The Wild Woman's Guide to Traveling the World Page 8

  “Holy shit.” He glanced over his shoulder and moved away from the group of budding Sic Bo enthusiasts. “Sophie, this is seventy-five grand.”

  “Holy shit!” I yelled, then quickly converted the currency in my head. “That’s like nine thousand U.S. dollars!”

  He shushed me and laughed, clinking the chips in the palms of his hands. Seconds ago, I’d convinced myself this man was an irresponsible liar, but now all I saw was a giddy, innocent child. Who was he really: a man or a boy? There was so much he told me, and so much I had yet to find out, but no way to distinguish the fact from the fiction. The sixty dollars he’d placed on the table could have been all he had left to his name, or it could have been chump change compared to his trust fund. He could be an orphan, haunted by his past, or a con artist with a talent for spinning sob stories. As he traveled around the world, there could be a different woman following him each week, or I could be the first to have shared in his adventures. The only certainty was the thrill racing through me; so far, blind surrender was paying off.

  “I can’t believe that happened,” I said.

  “Neither can I.”

  “Who wins a hundred-fifty to one odds on a game they’ve never played before?”

  “The whole thing is insane.”

  “You are so lucky.”

  “It’s all you,” he said. “You’re my good luck charm.”

  Carson pulled me close and I wrapped my arms around his neck, gazed into his blue eyes, tried to find the truth inside them. But then I thought, how much do we know about anyone, really? People are complex and full of surprises. The ones we trust to care for us can leave us high and dry. The ones we barely know can teach us invaluable lessons. We all have so many sides to us. Who we are on any given day depends on how the dice rolls.

  “Let’s cash these in,” he said.

  “You’re done already?” I was disappointed, adrenaline clouding my judgment. Caught up in the excitement of the big win, I’d forgotten all about my aversion to gambling.

  “I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead.” He grabbed my hand and kissed the tips of my fingers. “Besides, we’ve gotta book a room. We’re going to have a very comfortable stay in Macau.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Our room at the Grand Amadora didn’t have a number. It was identified only by name: the Chrysanthemum Suite. Carson told the concierge he wanted romance and a spectacular view; when asked for a price range, he spread out his chips on the marble countertop. I cringed at the sight and tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt.

  “That’s an awful lot of money to spend on a hotel room,” I whispered in his ear, while the concierge tapped away at her keyboard.

  “Okay.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close. “I’m sure we can find a hostel around here with some vacancies. You know, someplace cheaper. With a shared bathroom. And bunk beds. And some snoring roommates.”

  I snickered and smacked him lightly on the stomach, then let my hand linger there for a moment, caressing his tight, firm abs through the thin cotton T-shirt. We’ll definitely need some privacy tonight.

  “Seriously,” I said. “I’m sure we can find something private and quiet that doesn’t cost thousands of dollars.”

  He pressed his lips to my temple and whispered against my skin, “Just let me do this for us. Please.”

  I buried my face in his chest, inhaling his musk, wishing I could bottle it up and take it home with me. I realized it was pointless for me to argue with him. If I had won this money, I would’ve squirreled it away in a money market account for safekeeping. But I didn’t win this money; he did. That meant it was his decision to make. I already knew Carson’s philosophy on saving: Why save when he may not have a future to save for?

  But I also really liked that he was doing this for “us.” The idea of an “us” made me tingle all over.

  So I said no more and watched silently as the concierge slipped keycards into slender envelopes before a bellman whisked our bags away. We followed him to the elevator, where he pressed the button for the twenty-eighth floor and stared down at the linoleum. As we ascended, Carson held me in his arms and kissed me deeply, as if we were alone. We didn’t realize the elevator arrived on our floor until the bellman loudly cleared his throat.

  The foyer in the Chrysanthemum Suite was bigger and more tastefully appointed than my entire studio apartment back home. Porcelain vases on marble pedestals flanked the front door. Canned lights were scattered across the ceiling like stars, casting twilight across the marble floor. Against the wall, a great glass bowl overflowed with red chrysanthemums. Behind it hung a mirror like a full moon, in which I caught the reflection of my swollen pink lips pouting back at me.

