The gray cab lurches to the side of the empty street. It hits the curb with a whimper and a bang, blasting a cloud of dark exhaust into my open window. Through the smoke, I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the sideview, watering, real classylike. Think Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, but not as picturesque. Or as blonde.
“Uh . . . ¿Cuánto cuesta?” I fumble through the wad of sticky bills in my palm, pausing to mop the sweat from my brow.
Without a glance in my direction, the cabbie flicks the meter screen toward me so I can see the amount, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Good one, Maya. Numbers are universal. I count out the pesos with care, a grin plastered across my face. If I were in a more cooperative mood, I’d probably take the time to arrange the bills sunny-side up, for my cabbie’s singular enjoyment.
But I’m not exactly in a cooperative mood. I can’t wait to find a shower and a bed.
I shove some money at him and mutter “Thanks,” like a well-bred American girl. He snorts and says something under his breath, cigarette ash crumbling all over his jacket. As soon as I lug my rolling suitcase from the cab’s rusty trunk, he hauls ass off the sidewalk, popping a wheelie in the process.
That is one gangster cabbie. I almost want to take back the many times I silently cursed him on our drive from Ministro Pistarini International Airport.
Almost.
Now where is this effing hostel with the black cat?
I scan down a dark side street of Buenos Aires.
Eh. I’m not going to lie; it’s not exactly what I pictured.
The sidewalks are lined in nondescript tan buildings, checkerboarded by dirty windows and air-conditioning units. Condensation drips from a slew of humming underbellies, staining the walls brown like a bad Jackson Pollock painting.
It smells of gutter and sweat, with a tinge of salt.
Gritting my teeth, I proceed down the sidewalk, putting an extra cumbia skip in my step, for good measure. The heel of my sneaker splashes in gutter water, and I cringe as the oily spray soaks through the cuff of my jeans.
#perfection.
While on my flight from Miami to Buenos Aires, I read a magazine article about the disappointment tourists feel when faced with the sad reality that their final destination isn’t the paradise they anticipated. The author of the article had taken a trip to see the pyramids at Giza and was pissed when he realized the city—with all its noise and pollution and normalness—was only a few blocks away from the pyramids.
I know I’m not quite in the same position right now.
But a part of me feels that way.
It vaguely reminds me of the way I felt the morning my father died in the hospital last year, after his car accident. Like I’m waiting for something terrible to descend on me. Some terrible yawning darkness that’s just lying in wait in the nearby alley, ready to crush away all chance at happiness.
I push aside the sensation before it takes hold and force myself to smile as I continue walking across the cracked cement. After wandering aimlessly for a few minutes, I pause to rummage through my carry-on, then yank out my guidebook.
Black cat, black cat, black cat.
I skim over a sea of small text—blind promises of cheap steak and chimichurri. I catch myself almost snickering, which is kind of weird to do when you’re alone. Like, what are the chances a girl who snickers to herself has a well-intentioned bone in her body?
All I can think about is why I have yet to hear a whisper of life around me. I know it’s a ridiculous thought, but where the heck are all the people? It’s barely dinnertime. Where is the tango? By now, shouldn’t I be bathed in its dulcet tones, caught on some lambent street corner, whiling away the night with some tango god?
I really should throw out this guidebook.
Finally, at the very end of the street, I see a tiny neon sign of a black cat. The word HOSTEL glows back at me, with all the menace of a B-horror flick. As I walk closer, the sign starts to snarl, zip-zapping like a squirrel with a nervous disorder.
A hostile hostel.
Fitting for a girl who snickers.
I push open a creaking door covered in layers of simultaneously shining and peeling paint. “Hola, me llamo Maya. Yo—”
“Yes. We received your messages,” a bored-looking boy drones from behind the desk in lightly accented English. “Give me your passport and sign in here.”
Though the skinny dude has it coming, I dig his Alabama Shakes T-shirt too much to get smart with him. Not now, at least. He points me down the hall to the common room, and then jerks his thumb to the left, where the girls’ rooms and bathrooms are located.
