Arrhythmia Read online

  I jumped out of bed, electrified. “The last ones? Why didn’t you say so right away?”

  I heard Vera’s muffled protestations as I threw aside my phone and anxiously groped for my jeans. I was in such a rush to get dressed and out of there that I didn’t think to turn on a light and just stumbled around in the dark, smacking into things. It really is astounding how many times you can bruise your shin on the same bed frame.

  I somehow managed to make it out of the bedroom in one piece and ran into the bathroom, where I dispensed with such trifles as brushing my teeth or hair. Just six minutes after the phone call, I was in the stairwell. It was only once I’d reached the building entrance that I realized I didn’t have my wallet. I sprinted back up, grabbed the wallet, and raced down again so quickly that I slipped and slid about four steps on my ass.

  No time for pain. Must buy concert tickets!

  I left the building half walking, half running, half limping. Kahnstrasse was pretty close, so I left my old Ford where it was and rushed along the pedestrian path toward the center of town. This “center” consisted of a church, a bank, the middle school, and a pedestrian area the size of a big parking space.

  On my way, I had to dodge at least seven bicycling geriatric maniacs and avoided catastrophe only thanks to my years of watching action movies.

  I was drenched in sweat, out of breath, and limping when I finally spotted the shop with the ticket office. I realized I should make myself presentable, so I slowed down and tried to force my blond mane into something that might generously be described as a ponytail. Unless tamed by a brush, my hair always acted like a pubescent teenager and resisted me in every imaginable way.

  Distracted by these exertions, I didn’t notice the man bursting out of the store until I crashed into him. The collision made me drop my wallet, which I’d had clenched under one arm while I was wrestling with my hair.

  That’s when luck decided to show its cruelest side by making my wallet’s coin pocket open up and spill its abundant contents across the asphalt in a cheerfully jingling way.

  I heard this disaster unfold before I saw it because my face was still pressed against the obstacle it had collided with, which appeared to be red and smelled unbelievably good.

  It slowly dawned on me that the red color belonged to a T-shirt and, since the T-shirt’s wearer was definitely breathing, that it must not be a mannequin. I staggered back and found my suspicions confirmed: I had been pressing my face against a male stranger’s chest.

  My gaze slowly wandered upward and stopped at the sight of the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

  It was only then that I understood the true meaning of the term “baby blues.”

  The depth and beauty of that color was so captivating that I forgot about anything else. It was like an ocean I wanted to dive into and lose myself in.

  A friendly voice tore me from my reverie. “Everything OK?”

  It took a moment for my brain to grasp the totality of my embarrassment. Reality finally hit, and I hastened to take another step backward. I looked down and gasped. “Damn it!” I said, squatting to collect the fugitive coins.

  “I’m really sorry,” said the man. “By the time I saw you, it was too late.” He crouched to help me hunt for coins.

  “No, no!” I protested. “It’s my fault. I was totally not paying attention.”

  Soon, we’d caught the last errant cent. I stood up slowly. My butt complained about its recent encounter with the stairs, and I failed to suppress a groan.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  I shook my head and stole another look at him.

  Oh my God, those eyes!

  “Eh . . . no. I just fell down some stairs a couple minutes ago,” I stammered.

  “Today’s just not your day, is it?” he laughed, handing me a handful of coins.

  I managed a smile and realized that I was blushing furiously.

  What? Me, blush? What the hell is wrong with you, Lena?

  I had long ago put a stop to the ditzy habit of letting guys make me blush. Feeling my cheeks grow strangely hot in defiance of all that poise I’d cultivated made me take a closer look at the stranger.

  Oh my God, what a man!

  He was taller than I by about a head and extremely athletic looking. His hair was black, and the dark shade of three-day stubble lent him a somewhat roguish look. And I’ve already mentioned those impressively blue eyes. They sparkled from behind thick, dark lashes and were even more attractive as part of the full package.

  He looked like a fantasy fling from a vacation in Southern Europe. There was sex written all over him.

  The thought of sex brought my attention back to the current state of my own appearance. Having lost the battle with my hair, I was certain that it was in complete disarray. Worse, I was still dressed in my sleep shirt, which advertised Iron Maiden in gigantic lettering. Why I even owned the shirt was a mystery. I did not know a single one of the band’s songs. Judging by the heat I still felt in my cheeks, my face had to be beet red. And to top it all off, I was gaping at a complete stranger.

  I picked up my chin and tried to hasten out of his line of sight. “Sorry, I have to go. Thanks for helping me. Bye!” With this, I left the man standing there and escaped into the shop.

  After I’d slammed the door behind me, I took a moment to lean against it and take a deep breath.

  What on earth had just happened? I really wasn’t the kind of woman who felt insecure about her looks. Perhaps it sounds a little conceited, but I was aware that I generally was considered pretty.

  So why had I just been seriously upset about what kind of impression I was making on some guy on the street?

  “Good morning. May I help you?”

  I squinted and saw that I was standing in front of a counter. Behind it stood a woman with a friendly, if skeptical, expression. I could hardly blame her.

