Katie's Hellion

She'd never had an opinion of bunk beds until this moment. She hated them!

"American, you like beer?" one of the Germans asked.

"Yeah."

"We're going down to the bar. Come with us?"

She hesitated. The Irish rock blaring from the bar below was loud enough, and cigarette smoke already curled in through the window. A shot of whiskey sounded heavenly!

"Yeah, I'll go."

She joined them at the door with enough loose euro change for a couple of beers and dinner. They spoke in German as they made their way down the narrow wooden stairwell to the packed bar. The music blared louder, the smoke became thicker, and the scent of food intermingled with body odor. They made their way to a small group at one side of the bar and squeezed their way into a booth meant for four and already holding four. They made room for her and pushed fries at her, which she accepted.

Her gaze took in the crowd. She looked for Rhyn. She looked for Kris. She looked for any face she knew.

She was done with them. All of them. When she got home, she was kicking Toby out, buying a gun, and taking back her life. Her paranoia faded with the first round of beers and disappeared completely by the third. She joined the Germans and other backpackers in an Irish dance as the cigarette smoke thickened and the rock band grew louder.

"Fire!"

The shout went unnoticed until the panicked bartender grabbed the mike of the lead rocker.

"Everyone get out!"

She stared at him dumbly until the crowd forced her toward the exit. She let the bodies pressed against her shove her into the chilled night and blinked back her blurred gaze until she saw her German friends. Smoke billowed blacker than night above orange-yellow flames that mesmerized her.

The whole top of the building --where the hostel was housed --was on fire. The flames were beautiful and entrancing. She and the Germans stood in silent awe, too drunk to feel the cold.

"Rhyn, is it?"

She blinked and turned at the voice, not recognizing the American nerd until her vision cleared.

"Funny name for a girl."

"Whatever," she said curtly.

"I told my friends about your tat. Mind showing it to them? My friend Ziggy's a tattoo artist in San Francisco. Thought he'd like yours. It's kinda unique."

She sighed, her instincts too dulled by beer to warn her. She had nothing better to do, not with her source of alcohol gone and her bed in flames.