him, all the while craning my neck, hoping to spot Lucy. Everything’s out of focus. Where is she?
The door pushes open and a cool puff of wind hits me. Behind us, the door slams shut.
It’s mercifully quiet in the piazza. I suck in deep breaths while Harry leads me around a corner. I realize he’s on a mission and pull back. “Stop,” I say, tugging my hand from his grip. “I have to find my cousin.”
“She left with Ethan.” Sure enough, he has a British accent.
“Who?”
“My mate.” He tips his head to the right. “Let’s go.”
“Go? Where would we go at this hour? I don’t even know you.”
His eyes twinkle, as if I might be joking.
“I’m not leaving without Lucy. My aunt is waiting—”
Without warning, his thin, chapped lips clamp down on mine, stealing my words. I’m frozen with revulsion and shock. A wet tongue darts into my mouth. “Stop,” I manage to say, but he hitches me closer. He tastes of garlic and stale beer and I fight the urge to gag. I try pulling away, but Harry’s grip is too tight. He’s groping my ass!
“Let me go!” I say, and manage to shove him away. But he’s right back on me like a chimpanzee, his arm a vise around the back of my neck.
My stomach gurgles. The chile vodka whatever-it-was rises from my stomach. It’s making its way up my esophagus, and I’m powerless to stop it. I put my hands to Harry’s chest and push away with all my might. He staggers backward.
“The fuck!” he says.
I double over, vomiting down his pant legs, onto his Stan Smiths.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
I swipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Now,” I say. “Do I make myself clear? Leave me the hell alone!”
He stares at me with wide eyes, then lifts his hands. “You are one sick bitch.”
I watch as he walks away. “Yes,” I say proudly. “I am.” Then I vomit once more, this time into a trash bin.
Chapter 25
Emilia
I can’t believe I barfed on the Brit. Serves him right. Men are pigs—all men except Matt and Liam, that is. Is this what Lucy has to contend with, night after night? No, thank you!
I return to the bar and search the place, but Lucy’s nowhere to be found. Where could she be? Finally, I settle for my last resort. I stand outside Il Campo and wait for her to leave—or return.
Forty minutes later, I’m more or less sober, and panic is setting in. The bar is emptying. We need to get back to the hotel—which is where, exactly? Damn Lucy!
The last patrons tumble out at two a.m., the quartet of beautiful Dutch girls.
“Hey,” I say, “have you seen Lucy?”
“Yes,” one of them says. “About two hours ago. She left with that guy in black.”
I hear the squeak of a door and turn to see a man in a white shirt padlocking the entrance.
“Wait,” I say to him. “My cousin’s still in there.”
He shakes his head. “No, signorina. It is empty.”
My mind reels. What am I supposed to do now? What’s the protocol for girls’ night out? What happens when a friend hooks up with someone? Will she come back here for me? Do I wait? Or are we on our own now? Why didn’t I ask her earlier? And why the hell didn’t we borrow Poppy’s phone?
I wait another twenty minutes. Campo Santa Margherita is nearly empty now, and I don’t have a clue which direction we came from. Even after three days, Venice is nothing but a labyrinth of canals to me. Where are my maps when I need them? I pull up the app on my phone, but without my glasses, it’s useless.
I clutch my head and spin in a circle. Slowly, I move in the direction I think we came from. I enter a narrow brick-walled lane. The light from the campo fades. A chill comes over me. Nothing looks familiar. Is this the way we came?
Raised voices spill from darkened apartments. My skin prickles with fear. I need to think, but my head is still foggy. I trot to the end of the calle, never mind that my feet are screaming in agony. I come to an intersection, where the lane branches off in three directions. “Damn it!”
It’s dark, and I can’t make out the street names on the corner walls. My heart races. I start down one corridor but reconsider. I spin around and scurry in the opposite direction. I’m struggling to breathe