Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Page 3

  And that’s got to count for something.

  “The Sorolla Museum,” I say. “I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies. “I hope you like it here, Vivian. I know coming to a different country can be hard. The language, the food, all the little things—I remember being so homesick in New York when I first got there I called my parents ten times a day.”

  I look down at my cup—almost empty now—and slowly nod my head. “I admit I’ve cried a little bit today. And by a little bit, I mean a lot.”

  “It will get better,” he says. “You are here for, what, five months?”

  “Almost six.”

  “That probably feels like a lifetime right now, yes?”

  I scoff. “It does, actually. That’s what I was crying about.”

  When I look up, he is standing closer—there are people behind him now, pressing him toward me—and my heart skips a beat. We meet eyes. His reflect the soft glow of the lamps outside the bar; it’s getting dark, the air around us velvety. That tingle behind my knees moves to a full-on rush.

  “I’m biased,” he says, “but if you do it right, Madrid is an easy place to fall for. Mostly because I live here.”

  I smile and he smiles and the look in his eyes is so lovely it makes my stomach hurt in the best, the best way.

  “So where are you taking us tonight?” I ask. “I’ve heard pretty amazing things about the nightlife here. I mean, no pressure or anything.”

  He glances at his watch, a simple round face on a well-worn leather strap. “The bars close in a few hours. Then we will head to the discotecas—on Saturdays the best is Ático. We can start there.”

  “I hope Justin Timberlake will be making an appearance?”

  He holds up his glass, lets it tilt in his fingers. “He’d better. Otherwise I’m going to embarrass myself in front of my new friends.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, somehow I think you’re going to put us all to shame, with or without Justin’s help. I’m not proud of my white girl moves.”

  “But you’re not afraid to show them off,” he says, eyes sparking as he grins down at me.

  “Hell no,” I say. “Especially not after I’ve had a little—more than a little—sangria.”

  “Excellent.” Rafa taps his glass to mine. “Welcome to Madrid, Vivian. I’m glad you’re here.”

  What does that mean? It probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re just talking, drinking, maybe flirting, too.

  Even if Rafa did mean something by that, I came to Madrid to work my ass off, pull up my GPA, and enjoy some art. I didn’t cross an ocean to start a relationship—a hookup, a romance, whatever—that inevitably won’t last. I promised myself no more hookups, no more heartbreak.

  Still.

  I find myself grinning back up at Rafa, wondering what his wine-stained lips would taste like.

  Wondering if his kindness is a ploy to get in my pants, or if it’s genuine. It makes no sense, I know; guys this good-looking, guys that smell this wonderful, don’t need to be nice to awkward American girls like me to get some.

  But there’s something about Rafa—something about his eyes, his calm, easy demeanor, that makes me think he’s different.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  And I mean it. I do.

  Chapter 3

  The line to get into Ático snakes down the street and around the corner. I fall back a bit, intimidated not only by the size of the line, but also by the mind-bendingly beautiful people who wait in it. The men, their hair as slick as their smiles, look like fútbol players who just stepped out of a cologne ad. The women, too, are meticulously coiffed, fashionable while revealing just the right amount of leg, of cleavage, of midriff.

  I look down at my rumpled skirt and tank top. I’m glad I worked all those extra hours at my nannying job this summer. I have some serious shopping to do.

  The throaty thump thump thump of a baseline echoes through the discoteca’s open doors. A ribbon of anticipation unfurls inside my chest. I wasn’t lying when I told Rafa I am not ashamed of my white girl moves. I love to dance. Like, love it.

  I’m pumped Rafa’s into dancing, too. I hope I get to dance with him—even just for a little bit—so I can say I raved with a studly Spaniard. And on my first night in Madrid, no less!

  Like lost little ducklings, the other Meryton kids and I follow Rafa to the front of the line. He greets the bouncer like they’re BFFs, clasping his hand and pulling him into a hearty bro hug. Rafa speaks to him in low, languid Spanish, motioning to the small knot of us behind him.

