London: Chapter Two

She left the roar of the football game behind her and stepped into the damp air outside, searching the pockets of her coat for a cigarette.  She wasn’t normally a smoker, but the cops all smoked and everyone in England seemed to smoke, and after a few days, it had gotten tiresome being the only nonsmoker in a crowd of smokers.  Besides, it was relaxing, taking in the sharp scent of tobacco and the glowing lights of the city.

She slid a cigarette between her lips, and was still fumbling for a lighter, when she heard the familiar click behind her.  She turned and there was a tall man leaning against the front of the pub, a cigarette glowing in his hand.

“Do you mind…?” she asked, gesturing toward the silver lighter still in his hand.

He shook his head and held out the lighter.  Her fingertips brushed against his as she took it, and she felt goosebumps raise up along her arms.  He was wearing jeans and gray blazer and he looked for all the world like one of the vaguely-dressed up cops inside, but there was something almost deliberate in how mundane his outfit was, as if it was calculated only to make the barely memorable impression of someone decently dressed--nothing more, nothing less.

He had thick dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin—not unusual for English men—and a slender, well-muscled body with a narrow waist and broad shoulders.  A strong jaw and lips that made him look like a Tom Ford model.  He kept his eyes trained on the building across the street, a cell-phone store with three stories of grimy looking flats above it.  There was something about his posture that seemed familiar, like she had seen men like him before, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Thanks,” he said, when she handed him his lighter back.

His voice was American.  So not English then.

“Are you here for the Scotland Yard reception?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. 

“Are you a cop?” she pressed.

He didn’t look away from the building across the street.  “Something like that.”

Back off, Evangeline, she told herself.  She just wanted to finish her cigarette and successfully navigate the Underground back to her hotel.  She wouldn’t say goodbye to Nick—he’d just insist on cutting his night short to see her safely back, and she didn’t want that.  She’d text him once she got to the hotel, and then, since she was already safe, he’d have no choice but to enjoy himself at the pub.

A group of men were walking down the other side of the street, their heads down and voices low.  One of them had a slim black bag.  They were looking across the street at her and the man, and suddenly the man was in front of her, with an easy smile and relaxed posture.  Surprised, she opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he brought his mouth to hers.

His lips were impossibly soft and impossibly warm, and she couldn’t help but melt into him.  He tasted like toothpaste and tobacco, but his skin smelled like soap and cologne, a smell that gave her pause, but not for long because then he slid a hand behind the nape of her neck, and started kissing a trail down her exposed throat.  She let out a breathy moan. It had been far too long since she’d been kissed like this.  

He was a deep kisser, the kind of kissing that made her knees weak and her breasts ache.  She should pull away, she should protest—after all, it’s not like he had bothered to chat her up beforehand—but this is what she had been craving all night.  All week.  Someone delicious and anonymous. 

Still, what if Nick walked out and saw?

But then, as he moved back to kissing her throat, his hands slid up the outside of her thighs and found her ass, and then his fingers were tracing the outline of her lacy boy shorts, from her hips to the inside of her legs, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her when his fingertips grazed the front of her, the skin under the panties impossibly sensitive from a year of celibacy.

Her hands found their way to his chest and then down his tight stomach to his belt.  His lips were on the tops of her breasts now, and she ran hand through his thick hair and yanked it back.  He hissed and then groaned as her other hand found the front of his pants.  He was hard, and just feeling him that way made Evangeline so desperate to have him closer that she dropped her coat and wrapped her legs around his waist.  He pushed her up against the wet brick, his shaft impossibly hard against her, his lips kissing the skin above the neckline of her dress, his hands supporting her ass.

Then his teeth found her nipple through the fabric of her dress and he bit down gently, and she cried out, a soft cry that made his breathing ragged.  She didn’t care who saw, who passed by, who walked out of the pub—all she knew was that she needed this man, whoever he was, and she needed him now.  But as soon as she realized that, as soon as she moved her hand to his zipper to release him, he was gently setting her back on her feet and stepping back.

“I am sorry about that,” he said.  He was eyeing the sidewalk across the street, now devoid of any men.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up with what had happened.  “Is something wrong?  We can go to my hotel or—”

He shook his head politely, still staring across the street, where a light had come on in the narrow flat above the store.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

“But—”

Her voice seemed to pull him away from his thoughts.  He looked back at her, and Evangeline got the distinct impression that he wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself or being overly polite.  There was also something else about the way he stood, the way he seemed torn between talking to her and watching the building…

“It was rude of me to take advantage of you,” he said.  “Again, I am sorry.  Have a good evening.”

She picked her coat off the damp ground, shocked and self-conscious, tears of embarrassment pricking her eyelids.  Was I that bad a kisser?  Does my breath smell like beer?  Was I too forward?  But he had wanted her too; she had felt his unmistakeable desire pressed steel hard against her pelvis.  But then why stop?  It made no sense.

He made his way across the street and she started toward the subway station, but despite the shame in her stomach, the burning in her eyes, she turned back.

“Evangeline,” she said, wanting to leave him with something.  “My name is Evangeline Lynch.”

Again, that look like he wasn’t used to exchanging these types of niceties.  But after a pause, he said, “Gabriel.”

And then he was gone, his dark clothes blending into the shadows.

