3. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
I took the most heavenly shower, despite the lackluster water pressure in the apartment. Something just gets through your clothes during travel, a tangible sheen across your skin. I dried, fluffed my hair, and added a touch of makeup.
Sudden bursts of the sea breeze kissed my body as I stood out on the balcony. Below me, the fire escape rattled, joining the sounds of life as the surrounding apartments filled at the close of day. Music wafted through open doors, the chatter of a TV here and there, while families came together for the evening hours.
A knock at the door had me spinning to open it, but it was already swinging wide.
“Hello,” I said with surprise as he let himself in.
“Bonne soir.” He was dressed in jeans and a simple button-down shirt. “Ready?”
I nodded, grabbing my purse. He held the door for me and locked it before I followed him downstairs.
First, he led me to a park overlooking the mouth of the port. The sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the buildings in that magical, golden-hour glow. Ships breezed by on silent winds, which had calmed significantly since my arrival. Near the shaded point, we sat on a bench in silence for a while, admiring the view.
I was about to ask him something when, suddenly, I realized I didn’t know his name.
“Damian,” he answered when I asked.
“I’m Mallory.” But he probably already knew that from the reservation.
“That is a beautiful name. It’s actually not an uncommon one here. Are you sure you’re not French?”
I sniggered. “Not at all. Can’t you tell?”
He grinned lazily, pulling a strand of my dark blonde hair between his fingers and rolling it. “I suppose.” He pressed in close, and I tensed a fraction at his touch.
He released my hair, turned back to stare at Vieux Port, and began telling me about Marseille. He pointed out various buildings and mentioned the prison island off the coast, which was famous now for the book The Count of Monte Cristo .
“It is a popular spot to visit,” he continued as we walked around the perimeter of the park. “But on days like today, it’s difficult to go out on the sea for small boats or tourists. Very choppy. There is a place along the shore that most tourists do not visit, high cliffs you can paddle along in kayaks.” He looked at me. “You should come with me in the morning.”
“You aren’t busy?”
“I do not work tomorrow, so I will sleep in, but we can go later.”
I lifted a shoulder. “It sounds nice.”
We’d reached the park entrance once more. It was almost eight o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten yet, which was made apparent as my stomach gave a loud grumble.
Damian smiled. “Can you stand waiting another twenty minutes or so? I’m going to take you to the beach. It has…what do you call them? Grandes roues.” He raised a hand overhead, indicating something tall, then spun his finger in a wide circle .
I scrunched my lips, trying to guess.
“You ride them,” he prompted.
“Oh! Ferris wheels?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Sure, I can wait.”
We boarded a bus on the main street, and I watched the city go by. It was getting busier the longer the night grew. It seemed our destination was popular, as the bus became more and more cramped. He stood at my back, the distance between us nonexistent by the time the bus crawled to a stop, and he said into my ear that we needed to disembark.
I was grateful for the cool air as we stepped outside in front of a corner shop lit with brilliant lights. He pointed to it, and I followed him inside, where he gathered together bread, cheese, meats, a bottle of wine, and an opener. I pulled out my wallet, gathering enough Euros, and paid the man behind the counter for the entire haul. I figured it was the least I could do to return the favor for him taking time out of his life to show around a tourist like me. Damian didn’t protest, but carried the bag out as we scurried across the street to the parade of lights along the entrance to the beach.
The beach stretched into a great W, a rocky divider breaking up the two curves of perfect white sand. The junk food booths, along with the children’s rides, reminded me of photos I’d seen of the Santa Cruz boardwalk in California, which I’d only dreamed of after adding it to my must-visit list. My head craned skyward as he led me past the giant turning wheel toward the ocean. The unmistakable tang of salty brine hit my nose as gentle waves lapped the shore.
We found a wide patch of vacant real estate and set out our dinner spread. I looked toward the inky black water, the horizon lit by the last of the dying sun. The muffled chatter of people above near the street filtered down to us. Everyone seemed far away. Couples and families down on the beach secluded themselves in their bubbles, everyone minding their own business .
“What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I answered, piling a slice of bread high with fixings and digging in. I was starving and downed it in two bites. I was in the middle of building another when he offered me a plastic cup.
“Wine?”
“Thanks.” I took it, about to take a sip, when he suddenly threw an arm around my shoulders. My muscles tensed. I looked down at the cup, then peered at him out of the corner of my eye. His other arm was slung over his bent knee, his hand dangling and relaxed as he gazed out at the ocean. He must have felt me staring at him, because he met my gaze with a smile. I returned it nervously before peering into my wine.
My college years weren’t so far behind me that I’d forgotten the golden rule of partying. Mind your own drink at all times. I’d been busy eating when he’d poured it. Better safe than sorry. I took a breath and put the cup to my lips, pretending to drink before setting it back down in the sand on the other side of me.