  The bouncer nods and unhooks the velvet rope in front of the doors. With a final wave of thanks to the bouncer, Rafa makes his way through the door.

  “C’mon, guys,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

  He looks right at me.

  My stomach does its hundredth backflip of the night. Even if I manage to become friends with Rafa over the next six months, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the vibrant shock of his blue eyes.

  To the way he makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the room, even though we’re surrounded by crowds of fast-talking, good-looking Spaniards.

  My face flushes with heat. I’m not drunk, not by a long shot—I was too busy talking to Rafa to drink much sangria—but I feel light, buoyant, the balloon inside my chest expanding with every look and every grin I share with Rafa.

  I offer him one now, and he grins back.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Better than all right,” I say. “Thanks for getting us in—that line was no joke. I was ready to cough up that twenty Euro cover charge, too.”

  “You don’t pay a cover,” he says. “Not when you’re with me.”

  “Now you’re just bragging.”

  “I am,” he says, those shapely lines around his mouth deepening along with his grin. “This is my city. I want to show it off to you.”

  It’s dark inside Ático, the floor vibrating in time to the bass. We follow Rafa through a narrow entry passage that opens up onto an enormous dance floor.

  The breath leaves my lungs. I have never in all my sheltered twenty years of life seen anything like this. Mirrors line the walls and ceiling; enormous chandeliers hang above our heads, dripping with crystals that reflect the pulsing rainbow of colored lights that flash from the DJ booth. Hundreds of people fill the space, hands above their heads as they dance and laugh and sloppy make out.

  The DJ is banging out some Maroon 5 at the moment, and it’s hard—really hard— not to start dancing myself. We follow Rafa around the edge of the dance floor, slipping into a separate room where it’s much quieter. A bar is set into the far wall; everything, from the walls to the bar stools to the bar itself, is lacquered a sinister shade of black. Sultry red lights shine down from ceiling. It feels like we’re in a vampire bordello-slash-bar. I dig it.

  Rafa and Al belly up to the bar. I stand back a few steps, digging into my crossbody bag for some cash. When I look up, I catch Rafa looking at me. This time he’s really looking. His gaze flicks down the length of my body, lingering on my legs, and flicks back up again. It could be a trick of the red light, but I think I see his eyes darken.

  Heat spikes through my center. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like his attention.

  His appreciation. He’s checking me out, and I kinda dig it.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asks. His perfect skin glistens in the red light, emphasizing the sharp angle of his jaw.

  “I was going to buy you one, actually,” I reply. His blatant interest emboldens me. I take a step forward, my heart unsteady in my chest. “You got us in here for free. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” Rafa leans his elbow against the bar, tilting his head. “You can get the next round, maybe. I’m buying this one.”

  “Seriously? You guys paid for all the sangria—”

  “Vivian.” He levels me with a look. “Let
me do more bragging, yes? I want to buy you a drink.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. Truth be told, I’m taken off guard. Guys at Meryton never—never—offer to buy you a drink. Sure, they’ll give you a plastic cup of jungle juice at a party, but beyond that, you really can’t expect much.

  I also have no idea what to order.

  “Okay,” I say. “What are you drinking?”

  “Cuba libre,” he replies. He takes a step to the side, making room for me beside him at the bar. “Rum and Coke. D’you want one?”

  I slide up next to him. We’re so close I can smell his aftershave again. “Sure. Yeah. That sounds perfect, thank you.”

  Rafa waves down the bartender and orders our drinks. I watch with my heart in my mouth. The way the words roll off his tongue—God, what I would give for him to whisper sweet Spanish nothings in my ear all night.

  Naked.

  His teeth nicking the place where my ear meets jaw.

  I blink, willing my pulse to slow its rapid-fire pace. This is not my first rodeo. I should have more self-control. I should know better than to fantasize about things that will never, ever happen.

