Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (28 page)

“Yes.”

I feel the heat of Viv’s gaze—and her censure—on the side of my face. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened between you and Javier this week, does it?”

“Yes.”

Of course it does. It has everything to do with Javier. I’m so desperate to get to this club and lose myself in men and music that I’m practically running. I need to forget the way Javier touched me and the way he tasted and the spectacular angles of his body and his kind intelligence and how at
home
I felt in his enormous arms.

Most of all, I am desperate to forget his betrayal. It was all a lie—that kindness, his interest in me, the way he made me feel. He asked me to be in a relationship with him while separated by an ocean just so he could bang me for the next few weeks. The thing I feared most, that I would let Javier in and he’d hurt me, make a fool of me the way my dad did, happened. It happened, and now I’m left reeling.

Chasing anonymous Spaniards in the hope of landing a hookup is the only way I know how to make myself forget. Because I certainly can’t forgive Javier. So for now I’ll settle for the forgetting.

“That’s pretty dumb, you know,” Viv says. “Trying to forget Javier by hooking up with some Eurotrash idiot. It’s only going to make you feel worse.”

We stop at a crosswalk, shivering while we wait for the light to change.

“I know it’s dumb.” I swallow, hard. “But what choice do I have? I’m going crazy, Viv.”

“He likes you, chica. A lot. A
lot
lot. I know he’s really confused—really hurt—by how things went down this week. You should unblock his number and give him a call. At least let him know you’re okay.”

I roll my eyes. “
He’s
hurt? Do we really need to rehash this right now? He was the one who asked me to ‘make love’ with him. He asked me to try out a long distance relationship. Ten minutes later, his super hot ex—you know, the girl he swore he wasn’t into—is texting him about how they miss each other? He lied to me, Viv. He used me.”

Viv lets out a strangled sigh. She’s frustrated, I know, but I really don’t feel like talking about this right now.

“He misses you,” she replies. “That’s all I’m saying.”

I blocked his number the second I left his apartment. The fact that he lied to me hurt enough; I don’t want to rub salt in the wound by seeing Uncle Pervy’s name pop up on my phone. It’s best just to cut off all contact before we do or say something we’ll regret. What’s done is done. I saw all I needed to in that text from Carmen.

I am so done with Javier.

When we finally get to Ático, the line to get in snakes around the corner.

“Ho-ly shit,” Viv breathes.

I take a warrior breath. “The wait will be worth it, Viv.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling me close.

We don’t wait long. Five minutes later, there’s some commotion in the line behind us. I turn to see a familiar man-bunned guy making his way across the sidewalk, his cut cheeks and intense green eyes something out of an underwear ad.

He’s leading Laura by the hand.

The two of them together—just yikes. My eyeballs catch fire and burn holes into my head. Laura and her footballer bro are beyond gorgeous, perfect, sexy representations of the human species.

People gawk as they pass; men get out their phones to take pictures; women scream, bouncing around on their heels to get a better look.

Rhys—yep, his name is Rhys, pronounced
Reese
; on top of being a super hot celebrity soccer player, he’s also Welsh—grins when he sees me and Vivian.

“Ladies.” He gives each of us a quick
kiss kiss
. “Lovely to see you, as always. I reserved a table for us—let’s head to the VIP line.”

“Hello, handsome,” I reply, wagging my eyebrows at Laura. She’s flushed, her smile shy.

I sidle up beside her as we make our way to the front of the line. “You did it in the car ride over, didn’t you?”

“We did,” she murmurs in reply. “Is it that obvious? I think I’m still coming a little.”

“I’m jealous. I’m hoping to get some action tonight myself.”

Laura looks at me. “With Uncle Javier?”

The image flashes through my head: Javier naked in front of the fire, his skin glistening, eyes dark with arousal. How he’d closed those eyes as he got on his knees and slid his tongue between the lips of my pussy.

A pulse of longing rips through me. My heart stutters. The heat between my legs smarts.

Stop
. I have to stop thinking about him. Missing him. He screwed me in every sense of the word, that bastard. Like an idiot, I let myself believe that he liked me. Wanted me. But he doesn’t want me; he wants María Carmen. He’s wanted her this whole time.

I have to stop thinking about him, or his betrayal is going to tear me apart.

I have to have many,
many
drinks, stat.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a drunk make-out sesh with a stranger. You know. The usual.”

“The usual?” She tilts her head, dubiously. “That hasn’t been the usual lately. Not for you. Everything okay?”

I roll my lips between my teeth, looking away. “Not really. But I’m trying, Laur. I have to try.”

“All right.” She wraps an arm around my waist. “If a sloppy bar make-out is what you need, then a sloppy bar make-out is what you’ll get. Some of Rhys’s teammates might meet us a little later. There’s this one guy, he’s obscenely hot—doesn’t speak great English, but—”

“Sounds perfect. I don’t plan on doing much talking anyway.”

The bouncers practically bow down to Rhys when we get to the door. A pair of cocktail waitresses in ridiculous purple satin corsets magically appear. Plumping their boobs, they lead us up a winding staircase to the VIP tables.
 

Laura grabs my hand and I follow her, Viv a few steps behind me. We press through throngs of people, the music so loud the floor jumps in time to the bass.
 

Madrileños are an exceptionally good-looking crowd. Especially when they’re dressed to the nines for a night out. A couple cute guys—like,
really
cute guys, with handsome smiles and come hither eyes—check me out as a pass.

A few weeks ago, I would’ve returned the favor. If I was feeling especially feisty, I might wink, say hola, shimmy so that they could get a better view of my ass.

But tonight, their attention just grosses me out.

Not a good sign. I need a drink. I’m probably just out of practice; a few shots and I have no doubt I’ll be back in the saddle, jonesin’ for a little late night lovin’.