“Choose an empty bunk bed. Here’s a key to a locker.” The boy inhales as he turns over a rusty ring of iron and brass. “You should not lose it.”
“Grrrracias,” I trill back, my grin purposefully smarmy.
He narrows his eyes. “¿De donde sos?”
“What?” I blink, lost. That’s what I get for trying to be a smart-ass.
“I’m sorry. I thought maybe you might be from Peru. Or Mexico?” His eyes cut again, as if his vision is degenerating in hyperspeed. “Where exactly are you from?”
Not this again. For the eleventy billionth time in my rather short life. “The United States.”
“I know.” His thick brows inch up as he taps my passport. “I mean, where is it your family is from?”
And I thought Argentina was supposed to be progressive. Which would mean my “mocha” skin and “almond” eyes belong here.
Or . . . not.
I sniff, sporting the kind of disdain that transcends culture. “My family’s from India.”
The boy nods. “Enjoy yourself in Buenos Aires.” He says “Aires” in a way I hope to master one day, even if only to make other people feel as uncultured as I feel right now.
Too bad the boy has such good taste in music.
I trudge down a hall reminiscent of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, its crown molding stained black and its tiled floor fraying at the edges. The wheels of my suitcase catch on every lip in the floor as I make my way to the girls’ side of the hostel and dump my backpack onto the first available bunk I see. Once I peel off my Duke sweatshirt, I get a good whiff of the airplane and desperation that’s been clinging to my skin for the last eighteen hours.
Holy shit. I need a shower.
My clothes are sandwiched to one side of my suitcase, as though they could smell my anguish all the way from the luggage bay. I tug free a pair of skinny jeans, some underthings, and a navy tank top before grabbing the rest of my toiletries and jamming my bags in a locker.
After a weak shower, I get dressed and decide to take a look in the common room, just to see who the black cat dragged in.
The room’s furnishings are a strange hodgepodge of sofas and barstools from the seventies. Everything is set as a backdrop for an old, polished wooden cabinet with scuffed edges, clearly meant to serve as a makeshift bar. Perched at its center is a big, clear . . . thing . . . with a silver tap. It’s filled with a purple concoction drifting around bits of pale miscellany.
Yeah. I’m not drinking that. It looks like fairies drowned in it.
There are several people lounging around, drinking fairy killer from chipped mugs and murky water glasses.
“Look oo we got eeyah,” barks a young guy with dark-rimmed glasses and a beard he really should reconsider. It’s almost like he’s trying to fool the world into thinking he’s older and wiser by sporting a beard worthy of a wizard. His lanky form is sprawled across the arms of a beaten Barcalounger.
He reminds me of my least favorite cousin. The one who got drunk at my father’s funeral and hurled all over my mother’s rhododendrons, all before announcing to the world that my grandmother never liked my father anyway.
Funerals are the best. Add my family to that mix? Amazing.
When the young guy with the glasses tries to flag me down once more, I disregard him. It’s too early in the night for a boy wizard. Especially of the British hipster variety.
Clearly not one to be ignored, the boy flings an arm into my path. “Oi!” A hand waves wildly in front of my face.
I side-eye him. “Is that accent for real, or are you embellishing?”
He grins nice and slow, like the Cheshire cat. “Real saucy, ain’t you?” His lips twitch, making the ends of his auburn beard dance. If this dude starts lecturing me about free trade coffee or Proust, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.
“Definitely embellishing.” I’m barely able to catch my grin.
“No,” another boy, with green eyes and tousled hair, to my left, interjects. “He’s not embellishing. He’s always like that.” His features curl upward wryly. “At least, he’s been like that for the last two days.”
This guy seems normal. He’s sitting on the right part of the chair. Not smirking like a fictional character.
Not sporting a beard that would be the envy of Gandalf.
“I’m Maya.” I lean over and shake the hand of the normal guy. The cute one.
“Dustin.”
“The name’s Blake.” The ginger wizard pops to his feet and shoves his right hand in my face. Again. He’s surprisingly agile, for an oaf.