  But Rafa is even more handsome up close. I’m transfixed by the way his collar slides down the sinewy slant of his throat as he leans across the bar to grab our drinks. Our fingers brush as he hands me the glass; the contact is fleeting, but my fingers feel singed, sparks of awareness emanating from this tiniest bit of contact.

  Rafa grins as he touches his glass to mine. “Careful,” he says. “They make them very strong here.”

  I take a sip. The sticky burn of rum slices down my throat. I pull away, let out a pained breath. “Holy shit, Rafa. That’s, like, nuclear.”

  “Here.” Before I can protest he takes the drink and turns back to the bar. He asks the bartender to add more Coke (somehow I understand this); a minute later, Rafa is pressing a fresh cocktail into my hand. This time his fingers linger on mine. “I hope that’s better.”

  Reluctantly I pull away to take a sip. “It is. Much better, thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Rafa waves me away. “Es un placer,” he says. It is a pleasure.

  For a minute I wish I knew how to stay “the pleasure is all mine” in Spanish, but on second thought I’m glad I don’t. I haven’t had nearly enough to drink to excuse cheesy lines like that.

  The bar is getting crowded. Rafa puts his hand on the small of my back (!!!) and guides me to the middle of the room. I want his hand to stay there, I want his hands all over me, I want to hook my finger in the collar of his shirt and pull him against me. My body thrums with the desire to do all these things.

  I drink my Cuba libre instead.

  “So what do you think?” Rafa asks, motioning to the room. “Is it what you expected?”

  He stands in front of me, hand in the pocket of his jeans, neck bent at a delicious angle as he waits for my reply. He is standing close, really close now, and I can’t help but wonder if he wants to touch me as much as I want to touch him.

  “It’s pretty amazing,” I say, looking around. “Thanks for being our guide. I know you probably didn’t want to spend your Saturday night showing a bunch of stupid touristas around.”

  Someone slides behind Rafa, and he takes a step closer to me to move out of the way. He holds his drink above my head as his body presses against mine for one delicious, electrifying moment, his hips at my hips, my arms sandwiched between us. The warmth of his body seeps into my forearms, and I have to close my eyes against the deluge of need that swells inside me. I feel it everywhere, in the pit of my stomach, between my legs, in the black rioting space of my head. We fit so well together, Rafa and I.

  Of course our bodies fit so damn well together.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “It’s all right.” I open my eyes and he’s looking down at me, brow creased with concern.

  “You sure?” he asks, stepping back.

  I manage a smile. I wonder if he can feel the hammering of my heart. I hope, sincerely, that he can’t. “I’m sure.”

  “Good.” He leans down, lowers his voice. “And you are not a stupid tourista, even if you think your Spanish is yack.”

  His breath in my ear, the way he smells, the things he’s saying—I can’t take it.

  I’m fighting back a grin, and losing.

  “What?” he asks, a smile splitting his face. “Did I get it right? Yack?”

  I laugh. “Yes. You got it right. But your line would have made Justin cringe.”

  “It wasn’t a line.” He glances over his shoulder when a new song—Skrillex, it sounds like—comes on. “Speaking of Justin, do you want to dance? One sip of the nuclear ron and he is ready, I think. What about your white girl?”

  “My white girl is always ready.”

  One side of his mouth curls into a half-grin. “But can she keep up with Justin?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I will see what I can do to help.” He looks over my head. “Alberto! Vamos!”

  The other Meryton kids crowd around us. Al sidles up to Rafa; Rafa meets my eyes, smiles as he tilts his head toward the dance floor. Just as we begin to move in that direction, I glance to my left and Katie is there, wagging her eyebrows.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You know what,” she says, nodding at Rafa. “Him. He likes you.”

  I follow her eyes to the outline of Rafa’s broad shoulders and back. He cuts a dashing figure from every angle, apparently. My heart clenches.

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “Yes, Vivian, he does.”

