Marco is hot. He’s not as tall as his brother, but his skin is this dark tawny bronze, his hair black and close-cropped. He’s got a wide smile, dimples, one of those strong manly man chins. He’s definitely one of those guys that knows he’s hot, and while he’s borderline too neat and clean-cut for me, he’s easy to be around. Talks a lot, takes charge, is bold. I appreciate that.
“And you came back here?” she asks.
I chuckle and have a sip of wine. “What can I say, I like my little Finnish friend here.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you could have been sleeping with him right now instead of sitting here talking about it with me.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I tell her. “I wasn’t trying to get laid.”
Not really.
I said yes to dinner with Marco for two reasons. One was that I know I need all the connections that I can get. Two is that this way I wouldn’t need to get a cab back to the city. We had some drinks, some different plates of food, we talked. It was all very superficial conversations, such a change from me and his brother (though I suppose an interview isn’t really a conversation), and then at the end of the night he said he’d drop me off at the hostel.
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and that was that.
I’m sure if I really wanted to I could have asked to see his place, but as much as a quick fuck with a hot Portuguese sports agent sounds like a lot of harmless fun, I am determined to be seen somewhat seriously in this business, and I want to finish that interview with Luciano. I think he thought he was getting off easy but I fully aim to call Marco tomorrow and see if I can set something else up.
“Well, I would have gone for it, if I were you,” she says.
“Maybe next time,” I muse. “You know, when I’ve done the interview. Female sports journalists are held on a different pedestal and there’s already a lot of stereotyping that we have to sleep around to get the job done. I want to get this done on my own terms. If I finish and post the interview, then maybe I’ll have a roll in the hay with the guy.”
“A reward for a job well done,” she comments with a sly smile.
“We will see about that. I’ve known plenty of charmers like Marco, and a lot of them think they don’t have to do shit to pleasure a woman except have a dick and look pretty.”
“You’re forgetting he’s Portuguese, though,” Elena says knowingly. “My ex was an asshole, but he was good in bed. Believe me.”
“It sounds like you’re the one who needs to get laid, Elena,” I tell her. “By someone other than your ex.”
“I can cheers to that,” she says, lifting her glass to mine. “Kippis.”
“Kippis,” I repeat, the only Finnish I know, and I clink my glass against hers.
* * *
I sleep in the next morning, having been kept awake all night by a combination of racing thoughts and the Swiss twins snoring in unison. By the time I finally decide to open my eyes, sunshine is streaming through the windows and all the bunks are empty. I bring out my phone from under my pillow and glance at it.
It’s eleven somehow, and I have a text from Marco.
Ruby it’s Marco. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Luciano will be there, you can finish the interview. I was thinking I would pick you up at seven. Don’t worry, it’s not fancy.
I smile. The man is forward. Back in the states, there are all those stupid old-fashioned rules that people like to follow. Don’t get back to someone right away, play hard to get, don’t ask them out soon after a first date. I like that Marco doesn’t care, that he goes for what he wants. That’s pretty much the way I am too.
Besides, I get to see Luciano again. I know he probably won’t let me get all that deep and personal with his brother there, but at least I can finish the interview.
I spend the day doing more research, not just about Luciano, but about blogging in general, trying to work on my SEO and plan for future content. I didn’t see Elena until around five pm. She went and did a tour with some Germans she met, so we managed to have some more wine on the patio and then she helped me get ready for the date. I didn’t pack a ton of clothes for this trip, but Elena picked out skinny jeans and a white tank top, lending me her statement necklace for interest.
“It’s making a statement all right,” I tell her, eying myself in the mirror as she fastens the bold turquoise and orange stone necklace around my neck. “The statement is: here are my boobs, look at them.”
She laughs as I dig inside my cleavage and pull out the end piece, a giant slab of turquoise, knowing it will get swallowed up again.
“Your boobs say that all the time,” she says. “Do people ever ask you if they’re real?”
“Yes and it’s so rude,” I tell her, rolling my eyes. “My boobs are real. My lips are real. There’s nothing about me that’s fake.” I pause. “Although there probably should be if I’m going to be taken seriously. You know, have a game face.”
“Nah,” Elena says, stepping back. “Just continue being you. That’s how you’ll stand out.”
I peer at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I’m not sure who the girl staring back at me is, but at least for tonight I know I look good.
In general, I don’t get that nervous about things because I’m pretty confident in myself, or at least my persona, and I roll with most situations. If anything, I take those nerves and turn them into