“Yeah.” I take his hand and shake it once, my motions as clipped as my tone. “Maya.”
The mouth twitches again. “Maya from where?”
“North Carolina.”
“I’m from Jersey.” Dustin shoves his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, his broad shoulders rolling forward with the motion. “Just finished freshman year at Rutgers. You?”
“Starting Duke in the fall.”
His gaze is dubious first. Then the edges of his lips slide into a frown. “You just finished high school? And you’re here alone?”
“I’m not alone,” I say with unblinking solemnity. “God is with me.” My palm presses against my heart.
Dustin clears his throat and looks away, a flush rising up his neck.
Blake doesn’t miss a beat. He laughs loudly and claps a large hand on my shoulder. Catching myself on a stumble, I send a pointed look his way. One of my patented Maya Patel glares.
Still Blake doesn’t flinch.
Possibly the first boy outside my family to not flinch at a patented Maya Patel glare.
With a grin at Dustin, I clarify. “I finished high school two weeks ago. As a graduation gift, my family sent me on a trip to Machu Picchu, which is something I’ve been dying to do since I was twelve. My older brother works for the U.S. embassy in Brazil, and he’s meeting me here tomorrow morning so we can go to Peru together. So technically I’m only alone for seventeen hours, which is one whole hour less than the legal drinking age in Argentina. And yes, I did look that up before I flew here.”
In response, Dustin laughs, and I can feel him starting to relax again.
Blake watches us as we talk. I can feel his dark-rimmed eyes roving over my face.
It’s sad how much it unnerves me.
“Did I hear you right when you said you were going to Duke?” Dustin teases, oblivious to my silent struggle.
“Yeah.”
His mouth falls open with horror, but I can tell it’s good-natured. “Damn.”
“Be original.” I return a teasing look of my own. “Everyone hates Duke.” My lips pucker to one side. “Wait . . . don’t tell me. You just love Carolina. Inexplicably.”
He laughs again, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Guilty as charged.” We both smile at each other. Aside from the bad bedhead, Dustin really is cute.
Just not my type.
“What the feck are you two going on about?” Blake interrupts.
“Basketball,” we both reply in unison, then laugh again, like a clip from some sort of cheeseball commercial.
“Lovely.” Blake takes a long swig of fairy killer.
“What is that?” I can’t help but ask, my curiosity winning out.
He takes full advantage of the opportunity and steps closer. Just on the edge of too close. If Blake thinks I’m going to back down, he’s wrong. I’m small, but I pack a mean punch. “Well, love,” he begins, “it’s got to be the worst bloody sangria I’ve ever had in my life. But it has alcohol in it, and I’ll suck a cotton swab dry, so . . .” He laughs at his own joke.
I can’t help it. I snicker.
Dammit.
“Did you just snicker?” Blake says.
I sniff. “So?”
“Do it again.”
“No. I also won’t dance like a monkey for you, either.”
“Well, shit. There go my winnings for the evening.”
Dustin shakes his head, amused. “And he was planning to use them to buy drinks at the club.”
“I suppose you’ll have to go without me,” Blake says.
“What club?” I ask, my shoulder brushing against his arm. Refusing to move aside.
“It’s some Latin dance club.” Dustin’s light green eyes warm invitingly. “A bunch of us are going tonight. You should come.”
The groan that escapes my lips is wretched. Melodramatic. My favorite kind.
I need to sleep. I have only three days in Buenos Aires before I leave for Machu Picchu, and I need to squeeze every last drop out of my guidebook. The cheap steak. The chimichurri. The . . .
Why am I even playing?
He had me at Latin dance. As a recovering salsera, I’ll take any chance to eight-count my way across any room. It isn’t really my fault. My best friend, Cristina, has been entirely to blame, since the moment she first taught me how to salsa four years ago. Cristina may have inherited her addiction in her Puerto Rican blood.
But I acquired mine.
What can I say?
