The Last Sunrise

Chapter Eight

Prisha shows up quickly and is even more beautiful than her photos. She glows as she walks through the bar, impossible to miss. Her raven hair is so smooth, giving the illusion of glass as she approaches.

“Oh my god, she’s even hotter than I thought. She’s too hot for me; what do I do? Should I run out the back door?” Amara squeezes my arm, and I laugh at the sudden deflation of her confidence as she attempts to hide behind me.

“She’s thinking the same thing about you, I’m sure of it. And no running, you brought me here. Now talk to her.” I gently untangle her death-grip on my arm and push her toward the approaching woman.

“Hi.” Amara smiles, showing a side of herself that I didn’t think existed. A shyness, a nervousness that makes her even more endearing.

“Hi.” Prisha’s voice sounds like a purr.

Her mouth twitches a little as she smiles, matching Amara’s energy.

“This is my friend Ry.” Amara touches my shoulder. “She’s here for the summer from the States, and she’s here to make sure you don’t murder me or something.”

Prisha’s laugh is a musical, low-pitched sound. I love the details of people’s laughs. Strangers or friends, you can tell so much about someone by their laugh. It’s one of the only moments in human behavior when there’s no guard, no walls, just a clear undiluted sound unique to them.

“Hello, Ry, I’m Prisha. Not a murderer, so I hope you won’t be too bored.” I take her outreached hand and shake it gently.

I’m not the one on a date with her and I’m already mesmerized. I really hope this goes well, for Amara’s sake. Amara motions for all of us to sit down and the small talk begins. The warmer their conversation becomes—why Prisha is going to med school in Sweden, why she chose to come to Mallorca for her break, how Amara ended up living here—I begin to drown them out to give them a sense of privacy. Looking around the bar, there are more men now. I’m getting annoyed as I find myself comparing every single one of them to the man from the beach yesterday. Julián. The nameless asshole with the pretty name. Nearly all of them are handsome, but nothing close to him. How obnoxious.

“Ry? Are you there?” Amara’s voice pulls me from the maze in my mind.

“Yeah, sorry.” I smile, relieved she has no clue that I’m daydreaming about her stupid one-night-stand-loving friend.

“Anyone interesting?” She wiggles her brows.

I shake my head fiercely. “Nope.”

God, I need another drink to get him off my mind.

“Let’s take some pics together!” Amara pulls out her phone and starts taking selfies of the three of us. I follow their lead of when to smile, when to hold up a peace sign, when to smile with teeth.

“Can you take one of me and Ry?” Amara hands her phone to Prisha, who happily takes at least five photos from every angle.

When she gives the phone back to Amara their fingers brush, and even in the dim lighting I can see the goose bumps rise on Amara’s arm. I look away, smiling but trying not to embarrass her.

“I’m going back to the bar, want another round?” I ask them.

Without breaking eye contact with each other, they both nod, and I leave them in their own little world to get us drinks.

Fabio, busy as ever, finishes perfectly pouring a draft beer into a tall glass and saunters over to me, passing the crowd of already waiting costumers. The people in line don’t seem to care or are used to the way he works. Without a word, he winks at me and starts pouring the shots, sans flames, which I suppose would lose the novelty after a few. My eyes widen when he hands me a tray with at least ten shots on it.

“Enjoy, lovely, and have the time of your life!” He dashes off to get back to the line.

The music has gotten louder, and it’s gotten busier since we arrived, but he’s still the only one working behind the bar.

When I get back to the table, Prisha’s hand is resting on Amara’s thigh, a clear sign that she’s into her too. Prisha’s dangling gold earrings catch the light as she laughs at something Amara says in her ear. I feel bad ruining their moment, but I’m carrying a tray of shots and have nowhere else to put them and no one else to take them with.

“I’m back with a ton of shots,” I say, stating the obvious and nodding toward the tray as I sit it down, trying not to spill any in the process.

“Ry! Look who liked the pic of us within literally ten seconds of me posting it!” Amara holds her phone up and shows me an Instagram profile. There are only two photos, one of the sunset over a calm blue sea and the other of the back of a man’s head, which I recognize a little too quickly for my own good.

“Julián?” I already know the answer but confirm anyway.

She nods. “He’s definitely got his eye on you.”

“Who’s Julián?” Prisha asks me.

