1
Rory
Adventurer’s code, rule number one: never stop moving.
I shove a handful of crisps in my mouth and let the messy crumbs stick to my lips. I’ve parked myself in a colorful pub on Buckingham Palace Road called Bag O’ Nails, which has rows and rows of liquors on the shelves behind the bar, coral-pink wallpaper, and a surprisingly bustling crowd for eight o’clock on a Thursday evening. Mostly tourists, fly-by-nighters, like me.
I try to smooth out the creases of my map of London on the bar in front of me, but I only end up smearing it with darkened grease stains. I can still make out the sprawling bus and train lines that run like veins through the city. A tabby cat lifts herself up from her bed of newspaper at the other end of the bar, stretches, and patters across the bar top, nails clicking on the polished wood. I scratch her head and let her sandpaper tongue lick the salt from my fingers. With my non-cat-occupied hand, I pop off the cap of my pen and circle bus routes.
I’ve gotten pretty good at reading maps. I’ve had to. I’ve traveled all over the world: South Africa, Japan, Thailand, Nepal, Greece, and Beijing—you name it, I’ve probably been there. I’ve backpacked my way across the globe, skipping from continent to continent. My backpack is bulging—nearly the same size as me now, not that that’s very hard. I’m a travel-size human. Even the soles of my sturdy Doc Martens are finally fraying with all the wear and tear.
For all my traveling, this is my first time in Europe. I’ve spent this past week digging my heels into Merry ol’ England. It’s nice here, really; I like the tea, the sights, and the fact that everyone speaks English. That’s a plus for sure. These crisps—not chips, as I’ve been corrected, but crisps—loaded with vinegar, might nearly be enough to make me stay.
And yet… I can’t stop. It’s like an addiction, this need to keep moving. Even lingering in this small London pub is making me antsy. My blood is vibrating with the need to go. I’ll finish my beer and pub hop a couple more times before crashing at my hostel.
As my brother, Oscar, says, There is too much of this world to see and not enough time to do it in.
My tabby friend gets bored of me and trots away, allowing me to focus on my map again. It’s a five-minute walk from my hostel to the Tube, and I can take the blue line to King’s Cross. There, I can catch the Eurostar to Paris. I haven’t been to Paris, and even though it seems a bit like a tourist trap to me, it’s just one of those places I feel like I have to see before I die. Oscar would like to see the Eiffel Tower, I think. On the other hand, if I cough up forty pounds, I can jet across to Ireland. There, I can think about replenishing my diminishing bank account, where it might be easier to pick up a part-time job, maybe something rural, helping on a farm in the Highlands and whatnot. I love animals; after all, who doesn’t want to spend their time with a sheep—?
In the middle of my scribbling, I notice a man approach the bar in my periphery. He takes the barstool one spot down from me, leaving a polite distance between us. One thing I’ve learned about British guys in my short time here: they’re not as gregariously affectionate as Americans. Instead, they tend to leave women a gulf of personal space, as though our feminine antics are something to be observed from afar, like a nature documentary. I’m still circling train times when I hear the low, gravelly voice growl, “Bitter, please.”
That voice gets my blood humming. I can’t help it; I steal a second, lingering glance. My bar-company is wearing dark jeans, slightly worn and frayed at the knees. His black T-shirt barely contains the muscled chest underneath it. Sizeable biceps stretch his sleeves. His raven hair is cut almost military short around his ears, and his entire physique screams danger. In a cotton tee and jeans, he’s all man, and it’s a painful reminder of my six-month chastity.
He has to be military, that’s my guess. One of those razor-sharp men with as much good humor as a slot machine. It’s really too bad my brain is flooding with thoughts of those strong arms pinning my wrists above my head.
Contain yourself, Rory. I tear my eyes away from the stranger and start filling in one of the O’s on my schedule to distract myself. When I dare to lift my gaze again, the handsome stranger is looking right at me.
No. Not at me. He’s fixed on my stuffed animal, a palm-sized otter holding a fabric clam between its two palms, which sits on the bar, leaning against my pint. Even my otter can’t take its eyes away from him, it seems.
“Didn’t you ever tell your muskrat it’s rude to stare?” Hot-stranger frowns.
“Not a muskrat,” I clarify. “An otter. Didn’t they teach you animals at secret-agent school?”
He shakes his head and cradles his beer. “I’m not a secret agent.”
“Then what are you? Double-oh? Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
“I’m a bodyguard at the palace.”
“Knew it. Well, Mr. Bodyguard, I thought your kind was supposed to be smart.”
“I let my gun do most of my talking.”