Machu Picchu isn’t the only reason I wanted to go to South America as my graduation present.
“I’m in,” I say, my smile growing wider by the moment. “Can I go like this?” I flourish my right hand from my head to my toes—my best impersonation of a bad beauty queen.
“Uh?” Dustin’s face is GIF-worthy.
“Who am I kidding?” I point at Blake’s russet beard. “If he can go like that, I can totally go like this.”
Blake grins. “Quite saucy. I rather like it.”
Though Dustin doesn’t say it, it’s clear from the warmth in his expression that he wouldn’t leave my smart mouth behind either.
Too bad he looked away earlier. The flincher.
Over the course of the next half hour, we wait for everyone to gather in the common room. Instead of partaking in any fairy killer—and flouting the legal drinking age of eighteen all at once—I opt for a can of nondescript soda, thinking it’s my safest course of action. You know, just in case I run into any angry sprites bent on avenging their drowned brethren.
Soon a mixed party of eight travelers gathers in a warmish Buenos Aires night, just beneath the zip-zapping black cat outside. The chill in the air hasn’t descended yet, but I can tell it’s imminent. The last breath of wind carries the brisk scent of the cold. Argentina lies below the equator, and the seasons here play out in reverse. Just as we’re about to jump into summer, they’re fading past fall.
We hail a few cabs, and I’m pleased to discover that no one expects me to display my impressive Spanglish skills. My pitiful attempts to speak Spanish aren’t even remotely necessary, not in this group. Half of them speak the language as though they were born to it.
Thank god for Europeans, or else Dustin and I would have been four-letter-worded in a bad way.
Our caravan of cabs winds its way to yet another side street of Buenos Aires. I glance out the windows, taking in everything around me. At least this street has the grace to sport streetlamps. Curling wrought iron casts ominous shadows across the cement. Pools of sepia light the sidewalks, almost like a daguerreotype. Each of the glowing lamps is encircled in a gauzy haze of white. It brings to mind days of old.
I love it. Everything about it is sexy, in that wonderfully sinister sort of way.
The cabs grind to a halt before an avenue teeming with smiling pedestrians. Filled with incessant peals of laughter. Through it all, I can hear the music pulsing from outside the nearby club.
Eddie Santiago. One of my favorites.
Who knows, Argentina might win me over after all.
After we stand in line to flash our respective IDs at a comically stern pair of bouncers, we make our way into the thumping interior.
Whenever I travel anywhere, I always find it interesting how there appears to be this requisite formula for nightclubs. Like a universal checklist sent out to all proprietors of these establishments, delivered in every conceivable language:
Flashing lights to blind them.
Pounding beats to grind them.
And in the darkness, bind them.
I know, I know. I need to stop it with the Tolkien . . . and the book references in general. People have told me.
The Eddie Santiago song ends by the time we make it onto the dance floor. Marc Anthony picks up where Eddie left off. “Aguanile.”
I frown. Bring Eddie back. Slow salsa songs are the best.
When I least expect it, Blake sidles up to me, his long arms crossed. I’m dismayed to realize I’m comforted by the nearness of him. The smell of dryer sheets and worn leather are rising from his linen shirt. “You look brassed off. Good and proper.” He keeps his gaze focused forward.
“I’m fine.” I shrug, then mime his pose, staring straight ahead. “I just liked that other song more. Eddie Santiago’s a classic.”
His head turns toward mine. “You listen to salsa music?”
“So?”
“Right. Pardon my curiosity.”
I exhale in a huff. “I’m sorry.” I look his way, remorse beginning to soften my expression.
“You should be.” His eyes twinkle. “You and your god.”
Before I can stop them, my lips press together. I’m trying too hard not to laugh. “Where are you from?”
“England.” Again he grins like the Cheshire cat, and it’s too obnoxious for words.
“No shit, Sherlock.” I bare my teeth back at him. “Where in England?”
“Oxford.”
That . . . gives me pause. “Oxford, like the town? Or the school.”
A quiet laugh. “I believe they’re one and the same, love.”