I shake my head. “No one. I mean no one to me. He’s Amara’s friend who I happened to meet randomly, and he was such an asshole. Arrogant and hates tourists, which doesn’t make sense when you live in a tourist-filled place, but he’s grumpy and thinks he knows everything. He’s the worst.”

Amara’s eyes widen like she’s trying to tell me something, and I turn my neck to see what she’s staring at behind me.

“The worst, huh?” Julián, in the flesh, is standing directly behind me. I track my eyes up to his face, and of course he’s got a shit-eating grin spread across it.

“I— Well, I didn’t—” I stammer, because there’s no way in hell to dig myself out of this hole.

Julián holds his hand up. “I don’t care what you think of me, I’m just happy to hear it firsthand, but you sure had a lot to say about someone who is no one,” he says with pure amusement, grabbing ahold of another stool and dragging it to sit right next to me.

“Julián, this is Prisha. Say hi,” Amara nudges him.

Julián turns on his charm, which makes my skin itch, warmly smiling at Prisha, greeting her way more kindly than he did me yesterday. I guess he only dislikes American tourists?

Julián reaches for one of the shots without asking, and even though they aren’t technically mine, it annoys me and I move the tray just before he can grab one.

His eyes snap up to mine. “Now you’re guarding the drinks, Miss America?”

“So is it that I’m American that bothers you, since you seem to be nice to everyone else?” I stomp my foot, instantly regretting the choice.

“Nah, it’s that you’re entitled… and American.”

“See! Asshole.” I look at Prisha and Amara to confirm my statement. Prisha smiles and Amara laughs.

“Let’s drink and everyone make nice?” Amara suggests.

I wonder where their other friends are, the ones Amara told me were coming. The ones who were not supposed to include Julián.

“Fine.” I take one of the drinks and hand it to Julián, an olive branch of a gesture.

We each grab one and clink our glasses together, then down the shots. I try my best not to look at Julián, but damn, it’s hard. He’s dressed in a simple salt water–stained T-shirt, linen shorts, and sandals. He has that vibe of not caring what he’s wearing and knowing he just looks good. Then again, with that face and that body, he doesn’t have to put in much effort. He would look sexy in anything. I roll my eyes, and he catches me, raising a brow in curiosity.

“Something bothering you?” he leans in to ask me, his knee slightly knocking into mine. I don’t move.

“Besides you, no,” I respond half-heartedly.

“Hey, that’s not very nice.” When he smiles, I notice the slight overlap of his two front teeth.

“You told me you never want to see me again,” I remind him.

“Yeah, and I meant it. But here we are.” He puts his hands on his bare knees, rubbing them across his skin.

“Shall we call a truce, then, for Amara’s sake? You don’t even have a reason not to like me, and I don’t want to waste any more energy bickering with you.” I grab another shot and down it before he responds.

I watch him count the shots left on the tray. Five. “But it’s fun, no?”

“No.”

“And I don’t need a reason. Neither do you. How many of Fabio’s shots have you had?” he asks, his thick brows drawn together.

I try to count… one at the bar, another with Amara, then another with Prisha too? Am I missing one? Or two? “I don’t know. Like three-ish? Maybe four.”

“You should be careful. I’ve seen a lot of blue vomit coming out of foreigners when they have too many of his shots,” Julián warns, as if he actually cares if I get sick or not.

I tilt my head to the side and look into his eyes. “I bet you have seen a lot,” I mutter, recalling what Amara told me about him hooking up with so many tourists. It shouldn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me.

Does it?

I grab another and hand one to him, hoping he’s wrong about the whole vomit situation. I inherited my mom’s tolerance, though I don’t drink often, but when in Mallorca…

“Cheers to a night you’re going to regret.” He laughs, downing the shot.

I take mine and watch as he licks the sugar rim of the glass. His tongue moves slowly, each flake of sugar melting as he glides it. My belly flips. My imagination runs wild, flashes of his tongue running along my skin filling my mind. Oh god. I need to get up, get away from him. Him and these shots are not mixing well.

“How do you know her, anyway?” Julián asks Amara, looking at her as if I’m not sitting right there.

“Not such a detective now, are you?” I roll my eyes.

He hasn’t connected the dots to the hotel, the way he so arrogantly did last night.

“Ah.” A light bulb goes off in his head. “The hotel. You always pick up strays,” he tells her.