London: Chapter One

   Evangeline tilted her face upwards to feel the rain.  This was what she had come for.  The rain and the hiss of the late night taxis on the roads, the warm glow of lights on St. Stephen’s Tower and the measured gray stateliness of Westminster Abbey.  There were still tourists out, exclaiming over the Abbey, and the noise of chatting travelers coming out of the Underground Station nearby—and ever so faintly and ever so distantly, the sound of the waves left by pleasure cruisers and tour boats lapping against the walls of the Thames.

   London was perfect.  Britain had been perfect.  Ireland too, although she’d found herself missing Scotland as soon as they boarded the ferry to Belfast.  She never wanted to go home, back to school, where she had yet to pick a major, back to her parents who had been distinctly unimpressed by every major she’d picked so far.  They wanted her to be like Nick, her older brother, and pick something practical and civic and preferably with something that had a heroic bent to it.  

   “You coming?” Nick asked, walking back up to her.  They were with a large group, fifty or sixty in fact, and Evangeline knew she couldn’t stand in the rain forever, not matter how much she wanted to.

   She pulled up the lapels of her trench, suddenly cold, and smiled.  “Yeah.  I’m coming.”

   The Tube was less crowded than it had been at rush hour, but their party soon rectified that.  Soon, the swaying car was jammed full of off-duty cops—British and American—on their way from an open bar at New Scotland Yard to a pub near Queen’s Park.  Her brother and the others had traveled to London for some sort of convention for cops of Irish descent, and while some of them brought their wives or girlfriends, Nick—being a good Catholic boy—brought his sister.  Partly to be nice and partly to continue his never-ending quest to get Evangeline to marry one of his friends, even though she had only just turned twenty.  As a bonus, they’d planned a whole tour of the UK and Ireland before the convention, just her and Nick and two of his closest co-workers.

   She needed no excuse to while away her summer break abroad, but the constant flirting of Nick’s two single friends was starting to wear her down and she was a little worried she might end up hooking up with one of them before the trip was through.  Which was theoretically what Nick wanted, but Evangeline had already had two boyfriends who’d seen the business end of Nick’s fists, and she didn’t want to be the cause of that again, not between his friends.

   She tried to keep her distance from Scott and Trent, and instead chatted with some female cops from Minneapolis, who, by the sounds of them, were hoping to score some British law enforcement tail by the end of the night.  Inwardly, she shook her head.  Cops.  Male or female, British or American: they were the same everywhere.

   The pub was crowded and noisy; a football match between Ireland and Germany was on, and Ireland was winning, not that Evangeline could tell, since neither team had scored any points.  She grabbed a pint of Guinness and sat with the lady cops at corner table.

   “That one,” one of the women said, pointing at a tall British cop who was still in uniform.  “I heard someone else say he just separated from his wife.”

   Her friend scoffed.  “You can do better than a rebound hook-up.”

   “What if I want a re-bound hook-up?  My flight leaves in two days, it’s not exactly like I’m wanting a proposal.  Just a little souvenir from London.”

   “Good point.  Damn, there are a lot of cute guys here.  What about that one?”

   “Is he British?  I thought he was from California.”

   Evangeline tuned out the rest of their conversation.  There were a lot of cute guys here, and she was just as susceptible to the British accents as the other ladies, but she also knew Nick would skin any guy alive that touched her that hadn’t been pre-approved by him.  Her lack of activity in the boyfriend department this semester meant that she definitely wouldn’t mind letting off a little steam, but it was all so much work.  The drinking and the flirting and the bra-adjusting in the bathroom mirror.  And then the sloppy making out, and then the awkward small talk about where to go, and since she was traveling, it would have to be her hotel room, which was a long tube ride away, not to mention next to her brother’s hotel room.

   What she wanted, and it made her flush a little to think about it, was something quick with someone she didn’t know.  Something carnal and not pre-planned at all.  No words, no work, and no way her brother could find out.

   She looked over at Trent, who was looking her up and down appreciatively.  She knew she looked good; high heels and a short black dress that she’d chosen because it didn’t wrinkle, that dipped very low in the chest and rode up dangerously high on her thighs when she sat.  She smiled at him and he came over and leaned against the bar, blocking out the Minnesota cops with his broad back.

   “So when are you coming home with me?” he asked, flashing a big smile full of white teeth.  His muscles were thick and prominent under his shirt, and she felt the familiar pang of lust.

   “When are you hiring a bodyguard to protect you from my brother?”

   “Oh come on, now,” he coaxed.  “I’ve got Nick’s blessing.”

   “As long as you marry me and make lots of Catholic babies.”

   He leaned in.  “How about we just get to the babies part and skip the rest?”

   Evangeline finished her pint.  “You’re going to end up with a black eye, talking like that.”

   “It’d be worth it.”

   For a moment, she considered it.  Either Trent or Scott would be happy to take her to her hotel room, strip her down and quell the knot that had settled at the base of her spine this last year.  And they might even hit it off, and keep it going back home.  But it wouldn’t last, she knew it wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t be the reason her brother fought with any of his friends.  Not again.  Never again.

   Trent slid his hand down her bare arm and she knew she had to go, or she was going to let that unsettled knot dictate her night, and undo all her hard work, and there would have been no point denying herself like a saint these past two weeks if it ended in Nick fighting anyway.

   “Good night, Trent,” she said, and left a pound coin on the bar.

   He handed her her coat.  “Good night, Evangeline,” he said.  He was resigned but not offended.  She squeezed his arm and turned away, half wishing things were different and half grateful that they weren’t.