Erasing Faith(13)

In short, despite our smaller statures and our tendency to get lost in the city’s many twisting avenues, a cute, feminine courier in a helmet got things done ten times faster than a brooding Hungarian man with a backpack.

And, anyway, each bike was rigged with a built-in GPS screen between the handlebars, to guide us while we were out making deliveries. Our helmets were bluetooth-enabled, so we could easily receive calls from headquarters without fumbling for a cellphone in our bags. Constructed of the lightest carbon-fiber, the bikes weighed less than fifteen pounds and whipped along faster than any cycle I’d ever ridden back at home. They also each cost more than I’d made in my first two weeks of work.

“What do you have for me this time, Konrad?” I asked, grinning when I reached the young man’s station.

His head lifted, a wide smile already on his lips. “Only three, Faith.”

I cast my eyes heavenward and pressed my hands together, as if in prayer. “There is a God.”

Konrad snorted. “Don’t thank God, thank me. I just gave Sara the seven-parcel run that should’ve been yours.”

“My true savior,” I drawled, grinning at him and batting my eyelashes coquettishly.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna go out on that date with me, now?” His brown eyes lit up hopefully.

I laughed. “Call me in ten years, Konrad.”

“I’m almost sixteen!” he protested. “Only four years younger than you!”

“Five,” I amended. “My birthday was last week.”

“Happy birthday, Faith.” His smile was warm as he handed over the packages.

“Thanks.” I winked and turned away from him, loading the three small parcels into my backpack with a bounce in my step.

Konrad had ensured that my last run of the night would be quick, which was a good thing considering my thigh muscles had begun to ache somewhere around hour three of my shift and, in the time since, had worsened to a steady burn. I’d have to ice them later.

I’d zipped my backpack, grabbed my bike from its rack, and was wheeling it toward the exit when I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, loser,” Margot called breathlessly, pushing her bike through the opposite door. She’d just returned from a run, by the looks of it.

“You’re a sweaty mess,” I called back, grinning at her.

“I don’t sweat, I sparkle!”

Istvan’s muffled laugh was audible across the room. I rolled my eyes as I wheeled my bike onto the exit ramp. “See you in a few!”

“Drinks after shift?”

“Count on it!” I tossed over my shoulder, smiling as I clipped my helmet tightly beneath my chin. I programmed my route into the GPS, slung my messenger bag firmly across my back, and pedaled off into the sunset.

***

The bass thrummed through the speakers so loudly, I had to watch Margot’s lips if I had any chance of making out her words. The song, Dark Paradise by Lana Del Rey, was familiar to me, but it still came as a bit of a surprise to hear American music blasting at a club in Hungary. The DJ put his own spin on strains I knew by heart, remixing it with a pounding dance beat, and the crowd of revelers around us contorted their bodies in time with the pulsing bass.

Clutching Margot’s hand firmly in mine, I tugged her petite frame behind me as I cut a path through the throng. Our venue of choice tonight was Iguana, a huge, multi-level ruin club at the heart of the city. Ruin clubs were fantastic and totally foreign to me, but in Budapest they seemed to be all the rage for tourists and locals alike. Birthed from the ruins of abandoned buildings and redesigned to create the ultimate festive atmosphere, each club had its own unique design and vibe, but they all had one thing in common — they were always packed to capacity.

Margot and I had been eager to check out Iguana for weeks, but this was the first night we’d succeeded in getting through the velvet-roped doors before closing time.

“Drinks?” I yelled to Margot.

“What?” she shouted back, cupping a hand over one ear.

I blew out a huff of frustration and mimed a drinking motion with my hands.

She nodded in comprehension, but her expression turned forlorn as she took in the sight of the bar. When I glanced over, I couldn’t blame her — it was so crowded, we couldn’t see the bartenders behind the mass of people waiting for drinks. It would take ages to reach the front of that line and, in my experience, club drinks were usually overpriced and under-liquored.

Thankfully, I’d been a Girl Scout for approximately two months during second grade. I hadn’t learned much in that short time span, but one vital lesson — always come prepared — had stuck with me. Well, that, and a love of delicious mint-chocolate flavored cookies.

Snapping open my clutch purse, I pulled out two mini, airplane-sized bottles of Fireball whiskey from my stash. I’d had to leave my phone at home in order to fit the nips inside, but it had been worth it.

I grinned at Margot’s stunned expression as I pushed one of the tiny bottles into her hand.

“Classy,” she mouthed at me, her fingers curling around my gift even as the insult left her lips.

I shrugged, grinned, and unscrewed the plastic cap. “Down the hatch!”

“What?” she yelled again.

Rolling my eyes, I poured the alcohol between my lips. I swallowed and my senses were abruptly overtaken by the warm, cinnamon burn of the alcohol. It tasted like the Wrigley’s Big Red bubblegum I’d chewed as a kid, and I happily licked the remnants from my lips. Margot spluttered a bit, but managed to swallow hers in two gulps.