“How long are you traveling?” he asked, taking a drink from his cup.
“Almost a month,” I said, welcoming the easy topic.
“Where to next?”
“I’m not sure. I have a general trajectory in mind. Any tips?”
“Nice is nice,” he quipped, clearly playing with the name of the seaside town I’d spotted on a map not far from here.
I waited, but apparently wasn’t getting anything more. “And you? Tell me about your life here.”
He shrugged. “I’m not that interesting.”
“Don’t say that,” I objected. “I’m sure—”
He cut me off in one swift motion. His arm tightened around me, drawing me in to his chest. His insistent mouth found mine, his tongue forcing my lips open. The surprise of it made me gasp, giving him exactly what he wanted. I supposed I’d never, in the true name of it, been properly French kissed. It was uncomfortable and messy. Maybe he was just bad at it. Or perhaps it was just because this was what I’d feared when he handed me that cup. The shock finally dulled enough for my body to take action.
Protest grumbled in my throat, and my hands snaked up to press forcefully against his chest. He finally broke away, a lazy smile on his face.
I frowned. “What are you doing?”
His head tilted to the side. “What do you mean?’
“I mean, why are you kissing me?”
He gestured around him. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re beautiful. We’re here on this beach eating and drinking while watching the sunset.”
I guess I could see his point. If I’d led him on, I hadn’t meant to. Was I just overreacting?
“Sorry,” I offered, “but I’m not interested in that.”
He smiled like he didn’t believe me and leaned in again. I tilted back to match his distance, and his eyebrows raised.
“Just kissing,” he said. “Have you ever been French kissed before?”
“Not like that.” I tried to keep my voice from revealing how unpleasant it had been.
“Did you like it?”
Ugh.
“We do it differently where I’m from.” That sounded diplomatic enough. Why was I being so nice about this?
“Really? So show me.” He leaned in again but stopped just shy of touching, his eyes meeting mine.
I hesitated. New horizons, right? What harm could a simple make-out session do? Some women probably traveled to France just for this kind of experience. After all, French men were supposed to be legendary lovers. If that were true, either I hadn’t given this enough of a chance out of shock, or I’d netted a dud.
I held out my hand, my palm facing flat toward him. “Just kissing.”
He didn’t answer, but closed the distance.
I was no prude. I didn’t live in a closet. But something here felt different. I was on edge, only half aware of his lips moving against mine. My ears searched for any sign of approaching footsteps in case I needed help. They noticed the crowd quieting as families with children packed it in for the night. Every sense was heightened, so when his hand started crawling up my ribs beneath my shirt, my breathing quickened.
I tried to push it down with my elbow, hoping he would take the hint, but his hand was at my bra, my shirt pulled nearly above it, and his hand dipped inside.
“Hey!” I broke the kiss.
“Shh,” he murmured, his mouth pecking down my neck as his other hand joined in.
“Get off!” I insisted, pushing against him with all my might. His hands exited my shirt to grab each of my wrists, rolling me onto my back and pinning me from above. Panic seared through my chest, my head rolling wildly from side to side as I searched the empty beach helplessly.
What a fool. Tears streamed down my face.
“Shh,” he whispered again against my collarbone. Goosebumps prickled across my arms and legs, raising the hair on the crown of my head.
“Relax.” He continued to speak in that calming voice, like a lover. Bile rose in my mouth, my mind racing. I was all alone. I had no one to depend on but me, so how was I going to get myself out of this?
I made my body to go limp, dead. My eyes closed as I took a few deep breaths through my nose. I felt the grip on my wrists loosen a fraction. Hating myself for what I was about to do, I opened my eyes and met his gaze. I prayed my expression was neutral, at the very least.
My eye contact seemed to do the trick in this dim light. He smiled lazily again and bent to kiss me. I forced myself to play along, deepening the kiss as every fiber of my being screamed against it. Finally, he released my arms, his hands wandering once more across my skin. His fingers skimmed my lower belly down to the button of my shorts. My heart beat double time, but I used the fact that he was off balance in this position to twist. He was on his side, then beneath me. His breath huffed out in surprise at the sudden shift, but his slack grin said he didn’t mind. His hands gripped my hips and dug into my flesh as he pressed into me. I fought the urge to shove him away, waiting for his hands to loosen.
It was when his fingers trailed up my back, looking to spring my bra free, that I made my move. My toes were already firmly digging into the sand. I rocked forward onto the balls of my feet and pushed up, my left leg swinging over him. But I didn’t do it fast enough. Out of reflex, his arm shot out, just catching the top of my foot. I spun in the air, landing face-down in the sand, the air whooshing from my lungs.
As I gasped for breath, I scrambled, fingernails tearing through the sand. I could hear him moving behind me and blindly kicked out with one leg. A grunt told me I might have caught him in the stomach, but I wasn’t about to waste precious seconds looking back.
