milan with her ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure if they’re sharing a room, but I wouldassume they aren’t. At least I hope they’re not if I have her hanging on me out here in the hall.
Not sure what else to do, I knock on the door.
No answer.
I knock again. Still no answer.
“Alright, so you’re in a room alone,” I sigh, knowing she isn’t going to be able to form words or acknowledge the fact that I’m talking. “I’m not doing anything inappropriate," I assure her as I slide my hand over her thigh pocket to feel for a hotel room key. “I just need to get you into your hotel room.”
She groans quietly against my chest. “Nice.”
Drunk Woman is not turning me on. She’s not. No chance.
She’s not even gay. She has a boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend, but still.