  Eventually, I remembered why I was there in the first place.

  “Morning! I would like two tickets for the Pink concert in Munich,” I said politely and opened my wallet confidently.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but I just sold the last two.”

  I lost control over my facial expression in a big way. “Pardon me?”

  The clerk anxiously took a step back.

  “They’re all gone. The tickets, I mean,” she answered cautiously.

  “Are you shitting me?” I gasped. “I risked my life several times on the way here.” It was barely an exaggeration.

  “I really am very sorry,” the woman ventured. She raised her hands in a submissive way, trying to mollify me. Her gaze flicked to a spot under the counter where, presumably, a panic button was hidden. “But I did hear that Pink is planning another tour of Germany in two years.”

  Two years? Some consolation! Who knows what could happen in two years? The world might end next year, you moron!

  I managed to keep the outburst to myself and made do with snorting like a bull, but disappointment threatened to get the better of me. I wasn’t far from collapsing into a wailing heap on the floor.

  Once more, the sales clerk attempted to assuage me. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do. If you’d just come in a few minutes sooner . . .”

  A few minutes?

  “Wait a minute. Do you mean that guy with the red shirt bought the last tickets?” My voice quavered. “Tall? With dark hair? Sexy?”

  I could tell the woman was wondering whether it was wise to answer my question. She looked at me, wide eyed. It was only when I began to raise a menacing finger that she quickly nodded.

  I must really have been a scary sight.

  Hissing angrily, I rushed out of the store and looked up and down the street. Where was he? He couldn’t have gotten far.

  When I get my hands on him . . .

  Then wha
t, really? No idea, but in my current state of mind, I could certainly plead temporary insanity.

  I couldn’t spot him anyway. In retrospect, that was probably a blessing. Another encounter might’ve resulted in a restraining order.

  I set out for home with clenched fists, thinking I’d call Vera and bitch her out. This whole mess was her fault.

  Fine, so that wasn’t true. But somebody had to take the blame.

  Chapter 3

  The day continued the same wacky way it had begun.

  The sun shone brightly and, as a result, the ER overflowed with overly ambitious people who would be better advised to spend their lives indoors. Bicycle falls, trampoline accidents, unfortunate incidents with circular saws, and so on.

  I should mention that our tranquil hospital was located in the heart of a popular health-resort region, a mecca for vacationers from all over Germany, which in itself could cause difficulties. It was categorically problematic whenever the mentality of a city slicker on vacation at a spa came up against that of a provincial from Lower Bavaria. Mutual intelligibility was the biggest problem. And I’m not talking about our allegedly difficult accent . . .

  On this particular day, for example, we had a situation involving an absolute lack of understanding when the gentleman with the sawed-off thumb was seen before the lady who had banged up her knee. The outrage! She had, after all, arrived before him. Plus she was from Berlin and, most importantly, her next spa treatment was in an hour and she had to get back to her hotel!

  What a shame. The ER nurse on duty—that would be me—had no sympathy for the poor woman from Berlin. With a smile, I pointed out to her that she would naturally have been seen first had she severed her finger and that I had a sharp knife I would be happy to bring her if she wished.

  The woman gasped indignantly as another patient next to her—most likely a Bavarian—laughed out loud and applauded. I strode away with my head held high, knowing full well that I had just risked reprimand. Normally, my work ethic dictated that I always treat patients kindly, but some situations just made it impossible. Particularly given the mood I was in.

  I had, of course, called Vera as soon as I had dragged myself back to my apartment, injured and disappointed. I’d dialed her number, determined to bitch her out for my misfortune, but by the time we’d finished our conversation, she had persuaded me to go out with her that evening and drown my sorrows in prosecco.

  Damn it!

  I couldn’t figure out how Vera had managed it. I really didn’t feel like going out. Sure, it was Friday and I had the weekend off, but I wasn’t in a party mood. I was tired and irritable, and work had been particularly stressful. Plus, my butt hurt with every step I took.

  In spite of it all, at eleven o’clock that night, I found myself standing with Vera at one of the bars in Go Disco and trying to find something redeeming about the situation.

  Go was the only club in Wollbach but, considering Wollbach, it was surprisingly spacious and exclusive. It attracted patrons from miles away with its infamous theme nights. Our party-loving neighbors, the Austrians, were regulars there.

  There must not have been a lot of other options that evening, because the club was filled to capacity. I leaned my back against the bar and watched the dancing while Vera told me something about her work. The loud music drowned out half of what she was saying, but I dutifully nodded during the appropriate pauses and tried to seem like a good listener.

  “. . . at me?” asked Vera.

  I noticed the rising inflection of a question and focused my attention on my friend. “WHAT?”

  Vera placed her hands on her hips and looked at me in annoyance. “I ASKED IF YOU WERE STILL MAD AT ME!”

  “NO!” I screamed in reply.

  No, I really wasn’t. It was too hard to stay angry with Vera for longer than ten minutes. She had one of those impossibly buoyant personalities. Her face was permanently fixed with an infectious grin. Vera was the personification of a good mood.

