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When the excitement died down, Ulloa leaned in. “That’s not Christina’s, is it?”
“No.”
He looked relieved. “You guys still seeing each other?”
I gave a brief nod.
“IDs?” A bouncer held out a meaty hand under the glow of a neon sign. We’d reached the bar without my noticing. Normally, I paid close attention to my surroundings. Living in Rome had taught me that much.
Inside, a band played at one end of the darkened room. I ordered a can of club soda while Parker tried to flirt with the bartender. Ice clinked against glass when she set down his gin and tonic. He made a joke, and she brushed him off like she was swatting a fly.
The clink of ice was a trigger for some, but for me, the twist of a bottle cap was all it took to drag me back to Italy. To waking up alone, unshaven and unshowered, after everything went to hell with Livia, with the taste of alcohol sour in my mouth.
*****
In the heart of Rome, there’d been an American-style college bar. When my cohort suggested going, I thought they were joking.
We had nine short months in one of the world’s greatest cities. I’d come here to get away from my small town. Escape the suffocation that followed me to college. Here, I could breathe. They wanted to waste precious time at the same fucking bar they could find at home?
But I went along to be affable. I did a lot of that back then.
I watched the other guys flirt with local girls. I didn’t try to pick anyone up.
For years, I’d pushed down what I wanted with women. The girls I dated were sweet, nice, and I always tried so fucking hard to be a good boyfriend. Attentive. Understanding. They never knew what I fantasized about when we were together, or what I got off to when we were apart.
Someone sat down beside me.
Her hair was dark and tousled, her dress tight and white. She was older, around thirty, pretty and petite.
“I’m hoping we can talk.” Her accent was a soft lilt. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“Do we?” I studied her.
“I’m so very sorry about my English.” She fidgeted, nibbling her finger. Suddenly she seemed much younger.
“No, your English is incredible,” I hurried to say. “It's way better than my Italian.”
I was about to ask her to teach me a few words, flirt that way, keep the conversation going, but she lowered her chin and gave me a long look. That look packed a lecture into a single stare.
Then she tucked her hair behind her ear and her posture shifted into little-girl again.
“It's terrible. I don't know how you can listen to me.” She toyed with the neckline of her dress, giving me a flash of teardrop tit. I went from a little turned on to rock-hard in a rush.
The truth slammed into me so fast: I knew what she was asking for, I knew what she wanted.
“Yeah, I guess you have a few things to learn,” I said carefully.
“I have so much to learn.” She looked up at me through her eyelashes. “But I don’t know who could stand to teach me.”
“You're a handful, aren't you?” I lowered my voice so it was for her ears alone. “I bet you're a pain in the ass.”
She bit her full lower lip. “You have no idea.”
Abruptly, I pushed my chair back and left the bar.
For hours, I walked the cobblestone streets of the city I had a hopeless crush on, taking in the polished marble sculptures, the beauty shaped by the elements, the classical perfection enduring rough treatment, terrified of what I wanted. What she offered.
I’d convinced myself I was a bad man, and it took constant vigilance to be good.