I have the urge to knock him across the back of his head, but I restrain myself. Something about his personality digs under my typically thick skin. Being raised by a statue of a mother who has zero qualms about sharing her opinion on any and every choice I—or anyone around her—has ever made has conditioned me to be this way. I choose to be thankful instead of resentful, and it’s come in handy a few times. Like now, when I want to tell this asshole to fuck off, that he thinks he’s way cooler than he is, and that I don’t give a shit if he likes me, but he better stop being rude or I’ll—

“We’re all strays, Julián. Even you,” she tells him, cutting off my mental lashing at him.

Her fingers dance on Prisha’s open palm. “And strays should stick together, not act like children on a play yard.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re usually better at picking friends than this one.” He nods toward me, and I reach for another shot.

There’s a humor and softness behind his teasing that keep my usual temper at bay. “Clearly she’s not or she wouldn’t be your friend,” I reply, full of immaturity.

The corner of his mouth turns up into a half smile. The hint of a dimple forms in his cheek. Damn it, why does he have to be so hot? I can’t even blame the alcohol because I was instantly attracted to him at the beach, and I’m clearly desperately longing for some sort of adventure.

“Touché.” He picks up a water bottle and takes a drink, wiping his mouth with his loose T-shirt. It lifts at the bottom, revealing a sliver of sun-kissed skin. The alcohol in my body makes me want to tell him about the cool reusable bottle my hotel gave me, but I get the feeling that would prove his point about me even more, so I zip it.

I start to tune out the small talk again, Prisha telling Amara about her siblings in a low voice that I can barely hear anyway. I watch Fabio behind the bar. He spins and twirls liquor bottles, uses his torch to impress the patrons, dances a little when the song changes. He’s a pro.

“You know his name isn’t really Fabio, right? It’s a tourist trap of a fake name,” Julián leans in to tell me, his breath touching my ear.

I shiver, jerking away.

“How do you know?” I ask him, not admitting that I assumed that already.

Julián licks his lips. “I know everything. Just like I finally know your name, Ry. Though I will miss creating new ways to annoy you.”

Amara’s Instagram post must have given it away. “It’s Oriah, so you don’t know everything.”

He studies me so intensely that I shift in my seat. “Oriah,” he says slowly, as if each letter deserves its own moment. “Your name suits you perfectly.”

If I keep having to be around this man, my eyes are going to roll out of my head.

“Right. The name Fabio also suits him.” I pull the conversation back to the bartender and away from the burn in my chest and the racing of my heart. “He kind of does look like Fabio.” I laugh, noting his long hair and thick build, like the shirtless muscleman on the cover of many classic romance novels.

“Do you know who Fabio is, the romance guy? I’m sure your mom has a book or two with him on the cover,” I joke, trying to keep the tension between us away.

Something changes in his posture at the mention of his mother. His grip on the bottle tightens and the plastic crunches in his hand. He purposely looks away from me and stares into the distance. I can physically feel him putting a wall between us.

“What’s your—” I start to ask, but then decide I don’t care.

If he wants to be an asshole, more power to him, but I’m here to have fun, not bicker with him, so I stand up. The room spins a little, but I stabilize myself quickly.

“Anyone want to dance?” I ask Amara and Prisha, who are now only an inch away from each other, lost in their own little world.

Julián smirks, points at his chest, and shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

“I wasn’t asking you.” I snort, grabbing one last drink and slamming it before making my way to the small, tiled area where there are a handful of people dancing.

It’s mostly couples. The live band begins a new song, the beat slow, sensual, and jazzlike. My mind is on cloud nine, my hips following the rhythm of the music. I close my eyes, shutting off the last bit of uncertainty of dancing alone, and let the music control my body. Dance has always been my first love since I was a child. Out of all the things I can’t do, this is one that I can and happen to excel at. Music has a way of crawling under the flesh over my bones and taking over, moving my body without thought. Blossoming, expanding, awakening something inside me. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this, since I’ve had the energy and excitement to relax enough to let my desire for dance take control and my mind shut off.

