The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(12)

Tomorrow I’ll budget better.

As I walk up the corridor toward the bar, a girl grabs my arm. “Oh, hi, you’re the new guy in our room?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Bernadette.”

“Hi, I’m Christo . . .” I cut myself off before I say Christopher.

Fuck, I hate the sound of Christo.

“You want to come out?”

“Um . . .” I hesitate. What, like a date?

I have zero attraction to this woman.

“There’s a heap of us. We’re going to a bar.” Before I can reply, she links her arm through mine. “Come on, it will be fun. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Okay.” I shrug. I guess anything is better than being here. “Let me shower and change.”

“Meet you in the bar.”



An hour later we walk up the street.

I read the sign over the doorway as I walk up the stairs.





SANTOS


“This place is amazing,” Bernadette gasps as she runs up the stairs two at a time.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“Cheap-ass drinks and dick for miles.”

“Right.” I raise my eyebrow. “Not sure I’m after that, but . . .” Hell, that came out wrong. “Actually, I’m definitely not after that. Scratch that from your memory.”

“You should try it,” she says casually as she keeps walking up. “Dick is way better than hairy biscuit.”

What?

Hairy biscuit . . . what woman says hairy biscuit?

This chick is fucking weird.

“I seriously doubt that,” I mutter as we get to the top of the stairs. I look around at the blazing spectacle. Neon lights are everywhere. Things are twirling; signs are flashing.

“What do you think?” she asks as she smiles in wonder.

“It’s great, for an epileptic’s nightmare,” I mutter. My eyes roam around at the bright strobe lights. There’s a dartboard and pool tables and a karaoke machine. The place is all timber and done up to kind of look like a log cabin or something.

The crowd is around my age. Laughter echoes throughout the space. It has a fun kind of feel about it.

Okay . . . this isn’t so bad. I feel a little of my equilibrium return.

“There’s everyone.” She waves and grabs my arm and drags me over to the large crowd of people.

She’s overfamiliar, or perhaps just genuinely friendly. At this stage, I really can’t tell anything. It’s like all my senses are so overwhelmed that they’ve completely shut down.

We arrive at the group. “You came?” A man smiles; he sounds Australian. “Knew you would.”

“Yep.”

“Beer?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

He hesitates, and I frown. “That will be five euros.” He widens his eyes as if I’m stupid.

Oh fuck, I am.

“Sorry.” I dig into my jeans and find a note and pass it over, feeling stupid. “Thanks.”

He nods and disappears to the bar.

“Who are you, man?” a guy asks. He’s tall and has long black dreadlocks and olive skin.

I wince. Fuck . . . he stinks. The worst body odor I’ve ever smelled. “You need a shower,” I snap.

“What?” He frowns. He lifts his arm and sniffs himself. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes. You do.” I wince. “You smell so bad it’s hurting my eyes.”

Oh god . . . go away from me. This is intolerable.

“Oh, come off it.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not putting those chemicals on my body.”

“By chemicals . . . you mean deodorant?”

“It’s a government conspiracy.” He nods as if totally convinced. “This is how humans are supposed to smell. You’ve been conditioned to like the smell of poison.”

I frown at him. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

“First day traveling?” he asks.

“How do you know?”

“You’re all uptight and judgy.”

“I’m not judgy,” I fire back.

“Yes, you are. I bet you’re looking at everyone and everything and comparing them to your safe little home.” He chuckles into his beer. “You need to get over it. And quick, or you’ll be on the first plane home.”

I frown. It’s like he’s reading my mind. I open my mouth to reply and get a strong whiff of him once more, and I screw up my face in disgust. “Fucking hell. You smell so bad.”

“Well, aren’t you an uptight prick?” He shrugs as if not believing me. “Nobody else has ever told me that.”

“I find that impossible to believe.”

“It’s true.” He smirks.

“I’m guessing that you do abysmally with the ladies.”

His face falls. “How do you know that?”

“Women like guys who smell nice, not garbage dumps.”

“I’m happy with who I am,” he announces, indignant.

“Okay.” I shrug and hold my two hands up in defeat. “If you say so. I’m just being honest. No malice intended.”

We stand in awkward silence for a moment. “So what do you suggest for me?” I ask.