  “He’s just trying to be nice to his cousin’s friends,” I say. “He could probably smell my homesickness from a mile away.”

  “Exactly,” she replies. “It’s so damn cute watching him try to make you feel better. Chica, it’s obvious. He’s chatting you up, buying you drinks, flirting with you about yacking and JT...”

  “Hey,” I say, pinning her with a glare. “You were listening to our conversation?”

  “Of course I was!” Katie draws back, offended that I would ever think otherwise. “I had to make sure you didn’t need rescuing. Besides, we were all so curious. Especially Al. He said he’s never seen his cousin look at someone the way he looks at you.”

  I look away, hoping Katie can’t see the thrill that moves through me at this little offhand nugget of info.

  “Look at him,” I say. “I mean, he’s ridiculous. That’s why I started flirting with him in the first place—because he’s so far out of my league. I don’t have a chance in hell, Katie. And even if I did, you know I’m looking for something…more. Something that lasts. In my experience, guys like Rafa don’t really like to stick around.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. But from what I’m seeing—and hearing—you’ve got this hombre wrapped around your finger. You don’t need to do anything with him except have fun. I mean, a little public makeout sesh never hurt anyone.”

  “I’m pretty sure sloppy dance floor face sucking has hurt everyone.”

  “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.” Katie pats me on the back. “Vaya con dios, amiga.”

  Go with God, my friend.

  We’re on the dance floor now, the music so loud it swallows me whole. Our group is inundated in a sea of writhing bodies, their push and pull making it difficult to move through the crowd. The smells of sweat and alcohol hang heavy in the air; the strobe lights flash, freezing the crowd one frame at a time; the floor and my breastbone vibrate with every drop of the bass.

  I.freaking.love.it.

  Katie starts to dance and I do, too, the two of us holding our drinks above our heads as we shimmy our way across the floor. I can’t really see much, and holy hell it’s starting to get crowded, so I just try to keep sight of Katie’s blond knot at the crown of her head. I think I see Rafa up ahead, leading us to the middle of the club.

  The music is so good it’s intoxicating. You couldn’t not dance if you tried. It’s a mix of
techno and pop and a little bit of rap. I have no idea who the DJ is, but he’s amazing. No wonder Madrileños stay out dancing until breakfast. I’d skip sleep for this, too.

  There’s a hand at my arm, and I turn to see a greasy-looking guy stumble toward me. He steps on my foot—ef that hurt!—but when I try to pull away he only moves closer, cutting me off from my friends. He’s huge, his biceps straining against the bejeweled sleeves of his tee-shirt; he smells like gin and stale cigarettes. Lovely.

  I try to pull away again, but this time he grabs my ass and tugs me against him, grinding his hips into my belly. I put my hands on his chest and push, but to no avail. He’s got me trapped.

  Panic flutters inside my chest.

  “No gracias!” I shout, but either he doesn’t hear me or he’s ignoring me. His hard on works an eager circle into my hip. I manage to pull my hips away from him, but then his hand is sliding up my leg, underneath my skirt. I tell him no, no, hell no.

  His hand doesn’t stop its progress up my leg.

  My panic no longer flutters. It’s a full on, adrenaline-laced surge that pushes my heart into my throat.

  I hit the first thing I think of.

  I thrust my knee between his legs with all the force I can muster, hoping to put his dick back where it belongs. “No!” I say.

  He falls back with a yelp of pain, hands cupping his crotch. I take advantage of his momentary weakness and shove him away, smoothing my skirt as I catch my breath.

  That’s when the guy looks up at me, gaze flashing with resentment. Behind him his friends have stopped dancing; they’re staring me down.

  Shit.

  I gotta get out of here, stat. I look around for my friends, but I don’t see anyone I recognize. I’ve lost them.

  One of the guys reaches for me. I dodge his grasp, whirling around on my heels.

  And thump nose first into a familiar white button-down shirt.