Chapter Four Skye #2
“You’re staring. My personal life isn’t a means of entertainment for anyone other than Johnny.
” She points to the bartender, who is now looking down at his nametag that clearly reads Jacopo, but I feel like correcting the drunk woman would be a death sentence, and I would hate to miss one of the biggest moments in my hockey career because my mouth got me in trouble.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, this time without the question mark. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The bartender, Jacopo-Johnny, is now watching the interaction between the two of us as he pulls a glass of water from behind the bar. Or maybe he is also having a glass of straight vodka. Maybe it’s acceptable in this country, or in this quality of hotel.
Drunk Woman sighs, finding the straw on the first try this time, and takes another sip from her drink.
“You didn’t offend me.” Her tone softens. She crosses her legging-covered legs and adjusts her oversized sweater to cover her shoulder, even though I believe the purpose of those shirts is in fact to show skin.
I’ve always found those wildly attractive and catch myself staring at the creamy skin peeking back at me.
I take a sip of my mocktail and wave to the bartender. He goes to get me a refill, but I stop him. “Can you make that a raspberry vodka and club soda?”
He gives me a look that asks why I want alcohol after a mocktail, but I just shrug.. A good raspberry vodka and club soda cocktail is always light and refreshing — something I definitely need to keep myself from feeling bloated.
“I dumped my boyfriend,” she informs me, and I notice she’s moved two seats closer to me, leaving only one barstool to separate us.
Keeping my lips clamped so I don’t mention that I heard her story when she whisper-yelled it to the bartender, I shrug, and she takes that as an invitation to keep talking.
Is this what being more approachable is like? Why did I want this?
I listen as she starts her story over, telling me how she got home from work early and found her boyfriend rolling around with her cousin.
How she had to tell her best friend not to burn her favorite Little Mermaid pillow.
And how she had to endure eight hours of him trying to switch seats with people on their flight to Milan.
“Personally, I’d have let him.” I take a sip of my drink and feel it slither down my throat.
The raspberry vodka in this country is the best I’ve ever had in my entire life.
Whether it’s because I’m drinking it in Milan or the superior craftsmanship, I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling it’s because they genuinely make it better here.
“You’d have let him what?” she slurs, her blinking getting slower and slower with every passing minute.
“Switch seats.” I toy with my straw, enjoying the clink of the ice against the glass. “It sounds like you didn’t want to sit beside him anyway. Why make a flight to Milan unbearable?”
She’s just staring at me now, so I down my drink and wave to the bartender for a refill. When I turn my eyes back to Drunk Woman, her head is slowly lowering onto the counter with her phone in her hand.
Jacopo-Johnny is reaching for a glass and looking at me like she’s my problem. I want to laugh in his face. What the hell would I do with her? I don’t know anything about this woman except the fact that she’s having a pretty shitty vacation.
Is she on vacation? With her ex? Or was it a honeymoon that she forced him to go on because she didn’t want to miss the experience of the city?
Probably not a honeymoon since she never referred to the cheating asshole as her fiancé. But still, going on vacation with your ex-boyfriend just because you didn’t want to miss out on Milan? I’d have asked someone else to go along with me for sure.
Maybe he wouldn’t give up his ticket.
Either way, I don’t know her name and keep referring to her as Drunk Woman, so I suppose getting answers to all of my “why are you in Milan?” questions isn’t an option.
“Miss,” Jacopo-Johnny says, trying to wake her up with a nudge on her exposed shoulder. “Ma’am.”
She doesn’t show any sign of consciousness, so I stare at him, waiting for his next plan of action.
“Check her phone,” Jacopo-Johnny suggests, still not refilling my glass, like he’s holding it hostage until I fix the problem that isn’t mine. “Maybe there’s someone in there you can call.”
His words are fast and rhythmic with a heavy Milanese accent.
His consonants are sharp and clear, where his vowels aren’t emphasized.
Almost the opposite of the Italian accents I’ve heard.
I can speak the language, thanks to my aunt, who got bored and decided to learn it on a mobile app one day.
But I’m lacking the sexy accent, and to me, that’s the important part.
I love hearing people talk who aren’t from the States. It’s like listening to a hypnosis tape. I will take you to my room and make you scream my name as long as you don’t stop talking in that accent.
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 find every 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.