: Chapter 4

“I’m so sorry, my card has been stolen,” I stammer. “Can you take me back to where you picked me up from so I can collect it?”

“No.”

“No?” I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I not take you anywhere without money,” he replies in his heavy accent.

“But my card has been stolen?” I gasp as I keep pulling my wallet apart. Please be in here. “I can’t help it if my card has been stolen.”

“You can come and pay me tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “I can do that. I’ll come and pay you first thing.”

“Give me your license.”

“What?”

“Give me your license, and I’ll give it back when you come pay tomorrow.”

I think for a moment. This doesn’t sound like a good idea.

“Or I can call the police right now and have you charged.”

“Fucking hell!” I stammer. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Going to prison will be worse.”

My eyes widen. “I’m too pretty for prison.”

He holds his hand out for my license, and I slam it in his hand. “Thanks for nothing.”

“You’re welcome.” He hands me a business card. “Be at this address in the morning by ten, or I am calling the police.”

“Fine.” I get out and slam the door. I lean back down through the window. “Be careful with my license.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He drives off.

I take out my phone and instantly call my bank.

“Hello, this is banking online. How may I assist you?”

“Hi, I’m traveling, and I need to cancel a card that has been stolen, please?” I begin to pace on the sidewalk in front of the hostel.

“Of course, what is the card number?”

“If I had the card in front of me, I could tell you.”

Don’t mess with me, woman, not tonight.

“Do you know the account numbers?”

“I’ll log in to my online banking and check. Hang on.” I put her on speaker and quickly log in. I narrow my eyes as I stare at the measly one account.

BALANCE: 0000

“Um.” I frown as I try to work out what is going on here.

Where’s my $1,800?

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“It’s saying zero balance, but I know there’s money in there.”

“What’s the account number?”

I tell her, and she types into her computer.

“There was a withdrawal . . . several withdrawals ten minutes ago in Barcelona. I’m sorry, sir, the account has been completely emptied.”

“Son of a bitch!” I cry. I pace backward and forward in the dark.

“Put in a dispute, and we will try and get it back for you.”

“Oh, thank god. How long does it take for the money to come back?”

“Twenty-eight days.”

“Twenty-eight days?” I cry. “I’m in Spain. I have no money. What am I going to do?”

“You will have to get some money transferred into your backup card until we send you a new one.”

“What do you mean, a backup card?”

“Everybody knows that when you travel you have to have a second card you don’t use in case this kind of thing happens.”

Damn it, I specifically didn’t do this so I couldn’t have spare cash. I didn’t want to have a slush fund.

You idiot.

“Everybody but me!” I cry. This is the literal day from hell.

“I’ve canceled the card and ordered you a new one. Where do you want it sent to?”

I stare up at the hostel. I don’t even know the address. “I’ll have to call you back with an address.” I sigh, utterly dejected.

“That’s okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Miles . . .”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt in the robbery, sir. A lot of travelers aren’t so lucky. Possessions can always be replaced.”

I stare into the darkness. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night.” I hang up and look around in the darkness.

It’s quiet and still. The sound of laughter can be heard in the distance.

I feel stupid, and so alone.

What am I supposed to do now? Call my brothers so they can bail me out on my first fucking day away?

And tell them that they were right, that I really can’t cut it without my family’s money. That I’m a big fat failure.

No way in hell!

I’ll starve before I ask them for a cent.

“You all right?” someone asks from behind me. I turn to see a boy. He’s young and struggling to carry two large garbage bags full of trash.

“Yeah.” I exhale heavily.

He walks over and unlocks a large bin and climbs up and throws the trash in and relocks the industrial bin.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“I’m on close.”

“Close?”

“I work behind the bar.”

“Behind the bar?” I screw up my face. “Aren’t you like twelve?”

“Fourteen.”

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

“I don’t go to school.”

I stare at him. He has black curly hair and is of Spanish descent. He looks so young, but he has an old-soul feel about him.

“Why not?”

“I support my household.”

“At fourteen?”

“Yep.” He smiles with a shrug. “You coming back in?”

“Nah . . .” I keep sitting on my step.

He lingers. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I exhale heavily. “Have you ever felt like a complete failure?”

“Nope.”

I look up at him, surprised. “Not once?”

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I know where I’m going. I got this shit.”

His optimism is contagious, and I smile too. “I bet you do.” I look back out over the street. “My card got stolen, and now I have no money, and I really don’t want to call home and ask them to bail me out.”

“Oh,” he says. “Who took your card?”

“A gorilla.”

“A what?”

“A woman with a gigantic amount of pubic hair.”

His lip curls in disgust. “Ew.”

I widen my eyes. “I hear you.”

“So don’t call home,” he says. “Sort it out yourself.”

I look back over my shoulder at him. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Get a job.”

I frown. “A job?”

“Yeah.”

“Where would I work?” I ask him.

“Anywhere.”

Hmm . . .

“Anyway, I’ve got to go clean the oven.”

I stare at him; this kid is fourteen years old, and he’s cleaning an oven at midnight.

“You’re all right, kid.” I smile. “What’s your name?”

“Eduardo.”

“I’m Christopher.” Oh crap, I told him my real name. “Everyone calls me Christo,” I correct myself.

“Night,” he says as he disappears back inside.

“Good night.”

I drag myself inside and get my tiny towel from my locker and take a shower.

The water pressure is shit and barely hot, and who knew drying yourself with a washcloth could be so unsatisfying?

The hostel is nearly deserted. Everyone is out for the night.