The passage of time doesn’t exist as one song ends, and another begins, again and again. A pair of hands on my waist pushes through my haze. The corners of reality are blurry, dancing and warping, pulling me further into a pulsing, addictive rhythm. The body behind me is solid. I feel it pressing against me, knowing by the mere size and scent of cologne that it’s a man. I don’t care what he looks like or who he is; so far, he’s a great dance partner. I keep my eyes closed as I turn around to face him, lifting a thigh onto his, our bodies melting together perfectly. The stranger moves his hand to my hair seductively and even in my mildly hallucinogenic state, it becomes clear how long it’s been since I’ve been touched this way. I haven’t felt desired in so long, just lethargic and bustling around hospitals, classrooms, doctors’ offices.

The music picks up in tempo and I have yet to open my eyes. I don’t want to or need to, not yet. I want to soak this moment in, that tiny crevice of rarity that comes when you move in sync with someone else. The connection of two people while dancing is incomparable, speaking the same language without saying a word. He twirls and whirls me, I push my ass against him and rub my hands down his arms, stopping at a thick piece of metal—a watch, I realize—and grab his hands, letting them roam my body. Down my thighs and back up. At this point, I’m so intoxicated, and not just by Fabio’s shots, that I don’t care what he looks like as long as he’s not a creep.

When I blink them open and turn to face him, he’s a little older than I expected, but I’m not disappointed by what I see. His black hair is cropped short like an American soldier, but I can tell he’s not American. The shape of his jaw is wide, his smile bright, revealing perfect, toothpaste-commercial-level teeth. He’s tall and wide, and strong, I add to the list, as he lifts me off my feet, spinning me around.

I laugh, my head falling back as something flashes. A camera? I ignore it for a second, keeping eye contact with my new dance partner. Another flash. And another. I close my eyes, steadying myself. Not now… not when I’m having the time of my life. Please, universe , I beg, let me have just one night…

The flashing continues and I pull myself away from the man, trying to explain to him that I need to sit down. Looking around the room, I can’t figure out where the table with Amara and Prisha is. I can’t remember where the bar is. With confusion in his eyes, the man starts to speak to me in a language that doesn’t sound like Spanish.

“I’m sorry, I need to find my friend,” I tell him, gently taking his hands off my waist.

His grip tightens as he keeps speaking to me in another language. I shake my head, apologizing again, but really, really needing him to let me go.

“We were having a great time…” he finally says in English.

“I know,” I pant, desperately looking for Amara’s bright hair. “It’s not you— It’s the lights… I need to go.” I attempt to pull his hands away again.

It takes me too long to realize that he’s not allowing me to. What the hell? I push at his thick arms, but to no avail.

“Let me go!” I yell at him, my panic increasing at the potential of what could happen if I stay here with the lights flashing.

I tug at his wrist, the watch catches between the friction, and I feel the metal push apart. His eyes flare and he shoves at my chest, my body slams against something… someone.

I turn around to apologize. “I’m so sorry.”

Julián. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I don’t care if it’s him of all people.

“You broke my fucking watch!” the man shouts at me, puffing his chest and huffing his breath in my face.

Now that my dance state has ended, everything feels and appears completely different. The guy isn’t hot, not even remotely. He has an aggressive aura around him, especially now that he’s shouting in my face about breaking his watch. Any attractiveness he had is vastly outweighed by his erratic behavior.

“I didn’t mean to! I told you to let go of me!” I close my eyes again, trying to avoid the flashing.

I press my body against Julián for stability, half expecting him to move out of the way and tell me to fuck off, but he doesn’t. He squares his shoulders and moves toward the man.

“I was watching you the whole time. I saw you holding on to her when she told you to stop and you didn’t. It’s your own fault your shitty watch got broken,” he tells him casually but loud enough that the man and everyone around us hear it.

The man’s face reddens, embarrassment and anger swirling in his light eyes. He pushes Julián, making us both rock back a few feet. Julián says something to him in Spanish that I can’t hear or understand, and motions for me to go to the table. I follow his finger and finally spot Amara and Prisha, who are making out, and rush toward them. I grab my purse, not wanting to interrupt, but I must get out of here.

Neither of them notices me as I disappear back into the crowd, closing and opening my eyes to the match the rhythm of the flash. Not that that will help, but it gives me a false sense of hope. Passing the bar, I wonder if Fabio will be pissed or get in trouble if I don’t pay. There’s a crowd in front of the bar, so I’ll come back first thing tomorrow and pay. If this wasn’t an emergency, I’d never do this. Just as I reach the door, I’m pulled back by my purse. Thinking the strap got stuck on something, I yank it, but the resistance is too strong. Fuck me. It’s the watch guy.

