Lost in Wanderlust

Chapter Four - Chris

Hot.

Hot.

I'm so damn hot.

And tired. My brain feels like wad of chewing gum. And the glare off the water and whitewashed buildings is so strong that my imitation Ray Bans can't handle the UV rays.

This is my impression of Tangier and I can't wait to leave.

Granted, we aren't here for very long. The cheapest way to Gibraltar was actually to fly out of Gatwick to Tangier and then take the ferry across to Gibraltar. I originally didn't mind that Joe booked this more exotic route, thinking Alexa might find it alluring (and it was one of the few places she hadn't been to).

But she's glaring at me and it's not because of the sunshine (no, her Gucci shades are real).

I loosen my collar, feeling the beads of sweat evaporate, wondering why I didn't dress for the occasion and give her an innocent smile.

"Something wrong sweetie?" I ask her.

She doesn't seem to sweat at all. Alexa might be a cyborg (if Joe's a robot, then it's completely possible). She's tall but not as tall as I am (I'm 6'2", so that's a good thing), and slender thanks to daily sessions on something that looks like a torture chamber (pilates, I'm told) but still has the nicest set of breasts I've ever been privileged enough to get a hold of and a round bottom which she calls the bane of her existence yet I love very dearly. She's also stunning. Dark complexion, black lashes, mahogany eyes and matching hair that runs down to the small of her back in one straight sheet. She's the sexiest banker you've ever seen.

She's also so put together, that being seen next to her makes me feel like I did something right in my life. I'm fairly confident that I did when I snagged her two years ago. But then again, she does glare at me more than a happy person should.

She looks away from me and up at the tall, rusting ferry we are about to board. The terminal is packed with chaos and people, both things that already have me on edge, but Alexa seems more concerned about the ship.

"Is this seriously the ferry?" she asks, her voice is smooth and clear allowing the nuances of her annoyance to slip out.

"This be the ship, says I," I growl in my best pirate's impression.

She raises her brow at me. Apparently it's not a very good impression. "It's nothing more than a glorified bathtub. The Nazis probably built this thing."

"I'm sure Morocco has advanced since then, Alexa."

"Advanced backward," she mumbles. I almost tell her she's not making sense but I think better of it. I know she's tired too since we had to wake up so early and to go from a chilly, damp London morning to a sweltering hot (and loud and colorful and foreign) Tangier afternoon is a big leap. I don't want to rock the boat with Alexa, pun not intended.

A little while later and Alexa and I are sitting near the front of the ferry as the vessel pulls away from the dock and starts making its slow way toward the distant, hazy shoreline that is Gibraltar and the continent of Europe. It's actually quite a remarkable journey when you think about it, having two continents, giant landmasses of opposing cultures and civilizations, separated only by a narrow and boisterous straight. Only I can't really think about it because Alexa is sitting next to me, clicking her fingernails across the front of an unread magazine. I know that sound too well. It means I shouldn't make any sudden movements.

I slowly reach down into my laptop bag...easy...easy...and bring out my laptop, hoping to lose myself in some work (not bloody likely) or look busy (more likely).