  Carson ushered the bellman down the hall and to the left, to deliver our bags to the bedroom. I walked straight ahead, across the deep pile carpet, past the cream-colored sectional with paisley pillows jutting out into the center of the living room. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far wall, I looked down at the scenery below, the city turning from daylight to dusk. Nam Van Lake stretched below us in a cornflower horseshoe, a million golden lights reflecting off the water. Macau Tower pierced the skyline, its pointed tip reaching up to the clouds, framed by the rolling mountains of mainland China beyond. I pressed my palm against the cool glass, as if to touch the whole city, absorb its energy from above.

  The door clicked shut behind me. I spun around and saw Carson walking my way with an open bottle of champagne in one hand, two crystal flutes in the other.

  “This was already chilling in the bedroom,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I think a toast is in order.”

  He handed me a glass and poured the champagne quickly, froth foaming over the edges and dripping down onto our fingers.

  “To good luck,” he said.

  “To Macau.”

  “To us.”

  We clinked our glasses and tilted our heads back, draining our drinks in a single gulp. Icy bubbles tickled my tongue and sent a chill through my chest as I swallowed. We set down our flutes on an end table and stared out the window, side by side.

  “Another city filled with people,” he said.

  “The world really is a huge place.”

  Carson slid his arm around my waist. “And with all the billions of people living in this huge world, you and I somehow managed to find each other.”

  “Well, what was it you said?” I leaned into his embrace. “‘The universe has its reasons for bringing people together,’ right?”

  His breath was so close, it tickled my ear. Then his lips touched my neck, cool and wet against my skin.

  “I don’t know what it is about you, Sophie,” he said, “but you make me feel like I could do anything.”

  He worked his way toward my lips, and our mouths opened and melted into each other, tongues still tart from the lingering champagne. I pressed my pelvis against his and felt him respond. Our hands searched each other, first with caresses and then with urgent tugs. He pulled up my dress, and I lifted my arms over my head to let him slip it off. When he unhooked my bra, I watched his thick fingers guide the straps down the length of my arms until it dropped to the floor at my feet. I looked up to meet his cool, shimmering gaze and saw the twinkling lights of Macau reflected in the blue of his eyes. He tugged at the waistband of my panties, peeling them down over my hips and letting them slide down my legs until they pooled around my ankles. I stood before him naked, then leaned back against the window, exposed to the world below, feeling the chill from the glass seep beneath my bare skin.

  Carson tore off his clothes and pulled a condom from his pocket before flinging his shorts aside, the tree emblazoned on his chest heaving with each breath. He stood still for a moment, his eyes combing the length of my body. Then he trailed kisses between my breasts and down my stomach until he was kneeling between my legs. The flick of his tongue numbed me; the heat of his breath brought me back to full sensation. I closed my eyes and moaned, running my fi
ngers through his thick, sandy hair.

  As he rose to meet my face, his hands grasped my hips and hoisted me up, and I flung both my arms around his neck. Stretching my thighs back, he pressed me into the window with all his weight and entered me, grunting. As he swelled and pulsed inside me, I let him consume my senses: the scent radiating from his dewy skin; the salty flavor as I ran my tongue along his neck; his guttural groans reverberating throughout my trembling body. Angling my hips to meet his rhythm, we locked eyes, and a tidal wave of blue washed over me as we both came together, convulsing against the cool glass.

  Panting, he gently lowered me to the ground and laid me down upon the plush, silky carpet. We stretched out on the floor next to each other and shared delicate, satisfied kisses. When we’d finally caught our breath, Carson propped himself up on one elbow and smiled down at me. “So, would that be considered, like, sex in public?”

  “I don’t think that really counts,” I said with a giggle. “No one can see us all the way up here. Plus, the windows are mirrored on the outside. But if somebody did, then I hope they liked the show. We gave them a good one, I think.”

