Page 39 of The Devil

I came to Spain alone, to get away from the drama of all the people at the office and to also get away from Paul chewing my nuts off about Jen. I don’t think they’ll last much longer; I was surprised to see her at the hospital after my little accident. She is too boho for him and she…well, she’s not my mother. He’s been ruined for life and will most likely keep moving on from one wife to the next.

I do not plan to marry at all; I am simply incapable of offering someone that kind of commitment. There may have been one person for me, but we just weren’t at the right time or in the right place in our lives. If I’m being honest with myself, she ruined me too. I never contacted Helena after our night together. We knew what it was and what it couldn’t be; we were only teenagers. It was never supposed to be anything more than a bet with Eric. But then I went against my own rules, I let her in, just as I had with my mother. We all know how that ended; I will not let Helena meet the same fate. It would destroy me once and for all.

“Mr Hastings, will you be wanting to go ashore tonight?” the steward asks as I sit back in my lounger with a glass of something amber and numbing.

“Yeah, why not,” I reply, glancing at my watch, “I’m bored of staring at the ocean.”

“Very good, Sir,” he says and walks away to let the captain know.

I have the weekend and then it’s back to the grind. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but after a day like today, I’m also getting fidgety. At least when I return, I can give Dan a call to arrange a night of debauchery. Two weeks of no sex has been torturous; my balls are turning blue. Getting myself off is never as appealing when it’s just you and a bunch of filthy thoughts. Helena is always the subject of those thoughts, which leaves me feeling severely depressed.

After dinner, we dock and I wander off into the night, dressed quite casually because it’s still so damn hot. Besides, I’m not looking to hook up with anyone so who cares what I’m wearing. I walk down the main strip next to the playa and consider my options for which bar to go to. Most of them are rowdy and full of people, probably my age, trying to hook up with one another or get so drunk they can’t remember how to get back to their own hotel. It’s only when I get to one of the quieter bars at the end that something catches my eye.

Live music is playing, but not club music, it’s traditional acoustic guitars playing gentle Spanish melodies. The customer base is made up of older couples and a few boho chicks and surfers with tattoos, facial hair, and fashionable, I’m-not-trying-hard-but-still-wanna-look-on-trend, man buns. Donning board shorts from a day of catching waves on the more secluded beaches, they smoke and vape at the bar, chatting and laughing quietly amongst one another in different international languages. The older couples smile contentedly, watching the musicians expertly move their fingers across the strings of their instruments. This is definitely the place I feel like being in tonight. No bullshit, no drama, and no responsibilities.

Having chosen the place based on its laid-back atmosphere, I step into the bar and walk casually up to the only barman, take up a stool, and flop my wallet and keys onto the wooden surface in front of me. Years of stains and wet glasses mark the dark, polished pine, but it still looks clean enough.

“Digame? (Tell me?),” the rather large Spanish guy says to me with a friendly, albeit fake smile.

“Una cerveza, por favor, (a beer, please),” I reply, so he bends to grab a beer from the fridge, showing me the label as he does so. I nod my acceptance, then pay him. My Spanish isn’t great, but I can get by with the essentials.

“Gracias,” he says in a low, I’ve-been-saying-this-all-day, tone of voice.

Waving away the change, I turn to face the musicians and let my mind wander off on a tangent. It’s cooler at this end of the strip; there’s a gentle breeze blowing in from the water down below. I breathe out a sigh when I start thinking about all the shit I will have to face when I return home next week.

“Bonita! (Beautiful!)” The bartender calls out but gets no response. “Mujer! (Woman!)” he shouts, this time laughing. “No hay cerveza!” (I have no beer).

“Ok!” a young female voice calls back; I guess that’s why he’s laughing to himself, knowing full well he’ll get attitude for calling her ‘mujer’.

Soon after, the woman appears behind the bar with her back to me. She’s petite, dressed in denim cut-offs, old flip flops, and a work tank top. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun and it’s a pale pink, rosy color that highlights her light caramel tan. Like a sixth sense taking over, it occurs to me that I know this woman. I know her very well.

“Senorita?” I call out in a gruff, unrecognizable growl. She immediately turns around with a frown on her pretty features to see who it is that is calling after her. “Buono sera, mia topolina!”

Helena

“You have got to be kidding me!” I gasp at the figure in front of me, nearly dropping the crate of beer I’m trying to hand over to Eliseo.

Lucius Hastings.

At my words, his trademark smug smirk spreads over his face like a dark shadow taking up your sunlight on the beach. It takes me right back to being seventeen on the doorstep ofHastings Villa, when I should have run far away instead of willingly walking inside his lair. He moves his eyes over me, all the way from my feet and up to my head, rubbing the fraction of stubble on his chin and giving a look that tells me he likes what he sees. My traitorous cheeks heat, causing him to laugh softly under his breath.

“Bonita, you ok?” Eliseo asks me, sounding full of concern. He’s trying to help me learn the language better, but my sudden verbal outburst must have him worried because he’s fallen back into using English.

“I…I’m fine, Eliseo,” I finally reply as I turn back to face my Spanish colleague. “I was just getting my things ready to go.”

My shift ended a few hours ago, but the rush of people for the live entertainment was too much for the two members of bar staff who were scheduled for tonight. The rich but clueless owners are a couple of idiots that try anything to get out of paying their staff if they can help it.

Eliseo nods with a smile that manages to look both affectionate and concerned. I don’t say anything to Lucius, instead, I wave and walk out the back to collect my bag, leaving Eliseo to look suspiciously at the handsome figure sitting at the end of the bar.

Trying to avoid unnecessary drama, I sneak out the back exit and begin jogging up the steps to get the hell out of here. I’m not interested in talking to Lucius, I’m still much too hurt after everything. He never ever contacted me after I gave him my virginity, not even once, not even to check if I got back ok or to see how I was after Nonna’s funeral. It took nearly six months of having stress-related migraines every time I thought about him and for me to not want him so badly, I felt sick with it. It then took another year or so to finally begin dating. So, no, I do not want to talk to him, thank you very much.

Thinking I’ve got away with it, I begin to relax and walk down the strip, ignoring the catcalls from drunk tourists, as well as waving or high-fiving the odd acquaintance I meet along the way. I also pop my head in and out of some of the other bars to see what’s going on tonight; not a lot it would seem. It’s been a great summer so far and I’ve had a blast, but I’m looking forward to returning home to see my family in a month’s time.

I also need to end things with Evan once and for all. His week over here was enough to tell me we weren’t suited to one another and for me to see a hint of what life would be like with him. He wanted to dine in expensive restaurants, dress up and parade around in front of the wealthier diners, while I wanted to try street food and explore nighttime markets on the beach. During the day, he wanted to laze around on the beach and effectively cook himself in the peak sunshine while eyeing bikini-clad supermodel wannabes. I wanted to go off-track and take random, artistic shots with my Leica. And the sex? My god, I don’t think I ever want to do missionary ever again. I even got a cramp the last time because there was no change, no variation, and definitely no orgasm. For me, anyway.

Silver, my roommate, had made fun of my fake orgasm noises and accused us of being one of those cliché couples where the woman is only with the guy for his money and his willingness to marry her. I had started to argue but then realized this is exactly what we look like. Except, it’s not me who wants his status or his ring on my finger, it’s my father. He made it as clear as day that I should hold onto Evan with all my might.

“Helena, I’ve always worried about you. You’re so quiet, so shy, so vulnerable. I’ve known for a long time that you need someone to look after you. You’re not like your brothers who are confident to look after themselves. But now that you’ve found Evan, I no longer need to worry. Just so you know, if he ever proposes, you have my blessing.”

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