I was on my feet, but the soft sand made me run in slow motion. The concrete staircase was mere feet ahead of me. When its cool metal railing was beneath my hand, pure relief sang through my body. I bounded up the steps and burst into the bathed glow of the carnivalesque atmosphere. It felt so wrong, like wandering through a fun house. Colorful, cheerful, and utterly creepy.
I scanned the street wildly, spotting a bus pulling up to the stop across the way. Whether it would take me back to the apartment or not, I had no clue. But it was heading in the right direction at this moment, and that was good enough for me. I bolted through the street, earning angry honks from oncoming traffic. Just as I stepped onto the curb, I heard the telltale hiss of the doors closing.
“Hey!” I yelped, waving my arms. I made it just as the wheels inched forward and banged on the plastic. The driver scowled, but I nearly hugged him when he opened the door.
“Merci,” I panted as I handed over the fare.
Once I’d sat in one of the many vacant seats, I finally searched outside through the windows. Damian stood at the top of the stairs, his head on a swivel. I scooted lower, trying to hide in the dull, yellow light. It was only when the bus was on the move did his eyes home in on me. My heart crashed in my chest as I watched his lip curl over his teeth, but we were already moving too fast for me to see what he did next.
As it turned out, my nightmare of an evening wasn’t completely without luck. The bus was the right one to have taken. I checked the time. I had twenty-five minutes to decide what to do next.
Should I go to the cops? What would I say?
Excuse me, officer, but a boy kissed me. No, he didn’t threaten me. No, he didn’t rape me. No, he didn’t kidnap me. I went with him willingly.
I shook my head. I’d made my feelings perfectly clear to Damian. Maybe he would just leave me alone if I did the same with him. But pieces clicked as the night swirled by outside. His total disregard for my boundaries made it obvious he didn’t care if I wanted him or not. He knew where I would be, and he’d let himself in earlier, so he had a spare key.
My blood ran cold.
I grabbed my purse as the bus rounded the corner. The familiar port glowed ahead, and I recognized the park we’d visited earlier on my left, now shrouded in darkness. I launched out of the bus, running toward the apartment. I didn’t know how frequently the buses ran or how much time I had before he might reach me if he’d gotten a cab.
If he was coming.
Confusion muddled my brain, twisting between blaming myself for being so naive, him for forcing himself on me, excusing his actions if I’d misled him, and wondering if I was giving myself too much credit that he’d bother coming after me at all.
I jogged up the steps, holding on to the paint-flecked railing to avoid doing another faceplant. The keys shook in my hands as I tried and failed to get them into the hole. Finally, the deadbolt slid open, and I ducked inside, my back flush against the cool barrier between me and the outside world.
I pushed away from the door, my skin crawling, mind flying. Pack. Police. No police. Bus. Plane. Boat. Run. Where?
Bertha sat open in front of me on the bed, my toothbrush and makeup bag in either of my hands. When had I grabbed them?
I shoved them in, cinching the pack closed and hauling it on. One trip to the bathroom, then a glance around the kitchen and closet, my eyes unseeing as I checked for anything left behind. I made for the door to drop the keys in the box outside, but hesitated. How long had it been since I’d arrived? I would guess seconds, but knew it had been longer. On tiptoe, I crept to the door and peered through the peephole. A dark blob obscured the view, but as I watched, it withdrew. My hands clamped over my mouth to hold back the scream building there.
I wasted no time, scrambling backward in my socks. Numb fingers dropped the keys on the bed as I passed by it to the outside. I tipped my shoes over the balcony and climbed down the rickety fire escape. When I was close to the ground, a door slammed above me. I jumped the last few rungs, landing in a crouch as I collected my shoes, a slight shock pinging through one ankle. I braved a look up. His silhouette looked right back. I turned and bolted around the edge of the U-shaped building, ignoring my protesting ankle.
Noise from the main street beckoned, but here in the narrow alleys, there was hardly anyone around. I ambled up the cobbled footpath toward the road. There, finally, traffic.
I scanned up and down until I spotted a cab and hurried to it.
The driver switched on the meter as he mumbled a greeting.
“Airport,” I said, skipping the niceties.
The trip was over in less than twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in a sanctuary that smelled of cigarettes and sweat. My heart slowed a little, the panic held at bay. My freak-out would have to wait until later. When we stopped at the curb, I handed him a wad of bills and hobbled to the entrance.
Inside, the blinding overhead lights illuminated every corner of the waiting ticket desks, the large glass wall panels trapping the night outside. I released a tense breath, calm seeping in. I’d feel a lot better once I was through security.
Signs pointed left to the Bureau D’Information. I limped past a family with a little girl bawling her eyes out and a few solo travelers, but otherwise the airport was relatively quiet.
My sneakers slapped an uneven rhythm against the floor, causing the bored-looking customer service agent to look up as I approached, assessing me in an instant.
