HAYDEN
I walk out of the airport and am met with a surge of heat. “Oh, it’s hot.”
People are rushing past, and I struggle with my oversize backpack. Damn, this thing is heavy.
I see the cab line and take out my phone and bring up the address of the backpackers’ hostel.
Nerves bumble around in my stomach. Just walk over there and get a cab.
That’s easy.
Right . . .
I steel myself and walk over and get into the back of the line. I feel sick with nerves. Damn, I just wish this first week was over already.
The whole thought of the unknown is just so unsettling. I get to the front of the line, and the cab pulls up, and I smile.
“Where to?” he asks.
“BB Backpackers in Barcelona, please?”
“Sure thing.” He takes my backpack and puts it into the trunk. I get into the back seat and put my seat belt on. I wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. This is fine . . . this is totally fine.
I text my mom,
Landed safely.
On my way in a cab.
A text bounces back:
This is so exciting,
Call me later.
I’m glad you think so. For me this is terrifying.
I put my phone back in my bag and clasp my hands together with white-knuckle force. I stare out the window at the scenery flying past.
Twenty minutes later the cab pulls to a halt in traffic. “Ay, ay, ay, what you doing?” the driver mutters under his breath.
I look up to see a cab in front of us is stopped in the middle of the road. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
The driver of the cab in the front jumps out of the car and opens the back door. He grabs a man by the shirt and hurls him out of the cab as he projectile vomits. The vomit hits the side of the car and sprays everywhere.
“Ew,” we both say in unison.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the driver screams at the man. The driver is losing his shit and yelling and screaming at his passenger.
“Oh dear.” My eyes are wide.
The driver puts his hands on his knees and bends over. He begins to throw up alongside the other man.
The first vomiting man says something to the driver, and then the driver seems to lose it and pushes him over. He falls onto the ground as he continues to vomit.
I put my hand over my mouth at the spectacle in front of us. “Jeez.”
The driver begins to yell, “It smells so bad.” He grabs the side of his cab to hold himself up. “Stop vomiting before I knock you out!” The driver loses control again and heaves before projectile vomiting too. It’s coming out so fast it’s like a fire hose.
“Fucking hell,” my driver mutters. “Idiots.” He pulls around the parked cab and speeds past them.
I turn and watch the vomiting duo through the back window as we drive off.
Well . . . that’s something you don’t see at home.
Twenty minutes later my cab pulls up at the front of a big building. “Here you go.” He smiles.
“Thanks.” I pay him, and he gets my things out of the trunk.
“Be careful,” he warns me. “Bad people are everywhere.”
“Thanks.” I fake a smile. I drag my bag up the steps and into the foyer. “Hello, I’m checking in today.”
“Hello.” The guy smiles. “What’s your name?”
“Hayden Whitmore.”
“Ahh, Hayden. From America.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You are staying with us for ten days?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great. Come and I’ll show you around.”
I follow him up the hall. He shows me the bathroom, the laundry, the bar and restaurant. “You’re in the fossil room.”
“The fossil room.”
“Anyone over twenty-five stays in the fossil room.”
“I’m just twenty-five.”
He smiles as he marches off in the direction of my room. “Like I said.”
I follow him, and he opens the door in a rush. “Your bunk is the one underneath here.”
I stare at the unfriendly room: three sets of bunk beds and all-white linen. “Okay.”
“Rest up.” He smiles. “You’ll meet everyone when they get back tonight. Most people sightsee all day around here.”
“Okay.” I force a smile. I’m missing home already. “Thanks.”
He leaves me alone, and I climb into my bottom bunk. I get under the sheet, feeling the need for protection.
For ten minutes I doze. It’s been a long week: lots of nervous sleepless nights and then the long flight. I really should try to take a nap. I don’t want to be tired and boring when everyone gets back.
The door bursts open, and someone marches in. I can only see legs and body up to his head.
“What the fuck?” the guy mutters. He has an American accent. He tears his shirt over his head and throws it on the floor; then he rips his jeans off and kicks them to the side. “Fucking disgusting,” he grumbles. “When I get ahold of that guy.”
He takes his boxer shorts off and kicks them to the side.
I get a full frontal. Tanned skin, muscles, eight-pack stomach, and the hugest dick I ever saw . . . what the hell? My eyes widen. He doesn’t know I’m here.
Oh fuck.
Do I say something?
He turns and bends over to get something out of a backpack. I get a full view of his naked butt . . . and then some.
The door opens, and a woman walks in.
Oh no.
“Oh,” she purrs. “Somebody brought me a snack.”
“Fuck off, Bernadette,” he growls. “I am not in the mood. Get out!”
“When I find a snack in my bedroom, what do you expect?”
I wince. Oh hell . . . this is so bad. Nobody knows I’m here. Please don’t have sex; I will die a thousand deaths.
“I am not a fucking snack,” he yells. “I am a main meal. A ten-course fucking banquet, for your information.”
I bite my lip to hide my smile.
He so is.
He bends and gets out something from his bag. “And now, as if the day isn’t bad enough,” he yells to her as he holds something up to her, “I have to shower and dry myself with this piece-of-shit fucking tiny towel.”
He marches out of the bedroom, buck naked.
Bernadette hangs out the door. “You can’t just walk around naked, you know,” she calls.
“Watch me,” he calls back.
Bernadette disappears, and the door bangs closed. I lie in bed in a state of shock.
Jeez . . . who was that . . . and who is that comfortable being naked?