“Pay me for my watch!” he says, his jaw tightening as he holds up the barely “broken” watch.

“You wouldn’t let go of me! I’m sorry about your watch, you can come to my hotel tomorrow and I’ll give you money for it, but I have to leave!”

He studies me for a moment. “Which hotel?”

Relief fills me and my shoulders drop. As much as I hate throwing my mother’s money around, I will do anything to get the hell out of this place right now.

A warm hand clasps over my mouth just as I say the name of my hotel. I recognize the smell of him without looking. Julián, the man who’s everywhere.

“Don’t tell him,” he says in my ear.

“Here.” He throws a bill into the air, and it floats down, dancing between us before it lands on the floor. I can’t tell how much it is, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for the man.

“I don’t need you to rescue me,” I growl at Julián.

Even though I’m thankful, there’s something about him that still makes me defensive, like I need to make sure he knows I don’t need him. I can pay for the stupid watch myself. Well, my mom could.

“That’s not enough!” the guy says, grabbing Julián’s shirt and pulling him closer.

I look toward the door to find the security guy from earlier, but he’s nowhere to be found. Fuck.

“It’s not a fucking Rolex,” Julián tells him, trying to loosen the man’s grip on him.

It’s not working. Julián’s strong, but this man is huge and enraged and way more intoxicated than the two of us combined. Veins popping out on his forehead and forearms, sweat on his oily forehead and the neckline of his shirt. As he draws one fist back to punch Julián, I wrap my purse around my fist and swing, hoping the water bottle from the hotel is strong enough to at least surprise him enough to let go of Julián.

With a cartoon-like WOMP, my purse slaps across the man’s face and he stumbles back. I grab hold of Julián’s shirt and drag him out the door with me. We run to the end of the street, turn the corner, and stop. I’m out of breath from all the adrenaline, my body instantly melting a little as the night air rolls over me. I bend my knees and put my hands on them, trying to catch my breath but finding myself laughing.

“Why did you do that? Someone’s going to call the police.” Julián’s voice falls on my ears.

I snap my eyes open.

“Because he was about to beat the shit out of you,” I remind him. “We should go before he comes out here.”

He scoffs, “He was not going to beat the shit out of me.” He says this as if we were debating a completely unreasonable notion, like whether dogs could fly or not.

“Seemed like it,” I huff.

“I saved your ass, and you still have an attitude,” he says, laughing into the night.

“Correction, I saved you.” Whether or not I was right or not wasn’t the point, and I did appreciate him getting the guy away from me, but no way in hell was I going to say it.

“You know you’re wrong.” He seems a little amused and less annoyed than I expect. “But I don’t care enough to argue with you. Were you sick or something?”

My heart stops at the word sick . “What?”

He nods toward the direction of the bar. “Back there, when you were dancing, you were fine and then it seemed like you were getting sick. I warned you about those shots.”

I laugh, the fakest laugh in my life. “Oh yeah. Totally. It was the shots.”

Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me squirm. For a stranger, he sure can read me like a book. I can feel it in my bones as he continues to study me. “Anyway, thanks for trying to help. I’ll try not to see you again, really this time.”

In the distance, I hear a siren. We both look toward the flashing lights reflecting in the sky a few streets over.

“I told you.” He shrugs. “Come on.” His hand reaches out for me, but before I can grab it, he drops it.

We quickly cross another road, and he stops in front of a motorcycle-looking thing. Of course he drives one.

“Put this on.” He pushes a black helmet against my chest.

I look at the death trap on wheels. “What? No freaking way! Plus, you’re drunk.”

“I had two drinks over an hour ago, and my tolerance is a hell of a lot stronger than yours, but fine. Stay here and get arrested or lost again, Miss Know-It-All.” He climbs onto the bike, puts a helmet on, and gives me one more chance to get on.

If something happens and I hit my head…

If my mom…

I shut off the internal worried monologue and put the helmet on. This is what I’m here for, to do things I would never, ever, typically do. I swing my leg over the side and Julián puts his hands over mine, wrapping my arms around his torso.

“Stop calling me annoying nicknames,” I growl into his ear.

I’m terrified and excited as he pulls onto the stone road, whipping through the warm summer wind mixing beautifully with his laughter.