Finding It

Finding It Losing It - 3 by Cora Carmack

To Kristin, my eerily perceptive travel buddy.

Remember that time we were stuck in a train station overnight?

And taking a cab from Germany to the Netherlands?

And that microwave I ruined in Spain before I almost died?

Thanks for being there for all of that and more.

1

EVERYONE DESERVES ONE grand adventure, that one time in life that we always get to point back to and say, “Then … then I was really living.”

Adventures don’t happen when you’re worried about the future or tied down by the past. They only exist in the now. And they always, always come at the most unexpected time, in the least likely of packages. An adventure is an open window; and an adventurer is the person willing to crawl out on the ledge and leap.

I told my parents I was going to Europe to see the world and grow as a person (not that Dad listened beyond the second or third word, which is when I slipped in that I was also going to spend his money and piss him off as much as possible. He didn’t notice). I told my professors that I was going to collect experiences to make me a better actor. I told my friends I was going to party.

In reality, it was a little of all of those things. Or maybe none of them.

Sometimes, I just got that strange niggling sensation at the back of my mind, like the insistent buzz of a mosquito, that I was missing something.

I wanted to experience something extraordinary, something more. I refused to believe that my best years were all behind me now that I’d graduated from college. And if adventures only existed in the now, that was the only place I wanted to exist, too.

After nearly two weeks of backpacking around Eastern Europe, I was becoming an expert at just that.

I trekked down the dark city street, my stiletto heels sticking in between the cobblestones. I kept a tight hold on the two Hungarian men that I’d met earlier in the evening, and we followed the other two in our group. I guess, technically, I had met them last night, since we were now into the early hours of morning.

For the life of me, I couldn’t keep their names straight. And I wasn’t even drunk yet.

Okay … so maybe I was a little drunk.

I kept calling Tamas, Istvan. Or was that Andras? Oh well. They were all hot with dark hair and eyes, and they knew four words in English as far as I could tell.

American. Beautiful. Drink. Dance.

As far as I was concerned, those were the only words they needed to know. At least I remembered Katalin’s name. I’d met her a few days ago, and we’d hung out almost every night since. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She showed me around Budapest, and I charged most of our fun on Daddy’s credit card. Not like he would notice or care. And if he did, he’d always said that if money didn’t buy happiness, then people were spending it wrong.

Thanks for the life lessons, Daddy.

“Kelsey,” Katalin said, her accent thick and exotic. Damn, why couldn’t I have one of those? I’d had a slight Texas twang when I was younger, but my years in theatre had all but beat that out of me. She said, “Welcome to the ruin bars.”

Ruin bars.

I paused in ruffling Istvan’s hair (or the one I called Istvan anyway) to take in where we were. We stood on an empty street filled with dilapidated buildings. I knew the whole don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover thing; but in the dark, this place was straight out of a zombie apocalypse. I wondered how to say brains in Hungarian.

The old Jewish quarter. That’s where Katalin said we were going.

Oy vey.

It sure as hell didn’t look to me like there were any bars around here. I took in the sketchy neighborhood, and thought at least I’d gotten laid last night. If I was going to get chopped into tiny pieces, at least I’d go out with a bang. Literally.

I laughed and almost recounted my thoughts to my companions, but I was pretty sure it would get lost in translation. Especially because I was starting to question even Katalin’s grip on the English language, if this was what “bar” meant to her.

I pointed to a grungy building devoid of any signs or address and said, “Drink?” Then mimed the action just to be safe.

One of the guys said, “Igen. Drink.” The word sounded like ee- gan, and I’d picked up just enough to know it meant yes.

Whoo-hoo. I was practically fluent already.

I followed Katalin and Andras (I was seventy-five percent sure that her guy was Andras). They stepped into the dark-end doorway of one derelict building that gave me the heebiest of jeebies. The taller of my Hungarian hotties slipped an arm around my shoulders. I took a guess and said, “Tamas?” His teeth were pearly white when he smiled. I would take that as a yes. Tamas equaled tall. And drop-dead sexy. Noted.

One of his hands came up and brushed back the blond hair from my face. I tilted my head back to look at him, and excitement sparked in my belly. What did language matter when dark eyes locked on mine, strong hands pressed into my skin, and heat filled the space between us?

Not a whole hell of a lot.

Tonight was going to be a good night. I could feel it.

We followed the rest of the group into the building, and I felt the low thrum of techno music vibrating the floor beneath my feet.

Interesting.

We traveled deeper into the building and came out into a large room. Walls had been knocked down, and no one had bothered to move the pieces of concrete. Christmas lights and lanterns lit the space. Mismatched furniture was scattered around the bar. There was even an old car that had been repurposed into a dining booth. It was easily the weirdest, most confusing place I’d ever been in.

“You like?” Katalin asked.

I pressed myself closer to Tamas and said, “I love.”

He led me to the bar where drinks were dirt cheap. I pulled out a two thousand forint note. For less than the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars, I bought all five of us shots.

Amazing. Maybe I should stay in Eastern Europe forever.

And I would totally consider it … except there was one downside to Europe. For some reason that made no sense to me, they gave lemon slices with tequila instead of lime. The bartenders always looked at me like I’d just ordered elephant sweat in a glass. They just didn’t understand the magical properties of my favorite drink. If my accent didn’t give me away as a tourist, my drink of choice always did.

Lime or not, tequila is my bestie, so I took it eagerly.

Next, Tamas bought me a gin bitter lemon, a drink I’d been introduced to a few weeks ago. It almost made the absence of margaritas in this part of the world bearable. I downed it like it was lemonade on a blistering Texas day. His eyes went wide, and I licked my lips. Istvan bought me another, and the acidity and sweetness rolled