Daire Meets Ever (The Immortals)

what it feels like.
    Though I’m pretty sure it doesn’t feel like this.
    I’m pretty dang positive Vane’s just cast himself in yet another starring role—playing the part of my dashing young love interest, if only to appease this strange, Moroccan woman we’ll never see again.
    Still, Vane is an actor, and an audience is an audience—no matter how small.
    Once my hands are covered in elaborate vines and scrolls, the old woman reminds me to allow the stain to take hold while she gets to work on Vane’s feet. But the moment her attention turns, I use the edge of my nail to scrape away little bits. Unable to keep from smiling when I see the paste fall in a loose powdery spray that blends with the dirt.
    It’s silly, I know, but I can’t risk there being even the slightest sliver of truth to her words. The movie will wrap soon, Vane and I will go separate ways, and falling in love is an option I just can’t afford.
    With our hands and feet fully tended, we make our way along the sidewalk grills, devouring five beef and sausage brochettes, a pile of fries, and two Fantas between us, before drifting among the square’s nightly circus that includes snake charmers, acrobats, jugglers, fortune-tellers, healers, monkey trainers, and musicians. There’s even a woman who’s set up shop removing black rotted teeth from old men, which the two of us watch in horrified fascination.
    Arms slung around each other’s waists, hips rubbing together on every other step, Vane’s breath tickles the curve of my ear when he slips a mini bottle of vodka from his pocket and offers me first swig.
    I shake my head. Push it away. In any other place I might be game, but Marrakesh is different, and mysterious, and a little bit scary even. Not to mention I have no idea what the local laws are, though I’m guessing they’re strict, and the last thing I need is to end up in a Moroccan jail for underage drinking.
    It’s the last thing he needs too, but it’s not like he listens. Vane just smiles, unscrews the cap, and takes a few swallows before he tucks it back into his pocket and pulls me into a dark abandoned alleyway.
    I stumble. Squint. Grasp at the wall as I fight to find my way. Steadied by the warmth of his hands at my waist, and the reassuring phrase that flits through my head—the one Jennika used to wean me from my night-light back when I was a kid:
    You gotta adjust to the dark so the light can find you .
    He pushes the scarf from my head, leaving it to fall around my neck, as his face veers so close all I can really make out are deep blue eyes, and the most perfectly parting lips that are quick to claim mine.
    I merge into the kiss, tasting the lingering traces of vodka still coating his tongue, as my hands explore the muscled expanse of his chest, the taut curve of his shoulders, the clean edge of his jaw. My fingers twisting into his silky mane of hair, as his slip under my jacket—under my tank top—seeking, discovering—bunching the fabric higher and higher as he works his way up.
    Our bodies melding, conforming into a tangle of grinding hips—a crush of lips. The kiss becoming so heated, so urgent, my breath grows ragged, too fast, as my body ignites like a freshly struck match.
    So delirious with the feel of him—the warmth of him—the promise of him—I surrender to the nudge of his fingers working inside my bra—circling, pulling, as my own fingers move south. Wandering over a well-defined abdomen, then lower still, down to his waistband. Ready to venture to places I’ve yet to explore, when he breaks away, his voice no more than a whisper when he says, “C’mon, I know a place.” The words thick, eyes bleary, as we fight to catch our breaths, fight to keep from pressing forward and claiming the kiss once again. “Seriously. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before—it’s gonna be epic—follow me!” He finds my hand, pulls me out of the dark and back into the bright, lively square.
    At first I go willingly, prepared to follow him anywhere. Though it’s not long before I’m seduced by the sound of that incessant pulsing rhythm—the trance-inducing lure of the gnaoua drum.
    “Daire—c’mon, it’s this way. What gives?” He frowns, brows slanted in confusion when I drop his hand and keep going, not bothering to check if he follows—no longer caring about anything other than locating the source of that beat.
    I squeeze through the tightly packed crowd until I’m standing before