I just wish I could shake this feeling that something isn’t right.

That where I am right now isn’t at all where I should be. Where I
want
to be.

I want to be with Javier. Which, for obvious reasons, is absurd.

But there is no on/off switch for the things I feel for him. I wish there was, believe me; then I could get on with my night, with my
life
, and never think about him again.

Despite what he did, the desire I feel for him haunts me. Even now, when I’m at my favorite discoteca surrounded by beautiful people, I want to be with him.

I close my eyes. Try another warrior breath.
 

We’re the first ones to arrive at the table. Rhys orders a fifth of top shelf tequila and, at my request, some salt and limes.

I knock back two shots in quick succession, hardly pausing for the lime chaser. The tequila’s sour-sweet burn sears my throat as it goes down; usually I’d gag, but tonight the fire feels good. It blocks everything else out, including thoughts of Javier. Of how cherished he made me feel.

“Whoa there,” Laura says, stilling my hand when I reach for the bottle. “You know you have to be conscious for a sloppy make-out, right? Even the most dedicated guy isn’t gonna want to play tongue hockey with you if you throw up on him.”

“Here.” Viv grabs a couple glasses and the carafe of orange juice the waitress set on the table. “How about some mixed drinks? Something a little less…um, potent.”

“Sure,” I say, and run my hands down my thighs. “Sure, that’d be great. Thank you guys, by the way, for coming out with me tonight. I really needed this.”

“Anytime, chica.” Laura smiles as the three of us clank glasses. “We just want to see you happy.”

But that’s just it—the more I drink, the more I force myself to dance, to flirt with Rhys’s ridiculously hot teammate, Guillermo, who arrives an hour later—the more I try to party, the more miserable I become.

I’ve got a good buzz going: check. I feel hot in my super tight skinny jeans and teeny weeny tank top: check. The music’s great and this guy is interested: check and double check.

Why, then, is there this knot in my stomach? A knot that tightens every time Guillermo touches me, or pours me another drink.

I can’t help wishing that it were Javier’s hand on my hip instead of Guillermo’s. As much as I used to love hooking up with strangers, right now I am really craving the familiarity of Javier’s touch.

I’m pathetic. This is pathetic. I have a hot footballer feeling me up, and I’m thinking about the guy who hurt me in the worst, the
worst
possible way?

Some sick, twisted part of me hopes Javier
does
see me tonight. Viv swore she didn’t tell Rafa where we were going—girls’ night out, no boys allowed—but there’s always a chance she slipped up. If Rafa knew we were at Ático, and he told Javier, maybe he’d come try to find me.

I hope he does. And I hope he sees me having the best time ever making out with the hottest, most Eurotrash soccer player on the planet.

We dance, we drink. We drink some more; Rhys orders another fifth of tequila. The world starts to move a little too quickly when I turn my head, or look down. I ask the waitress to bring some bottled water, but seeing as I’m not a single super hot athlete, she ignores my request.

Guillermo and I huddle up in the corner of the velvet sofa. He palms my hips; I try not to tense at his touch. I let him pull me down onto his lap. The motion makes me dizzy, and I grab onto his shoulder to stop the unpleasant spin inside my head, my stomach.

Guillermo takes that as an invitation, and slides his hand up my leg. He’s so fucking hot; he’d be a prize notch on my belt. He’s a famous footballer, for God’s sake, rich and famous and probably an amazeballs lay.

There’s no good reason why I shouldn’t suck his face.

Except, of course, the fact that I keep seeing Javier’s hot-handsomeness behind my closed eyes.

Stop. Stop thinking about him. Why are you thinking about him?

I don’t want to think about Javier anymore.

So I wrap my arms around Guillermo’s neck and open his lips with my lips and indulge in that drunk sloppy make-out I’ve convinced myself I needed.

It’s awful.

Guillermo is a good kisser. He’s not pushy or too touchy-feely. He doesn’t give me a reason, in short, to hate what we’re doing.

But I do. I hate it.

I hate it because he’s not Javier. Guillermo smells good, like a sexy cologne he probably does commercials for half-naked, but he doesn’t smell nearly as good as Javier. He touches me with eager hands, but those hands aren’t Javier’s—enormous, kind, knowledgeable.

Every little thing Guillermo does is just a reminder that he isn’t Javier.

It’s just a reminder of how badly I wish he were.

I am so pathetic.
I promised myself I would never be this girl; I promised myself I would protect my heart after my dad broke it this summer. I need to start protecting myself again.

So I force myself to keep kissing Guillermo, waiting for that wish to dissipate. Even in my drunken stupor, I know I’m being an idiot. I know I’m only making the loneliness inside me hurt that much more.

The fact that I am very, verrrrry drunk doesn’t help.

When Guillermo presses his tongue inside my mouth, I recoil, a full-body shudder.

“I’m sorry,” I say, scrambling upright. “Guillermo, it’s not you, I just—I gotta go—”

I weave a little on my feet as I stumble across the club. I gotta get out of here. This was stupid, why am I so stupid—

I feel a hand at either of my elbows and look to see Viv and Laura half a step behind me, gently guiding me toward the exit.

“Sp-fanks,” I mumble. I hang my head; the motion, the people, the music—it’s too much to take in right now. “I love you girls. Love you so much.”

I make it outside before I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Fuck fuck fuck
I hate it when I get this drunk. I know better, I am such an idiot, a drunk, heartbroken idiot.

“Viv,” I say. “I’m gonna puke. I think. I love you.”

I hear a familiar, rumbling laugh—half amused, half sympathetic—that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“I love you, too, guapa.”

I look up, the world lurching around me, but he—ohmigod it’s
him
, he’s here, he’s so hot-handsome I can’t take it—he stands tall and still in the middle of everything.

Javier is here.

Chapter 23