  Carson raised his eyebrows and widened his smile, revealing the dimple in his stubbled cheek. “You’re wild, Sophie.”

  I snorted. “Wild? You’re probably the only person in the whole world who would say that about me.”

  “Then maybe no one else knows the real you.”

  He planted a brisk wet kiss on my lips and hopped to his feet, leaving me splayed out on the floor and stunned. Was this the real me?

  “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he said. “Care to join me?”

  “Not right now. I think I just wanna lie here another second.”

  “Tell you what, let’s order room service.” He patted a big black binder on the dining table. “Your choice. Pick something out while I shower, okay?”

  He turned around and entered the bedroom, where I heard the bang of the bathroom door and the rush of water from the faucet. I stood up slowly and approached the dining table, where I thumbed mindlessly through the menus, all the while focused on the words Carson just spoke to me.

  You’re wild, Sophie.

  Disciplined. Practical. Sensible. These were words that accurately described me. And, according to Elena, controlling and passionless also fit the bill. But wild? Not in a million years. Sure, I liked to travel a lot and try new things, and I partook in my fair share of casual sexual encounters. But I always made sure I did everything responsibly. I conducted thorough research; I made informed choices; I practiced safe sex. I was in no way wild. Was I?

  Maybe I really am wild. Maybe Carson sees the real me.

  Immediately, I rolled my eyes at how ludicrous the idea was. This couldn’t be the real me, because this wasn’t real life. This was vacation. Giving up my plans, taking blind chances, living in the moment: I indulged in these behaviors because I knew there was an end date, but I couldn’t live like this forever. As soon as I boarded that flight back to New York, I’d go right back to disciplined, practical, sensible Sophie. Carson was seeing a very small sliver of my personality, and it wasn’t representative of who I really was. There were many, many more sides to me, and not a single one of them was wild.

  We’d shared some fun times and some intense orgasms, but other than that, what did Carson and I really mean to each other? In the grand scheme of things, not much. After all, if I hadn’t swooped in and saved those sketches of our afternoon on the Peak, they’d be languishing in a trash heap somewhere. The memories of our conversation, the secrets we’d told each other, they’d all be thrown away and lost forever. This is just a fling, nothing more.

  I took the big black binder in my hand and walked into the bedroom. Like the living room, it was spacious and opulent, with floor-to-ceiling windows in lieu of a back wall, inviting the city inside our private hideaway. The king-sized bed looked like a wedding cake frosted in buttercream, with its puffy down duvet and tufted velvet headboard. In the corner next to the walk-in closet, our luggage was piled on the floor. My tote bag was neatly stacked on top of my rolling suitcase, while Carson’s backpack was torn open, the contents spilling out onto the rug. A sketchbook poked out from the puddle of crumpled T-shirts and boxer shorts. It was small with a faded gray cover.

  Peeking over at the bathroom door to make sure it was still closed, I dropped the binder on the bed before tiptoeing over to his backpack, where I gently removed the unfamiliar sketchbook from the pile. Let’s see what kind of drawings are important enough for him to make room for.

  When I flipped the book open, my heart sped up at what I saw. It was me. Except it wasn’t exactly me. It was a better version of me. My hair was tamer, my lips were fuller, my body was more voluptuous in all the right places. I kept turning pages and kept finding myself striking various poses captured in pencil. Staring off into the distance. Smiling dreamily. Sleeping peacefully. In all of them, I looked incredible. And, actually, kind of wild.

  But this wasn’t what I really looked like. Was it? With the book in my hand, I jumped to my feet, crossed the room, and stared at myself in the mirror. I glanced from the mirror to the book and back again, over and over, and I realized the face on the page was the same as the face in the mirror. This is how Carson sees me, because this is who I am.

  “Going through my bag?”

