Page 13 of When She Unravels
“Do you want to file a police report?” she asks.
“Do you think it will help?”
She winces apologetically. “Honestly? No. In my five years of working here, I’ve seen about a dozen guests get robbed, and only one managed to get her purse back. Empty.”
I sigh and lean against the counter. Of course, I can’t go to the police. I can’t show them my passport, which I still have because I moved it into my backpack. Why the hell didn’t I do that with the cash?
I’m left with a few crumpled bills inside my bra. What will I do when it runs out?
Everything is going wrong.
I’m close to tears when the door that leads to the women’s dorm room opens and two young women walk out. They’re dressed in short shorts and graphic T-shirts. One of them, a tall pretty blonde with big blue eyes, gives me a pitying look.
“We overheard what happened,” she says. “That’s so shitty.”
Her friend nods in agreement. “I got robbed last year in Barcelona. They got my ID, my phone, everything. It was the worst.” She tucks a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. She’s shorter than the blonde, and her green T-shirt saysYou can be whatever you want.
“I should have been more careful,” I say. “I dropped my guard.”
“How about we get you a drink?” the blonde asks. “We were just about to go to a bar down this street.”
Alcohol. Yes, that sounds far better than the other thing I’m considering—jumping under the wheels of a truck.
I give them a tired smile. “Sure, that’ll be nice.”
They introduce themselves while we walk. The blonde is Astrid, and the brunette is Vilde.
“What’s your name?” Vilde asks.
Crap. The receptionist knows my real name, so I can’t give them something totally random in case they use it in front of her, but the less people know my real name the better. “It’s Ale,” I say. Good enough. In theory, it could be an unusual nickname for Valentina. “Where are you from?”
“Sweden.” Astrid pulls open a door to what appears to be a bar. Above the door is a sign that readsCaballo Blanco. “What about you? Are you here on vacation?”
I really should have prepared my answers ahead of time instead of giving them off the cuff. “I’m from Canada. Just travelling around for a few months. What about you?”
“We’re seasonal workers,” Vilde says as we take our seats at a free table. “We just got hired last week.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask after a server takes our order for a pitcher of sangria.
“I’m a dancer,” Astrid says. “And Vilde is a bartender.” A wide grin spreads across her face. “It’s been a dream of ours for a while to spend a season working in Ibiza.”
“It’s work, but it’s also a lot of fun,” Vilde says.
My mood improves a tiny bit when the sangria arrives. I didn’t drink much before getting married to Lazaro, but during our marriage, I worked my way up to a bottle of wine a day. I throw the entire glass back in two gulps and pray the alcohol kicks in quickly. I need something to take the edge off.
“Do you think I could get a job here?” I ask as Astrid refills my glass. “I’m not picky. That guy took most of my money, and if I don’t figure out how to get more, I don’t know what I’ll do. I need to save up a bit before I can go anywhere else.”
Astrid groans and shakes her head. “What a nightmare. Can’t believe that asshole ruined your trip. But listen, there’s always work for pretty girls in Ibiza.”
My spine straightens. “You think so?
“The clubs hire a ton of people for high season, and it’s just getting started.”
“I can’t dance, and the only drink I know how to make is a martini,” I say.
“Please, you’ll find a job.” Astrid pats my shoulder. “One look at you, and the club managers are going to be eating out of your hand.”
“She’s right,” Vilde says. “They go through people like crazy, because a lot of the workers party too much and just stop showing up. They’re always hiring. Come to our club tonight. We work at Revolvr. We’d put in a good word, but since we’re so new, it won’t count for much. You should just try talking to one of the managers.”