  I affectionately tousled her brightly dyed red bob and leaned closer to her ear to avoid shouting myself hoarse. “I’m not mad!”

  “Hey, easy on the hairdo!” Vera indignantly checked on her holy of holies with her hands.

  “No worries!” I countered. “I’d break a nail on that much hair spray before I could make a single strand move!” It was true; her hair showed no sign of my attack. A classic case of hair-spray hair.

  Laughing, we toasted each other and then silently sipped at our proseccos.

  All of sudden, Vera jabbed me in the ribs. “Look, it’s the super slut from the third floor.”

  I followed her eyes and spotted said slut, otherwise known as Nurse Steffi from orthopedics, on the dance floor.

  Even though I barely knew Nurse Steffi, I didn’t like her. Our few brief, work-related conversations had been more than enough.

  Steffi was full of herself, and that only confirmed her obvious stupidity. There are people who are likable in a gauche sort of way despite their dumbness. But then there are those who are dumb but in no way likable.

  My eyebrows raised, I studied the leopard pumps on her feet. In general, I was of the opinion that high heels had a favorable effect on the female appearance and looked totally sexy. But they required a certain know-how. Steffi was clearly not up to the task of maneuvering in her high heels, which seemed like stilts on her. I almost felt sorry for the girl. She swayed across the dance floor like an acrobat on a tightrope. I felt like offering a long pole to help with her balance.

  “Jeez, those extensions are terrible. She should sue her hairstylist,” Vera snarked.

  Yes, women can be catty, but the black fringe hanging around Steffi’s shoulders really did look silly.

  Having nothing better to do, I observed her attempts at dancing for a while. Meanwhile, Vera organized the replenishment of our beverages.

  During her supposedly erotic contortions, Steffi allowed her gaze to wander around the club. She was evidently in search of a male victim to enchant. I had to laugh out loud when I saw her body visibly jerk. She must have found her desired type. Amused, I watched her contorted movements as she slowly worked her way across the dance floor. Somehow, her appearance reminded me of an entranced religious pilgrim. My smile froze the moment I recognized the object of her desire.

  It couldn’t be.

  There he was, dressed in jeans and a white shirt that highlighted his bronzed skin. His black hair shimmered under the multicolored strobe lights. He just stood there, completely relaxed, talking to some guy.

  The concert ticket thief!

  Vera put a glass in my hand. Without taking my eyes off him, I took a big gulp.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Vera. “Did you see a ghost?”

  “That’s the guy!”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who stole the Pink tickets from me!”

  Vera craned her neck. “Where?”

  “To the right of the DJ. White shirt. There is a guy in a blue shirt next to him.” I grunted.

  It took Vera a few moments to follow my description. “The Banderas look-alike?”

  I nodded.

  “Holy shit!” gasped Vera. “Is he sexy or what?”

  “Puh.”

  “Oh come on. I wouldn’t exactly throw him out of my bedroom.”

  I looked over at her skeptically. “You’re in a happy relationship, remember?”

  “How could I possibly forget my Sebastian?” My friend laughed. “But I’m allowed to have an appetite as long as I eat at home, right?”

  “I see.”

  “That’s right. Oh, I miss him so much!” Vera wailed.

  Sebastian worked as a biotechnology process engineer. I had no clue exactly what that was and neither did Vera. In any case, his job required him to travel throughout Germany for several days at a time.

/>   “So when’s he coming back?” I asked dutifully.

  “Tomorrow, thank goodness!” she answered. “That means I won’t have any time for you tomorrow.”

  She winked at me meaningfully and made an obscene gesture.

  “Yuck! That’s more than I want to know!” I scolded her and quickly stuck my nose in my glass.

  By the time I looked up again, Steffi had reached the ticket thief. I was immediately overcome by a feeling of vicarious embarrassment.

  She circled the guy in a kind of fertility dance during which she shook her bony derriere in his direction. In an attempt at a lascivious gesture, she flung her thin strands of hair around and even let her hands glide over her breasts. Next she would probably tear off her top and press his face between her breasts.

  “Holy shit!” I heard myself say.

  Vera was cackling in mischievous delight. She knew I was referring to the soft-porn performance on the dance floor.

  “But look,” she pointed out. “The guy is totally not interested.”

  She was right.

  Although Steffi was circling him like a rabid peacock, he hardly took notice. The friend next to him, however, seemed enchanted by the thrashing apparition in leopard pumps. The ticket thief soon became bored, said something to his buddy—who was distracted anyway—and disappeared in the crowd.

  “Ha! There he goes! How perfect!” Vera yelled.

  Steffi’s expression was priceless. She looked like a child who had lost her lollipop. Pretty Boy’s friend dared to make a move and said something to her, at which she turned away furiously and stalked off.

  “Hee-hee, she’s pissed,” Vera said. “But I have to say: the man obviously has taste.”

  “Or he’s gay.

  “You think? Man, that would be a loss for women. Can you imagine what he looks like naked?”

  “Ahem . . . Sebastian?”

  Vera squinted. “God, it’s been too long since I got laid.”

  “How long has he been out of town?”