I blow a puff of air into my black bangs.
Strike two, Maya.
I turn toward him, full-on. “Well, pardon me, my good sir. What do you study?”
“English literature. What about you?” He pivots in place to face me. He’s nearly a foot taller than I am, and his cheeks are ruddy. I can’t tell if it’s from the pulsing heat of the club or from . . . something else. “Have you decided what you’re going to study yet?”
My eyes cut in half. Honestly, I’m trying to take the crazy beard and the insane sparkle in his green eyes seriously.
“English literature.”
“Well, bugger me.” Blake grins.
Meanwhile, the dance floor has cleared, and a strange new chord of music begins to emanate from the massive speakers perched high in every corner. A hush descends . . .
Then a white spot slices through the darkness, shining in the center of the scuffed wood floor.
A girl around my age struts—really there’s no other word for it—into the silver beam of light. She’s dressed in backless black silk with a slit cut all the way up her slim right thigh. Her shoulders circle slowly as she takes position, her right toe pointed, her chin held high. A mass of dark curls falls down her back, and her crimson-stained lips pucker suggestively.
The young man who meets her under the spotlight is nothing short of spectacular. Even though his body isn’t a boy’s—every muscle in his arms and chest ripples under the thin material of his shirt—his face is determinedly set. His smile is just too perfect to be a smirk. His slicked-back hair should be cheesy, but against his tanned skin, chiseled features, and broad shoulders, it’s the touch of Old World that he desperately needs. The touch that elevates him above the standing of a mere arrogant boy. That, and his beautifully wicked smile. His crisp white shirt is open at the throat, and his black pants are cut to perfection.
The tango god of my PG-13 dreams.
My jaw hangs low, low, low.
Blake starts to laugh.
The music cuts in. The bandoneóns count out the beat. The drums thud softly.
And the girl dips to the floor, dragging her left foot in a slow semicircle across the wood to begin the tango. The boy spins her in a lazy arc and then brings her up onto his chest.
She slides . . .
. . . down his body.
They mirror each other’s motions in perfect unison. To an unhurried beat. To a pair of Spanish guitars and a languid piano. Twisting, turning, dipping . . . gliding.
It’s beautiful. So elegant.
So fucking sexy.
The boy spins her in place with a single crisp flick of his wrist. She faces him. He catches the girl behind the right knee and lets her fall back almost to the floor, her curls dusting across the scuffed wood.
Then he pulls her across the scratched surface and she comes out of the dip, one hand on the side of his face. He meets her there, to finish the tango with a careful slide of their joined hands. The music fades, a note lingering from the double bass.
For a breathless moment, the entire club is still.
The stillness is swallowed by cheers. Men and women of all ages whistle their approval.
And I’m stuck there, dumbfounded. Motionless.
Needless to say, my dreams are no longer PG-13.
“You’re drooling, Maya,” Blake teases.
I’m rudely shaken from my fantasy. “Shut up, Gandalf.”
“Gandalf?” His eyes go wide.
“Well, somebody should tell you.” I try my best to peer down my nose at him, which is pretty difficult, since he’s so much taller. “That beard is the worst.”
“Actually, now that you’ve likened me to one of the Istari, I think I’ll keep it forever.”
Again, I’m forced to look him in the eye. “The Istari?” Disbelief flares in my voice.
“That’s what they’re called, love,” he condescends. “If you’d read the books instead of just watching the films, you’d—”
My eyes practically bug from my skull. “I read the books! My senior exit project was on The Silmarillion, you Oxford swine! I bet you—”
Mickey Taveras blasts from the speakers, cutting off the rest of my perfectly premeditated retort.
Indignation humming through the air, I march onto the dance floor to the sound of the salsa drums blasting from the speakers.
What a prick!
Who cares what he thinks anyway? I look around for Flinching Dustin, and find him sitting at a small table by the bar, deep in conversation with one of the Swedish girls who came to the club with us.
Whatever. All I need is a willing dance partner and a count of eight.