I walk into my bedroom and climb into my bottom bunk bed. I’m six feet three; my head and feet both touch the ends. I plug my phone in to charge and lie alone in the darkness. The rest of my roommates are still out partying. I wonder what time they’ll be back.

I can hear doors banging in the distance and people talking. Strange smells, and this bed is fucking uncomfortable. And what thread count are these sheets? They’re so rough I’ll be exfoliated to the bone.

I roll over and punch my pancake pillow as I try to get comfortable.

Worst bed ever.

I sigh, defeated.

Not a great first day . . . pretty fucking shit, actually.

After what feels like forever, I drift into an exhausted sleep.

The bell rings over the door as I walk into the taxi head office just at 8:00 a.m. I’m dripping with perspiration, having had to walk here at the crack of dawn, six fucking miles.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

“Yes, I’m here to pick up my license. There was a problem with my card last night.”

“Okay.” She pulls out a drawer and picks up a stack of licenses held together with an elastic band. “What was the name?”

“Christopher Miles.”

She flicks through. “Here it is.” She puts it down on the counter. “That will be twelve euros.”

“Yes.” I fake a smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to the manager, please?”

“What about?”

“I’ll let them know when I get a chance to talk to them.”

“I’m the manager.” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“Oh.” I fake laugh. “My apologies, you’re just so young.”

She stares at me deadpan.

“So.” I smile. This woman has the personality of a wet blanket. “Here’s the thing.” I smile goofily again. I practiced this speech in my head all the way over here, but somehow, it’s already not going to plan. “My card was stolen last night, and it’s going to take a few days to sort out my funds.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m calling the police.”

“I can work it off.”

“What?”

“I have an international license.” I point to it as it sits on the counter. “I speak Spanish, and I can read Google Maps. I’m the perfect employee for you.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie. “I could drive for you all day, and then I could pay you this afternoon with my wages.”

She stares at me as if thinking.

“I’m very trustworthy.” I hold my hands out. “See, I turned up and am offering my services. That’s trustworthy if I ever saw it.”

“Do you know your way around Barcelona?”

“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie again. I mean, how hard can it be? “Of course I do.”

She picks up my license and stares at it. “I do have a few drivers off sick today.”

“You do?” I smile excitedly. “That’s great . . . I mean . . . not great that they are sick, obviously.”

She stands and takes a set of keys from the keyboard and then points at me. “One scratch and you’re dead.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“You bring my taxi back to me in perfect condition . . . or else.”

“Deal.”

She passes the keys over. “It’s parked out the back. Come and I’ll show you.”

I can’t believe this plan is actually working. We walk out the back and over to a cab. “This is the brake. It’s standard auto.”

“Okay.” I get in and start the car. “What do I do?”

“You can do the airport run.”

“So I just go to the airport and wait in line?”

“That’s it. Pick up the people, drop them off, and return straight to the airport.” She looks at her watch. “Be back here at four.”

“Okay, no problem.” I grip the steering wheel as excitement runs through me . . . look at me, getting jobs on my own and shit.

“And remember the customer is always right.”

“Gotcha.”

“No speeding, and the credit card machine is tap only.”

“Okay.” I nod as I look around the cab. “Sounds easy enough.”

“Good luck.”

I smile. “Piece of cake.” I drive out and put the blinker on to pull out into the traffic. I watch her back inside, and as I get to the first intersection, I laugh out loud. I look left; I look right . . . now . . . where’s the fucking airport?

The taxi line moves forward at a snail’s pace. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. It took me fifty minutes to find this fucking place, and now that I’m here, I have to line up for customers.

I don’t have time for this shit. I roll my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as I wait. I need to make some cash for that vinegar-tits taxi bitch . . . and on the double.

The double doors of the airport open, and a woman strides out. She has honey-blonde hair in a high ponytail and a spring in her step. She oozes happiness. I smile as I watch her . . . hot.

The line moves up, and oh shit, I’m next. I pull up next to the line and get out. “Hello.”

“Hi,” the guy grumbles as he throws his bag at me. He’s in his late teens and all scruffy looking.

I catch his bag in midair and glare at him.

Don’t piss me off, dickhead.

I go to put it in the trunk. Wait a minute, how do I open it? I look around on the dash, and the taxi behind me beeps his horn. “Hurry up,” he yells out the window.

“Shut up,” I yell back. “Wait your turn.”

My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets. “Where the fuck is the open-trunk button?”

“Come on, man,” the guy groans from the back seat. “What are you doing? I’m so not in the mood for this shit.”

I turn to face him. “I have waited for twenty fucking minutes in the line to pick you up. Do not push me, asshole!” I get out and march to the back of the car and throw his bag into the front seat. It sits so high that I can hardly see around it.

“You can’t drive with my bag in the front seat,” the guy gasps.

“Whose cab is this, motherfucker?”

He stays silent.

“Just as I thought.” I pull out in a rush. “Where to?”

He mumbles something.

“I beg your pardon?” My eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.

“I said . . . 123 the Boulevard!”

I narrow my eyes. “If you speak to me in that tone, I will drop you off right here.”

“Sorry . . . ,” he mumbles.

We stop at some traffic lights, and I quickly type in the address.

It’s forty minutes away . . . ugh. The lights change. I take off once more. We’ve been driving for a few minutes when I make a wonderful discovery.

I can actually do this.

Half an hour later we are stopped at a set of traffic lights.

He moans from the back seat, and my eyes flick up to him in the rearview mirror.

He’s wet with perspiration, and his face is contorted.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I don’t feel so good . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh no . . .” He moans.

“What’s oh no?” I begin to drive faster. I want this fucker out of my cab.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

My eyes widen in horror. “Don’t even think about it!”

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?