  At the sound of Carson’s voice, I flinched, and his sketchbook tumbled to the ground at my feet. I whipped around to see him walking toward me with a towel wrapped around his waist, drops of water dripping down his bare chest.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t even look him in the eye.

  “It’s okay.” He scooped the book up from the floor and snapped it shut. “It’s not like I have anything to hide.”

  “I just wanted to see what you were drawing.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  We stood in silence, and I stared at his feet, at a loss for words.

  “Is it weird,” he said, “that I’m drawing you like this?”

  I took a deep breath and lifted my gaze to meet his. “No. It’s really…It’s nice.”

  “I’ve been doing them mostly in the mornings, before you get up.”

  “They’re great,” I said. “Just like everything you draw.”

  He set the book on the dresser and ran a hand through my curls. “This is one book I won’t be abandoning in the sheets of some random hotel room.”

  My breath came fast and my tongue felt thick. I swallowed before I said, “Really?”

  Carson cupped my cheek with his other hand. “Really. I need to hold on to this forever.”

  He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pulled my face in toward his. I hugged him tightly, feeling the warm damp skin of his back beneath my fingertips, and our mouths met with wild fervor. I knew how he felt about me now, that this wasn’t just a fling to be forgotten. Knowing that truth, I fell deeper into his kiss, all of my questions and doubts and concerns disappearing into the ether.

  I’d fallen for the impossible fantasy, and my money was already on the table. Was I just another gullible fool? Or was I about to hit the jackpot?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There’s a famous landmark in Macau, the ruins of an old church, where tourists flock in droves. I’d read all about it in my guidebook; St. Paul’s had been gutted by a fire in 1835, leaving behind wreckage that had since been turned into a museum. I figured it was the kind of thing Carson would want to avoid, considering his aversion to tourist traps. So when we woke up the next morning, I was surprised when he suggested we go there.

  “I’d love to,” I said. “You know it’s going to be packed with people sightseeing, right?”

  “Yeah, but I know you wanted to see it. Plus, it’s supposed to be really beautiful and I can get some sketching done. We can find a quiet angle somewhere, I’m sure.”

  The Ruins of St. Paul’s weren’t far from the Grand Amadora, but we took a circuitous route to explore the city on foo
t. Macau was part China, part Portugal, part Caribbean island; each time we turned a corner, a different locality was revealed. A sea of mopeds lined the narrow cobblestone streets. Palm trees flanked pastel buildings with shellacked wooden shutters and wrought-iron gates. Laundry hung from balconies of run-down tenements, high above storefronts selling pastries and sheets of jerky. We ducked into shops, bought pork chop buns and egg tarts for an impromptu brunch.

  The heat was palpable, a thick and sticky weight hanging heavy on my skin. I was glad I wore my sundress, the same lemon-yellow frock I wore that afternoon on the Peak. My hair was down, bouncing against my shoulders, a slave to the sultry air. Carson held my hand despite the slickness of our palms.

  When we turned onto Rua de Sao Paolo, an imposing structure appeared at the top of a hill, looming high against the cloudless sky. At first glance, it seemed like any other church: a stone edifice embellished with lancet windows and religious effigies. Then I realized the blue sky was visible through the windows, and St. Paul’s was merely a façade. A wall of weathered rock, with nothing behind it but steel buttresses to keep it from crumbling to the ground.

  A carefully manicured garden edged the length of the stairs from the street to the base of the church. We sat on a bench at the bottom of the hill in the shade of a wide, leafy tree. Carson sketched with his book balanced on his knees while I savored my egg tart, the warm gooey custard melting on my tongue.

  “You know,” I said, “these egg tarts are the quintessential Macanese food.”

  “Is that so?” He traced the outline of the large second-story window, centered above what used to be the entrance to the church.

  “Yup. You can buy them all over Macau, but the most famous ones come from a storefront in Coloane.”

  “They sell these little egg tarts everywhere in China, though,” he said, his eyes still on the page. “They even had them in that little bakery in Hong Kong, where we got those pineapple buns.”