My focus renewed, I wait in the wings beside the crush of spinning bodies. In no time at all, a faceless guy takes hold of my hand, his palm settling on my waist as we turn across the dance floor.
I guess it is probably odd that I fell so in love with salsa, but the explanation is actually pretty simple. As children, Cristina and I bonded over Bollywood movies. Particularly all the dancing scenes. We would mimic the extravagant sequences in our favorite films, even down to constructing matching outfits out of my mother’s old saris. In return for me teaching her how to move like Aishwarya Rai (hahaha!), she taught me how to dance salsa like JLo.
And stars were born.
Over the last four years, I’ve managed to become pretty decent. I mean, I’m never going to be one of those girls who can clear a dance floor. But there’s nothing quite like the feeling of being able to move with this kind of abandon, forgetting all around you except the beat.
The guy in front of me takes my right hand and spins me across the wooden floor in a series of quick turns. I flash once, twice, three times . . . my eyes meeting his at the finish of each revolution. Once we whirl out of the turns, I whip my shoulder-length hair through the air and shimmy into the final count of eight.
His eyes widen, and he begins talking to me in a stream of rapid Spanish.
I shake my head and shrug ruefully as the next salsa song bursts from the speakers.
He smiles, then brushes a polite kiss across my knuckles.
“Maya.” Blake shoves his hand in my face for the umpteenth time tonight.
I bat him away like an errant mosquito. “Go away. I’m dancing.”
“I can see that.” Blake grins insufferably at my dance partner. “Do you mind, sir?” Even though my dance partner doesn’t speak English, he catches on right away, offering me over like a lamb to good-natured slaughter.
I frown, the memory of my last encounter with Blake still seared into my brain. Of my inexplicable unease. “I don’t want to dance with you.”
“I don’t want to dance with you either.” Blake takes my hand and swings me into his arms.
“Besides, I—”
When he blends seamlessly into the next count of eight, my mind is officially blown.
“What the fu—”
“You know,” Blake interrupts, “I don’t actually like salsa. I prefer bachata. I think it’s much sexier, don’t you?”
“Y-you—” I splutter before looking down at his feet. “You dance on two!” My accusation hangs in the air, as shrill as a cat’s dying screech.
“Oh?” He smiles. “You dance on one? See, this is never going to work between us, love. I knew it the moment I first saw you.” Blake spins me with a perfect flick of his wrist. When I face him once more, his eyebrows waggle in playful jest.
Then he rolls his shoulders back and forth, his tongue wedged between his teeth. It’s disturbingly sexy, in an awkward sort of way.
I can’t help it. Unabashed laughter spills from my lips, way too loudly.
When the song ends, I’m almost sorry.
Until another hand taps me on the shoulder.
It belongs to the tango god. The one of the crisp white shirt and the perfectly sly smile.
Holy shit.
Argentina, we are going to be good, good friends.
My heart slams in my chest as the tango god grins at me. Then he asks a question in heartbreakingly beautiful Spanish. I shake my head and point at my mouth, as though it’s to blame for my inability to speak. He laughs, and it’s just as gorgeous as everything else on him. Like honey and smoke.
He still holds out a palm, insisting.
Who cares that we can’t understand each other? Love transcends language. Transcends culture. Transcends—
“You should dance with him,” Blake says quietly.
Startled from the fairy tale weaving through my mind, I glance at Blake. The fuzzy dreamscape clears.
Sharpening into focus.
Standing before me is a boy who doesn’t flinch. A boy who isn’t a dream.
A boy who surprises me with his truth.
I hesitate. “But . . .”
Blake’s features soften. “I’ll wait for you over there.”
“You will?” I say softly.
“Of course.” He nudges me. “Let him sweep you off your feet. But only for a little while.” Blake leans in close, his breath brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Then let me show him how it’s really done.”
With a knowing smile, I take the tango god’s hand.
As I look back, Blake smiles at me.
There is no trace of the Cheshire cat in it.
And I’m whirled into another dance.
With the possibility of something more over my shoulder.