“Hello,” she said, going straight to English as her eyes raked over my backpack and practical clothes. “How can I help?”
“Where’s the soonest flight with availability heading?”
The woman was well-trained. She turned to her computer without question, typing quickly and scrolling even faster.
“The first you’d be able to make is an 11:26 p.m. flight to Moscow.”
I could already see it. The Tale of A Dumb American Girl Traveling Solo in Russia would be the title of my posthumous memoir.
“Next.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, the next flight with available seats isn’t until 6:12 a.m. tomorrow.”
I checked the time on my phone. I sure as hell wasn’t about to sleep, so I could sit in the terminal for that long.
“Where is that one going?”
“Sarajevo. It arrives at 2:39 p.m.”
Sarajevo. I knew it had once hosted the Olympics, and that was about it. But then Gail’s voice echoed in my head. She’d mentioned Bosnia, hadn’t she? I had planned on Italy after France, but it was too close. Plus, with Venice booked, it at least put me in the right general direction to hit Croatia, then move up the coast toward Italy. And right now, I needed distance from France.
“Yes, Sarajevo.” My voice trembled. “That one.”
Her cool demeanor softened as she pulled out a pad of paper and wrote down the information. When she handed it over, her wish for me to have a pleasant flight sounded genuinely sincere.
I returned to the ticket machines, braved security, and moved through the terminal. People sprawled across the floor with jackets under their heads or over their eyes. Others nibbled at late-night meals or sipped at drinks. A few wandered through the glaring shops, but their body language gave them away—aimless, bored.
At first, I sat down on one of the long, stiff benches and waited. My skin felt dirty, but I knew even a long shower wouldn’t purge me of that sensation. Instead, I shoved in my earbuds, which blocked out the ever-present buzz of the terminal. I focused on the muffled feel of my heart and the loudness of my breathing, trying to get them both to fall into a steady sync.
Images I didn’t want to see crept along the periphery of my mind’s eye. I threw up a barrier, blocking them out, focusing on something mundane. Where was that family across from me headed? What should I get from the vending machine? Anything at all to distract me.
Time slowed to a crawl as I kept firmly inside my bubble. When my gaze finally landed back on my phone, I had spent forty-five minutes of my wait already.
I want to go home.
The thought floated up through me like a ghost, vanishing in an instant, but the lingering feeling remained. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d thought that, if ever.
I took a moment, fighting the prickle of tears until they were no longer a threat. I needed to move around, do something. My knees creaked in protest as I stood and stretched. The last thing I wanted was to hoist Bertha back into place, but even with the nearly empty airport, it wasn’t worth the risk.
The coffee and scone I bought from a zoned-out worker brought me back to life as I roamed the few open shops, tossing the wrappings into a bin outside a bookshop as I made my way to their travel section. There, I perused books, first on Croatia, and then Bosnia and Herzegovina, flipping through the history of the war-torn countries, their cultures, and noted cities. In one there was a long entry on Sarajevo, the capital, but another caught my eye. Beneath the heading of MOSTAR, even in black and white, the picture of an elegant bridge spanning high over a rushing river was beautiful. Stari Most , it read in the caption beneath, was destroyed during the Croat–Bosniak War, lasting from 1992–1995. Reconstruction of the bridge was completed in 2004, and it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Sarajevo was big and modern, I would imagine, in both build and culture. Mostar seemed remote, small, safe.
I closed the book with a decisive snap.
The rest of my airport stay was spent planning and booking while pressing a bag of ice that I’d scrounged from the bored coffee shop worker to my angry ankle. From Sarajevo I was to take a two-and-a-half-hour bus to Mostar, leaving me time to get dinner and explore. Movement was good. Keep moving until you drop.
I sat in a daze on the tiny plane as we waited for takeoff, the only person in my row. My hands trembled as I buckled my seat belt, my eagerness to fly away so thick it should’ve been palpable to my fellow fliers. Across the aisle, I watched two burly men, heads shaved, wearing wife beaters and heavy gold chains around their necks. They sat back in their seats as we rolled out onto the runway. The engines whined as they spun faster and faster. I stared at the men again as we gained speed. Just before the wheels left the ground, in unison, they made the sign of the cross.
With a bubble of laughter and the hope that I’d left every worry on the tarmac, I twisted back to the window, the streets and buildings already far below us. I couldn’t tell where Marseille began and ended. The ocean lapped in fine lines against the pure sand, growing to a steel-blue farther out from shore, white-capped waves battering the tiny prison island Damian had told me about.
I shivered.
Clouds raced to overtake the plane, and soon they engulfed us in their pearly blanket. I sat with my palms pressing into my thighs, a sort of heady high leaving me on cloud nine.
My head fell back against the seat, my eyes drifting closed.
I was free , I told myself, fighting against the lump still in my throat, choking me. I was safe.