Finding Carolina's
Copyright© 2026 by duncan idaho
Chapter 2: Watching and Waiting
I met her gaze and held it.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, the truth slipping out before I could dress it up. “I wanted to find this place. My friend and I never could, last time. So I came back alone, just to see it.”
Elena’s eyes searched mine for a long moment, reading something in my face that seemed to satisfy her. She nodded slowly, then stood, her hand brushing my shoulder as she rose.
“Then take your time. Look around. If you want company later, you know where to find me.”
She walked away with that same deliberate grace, hips shifting under the too-small shorts, and disappeared into the amber haze of the bar.
I watched her go, then turned back to my drink, letting the rum warm my throat. I sipped slowly, letting the bar settle around me. The low ceiling pressed the smoke and music together into a fog that clung to my skin. Reggae played from speakers I couldn’t see, bass thumping through the floorboards.
The men at the tables were a mix of tourists and locals, some sitting alone, some with women perched on their laps, whispering in their ears.
The women moved like currents, drifting from table to table, touching shoulders, laughing, leaning close enough to let their breasts brush against arms.
I watched the choreography of it. The way a woman would approach, assess, and either linger or move on.
The subtle signals, a hand on the wrist, a tilt of the head toward the back door, the brief negotiation that happened in murmurs too low to catch from my stool.
No one bothered me after Elena. Maybe she’d told them to give me space. Maybe I looked like I was processing, not ready to be sold to.
I ordered a beer.
The bartender, a thin man with gold teeth and tired eyes, slid it across without a word.
People came and went. A group of three men stumbled in, loud and laughing, and three women detached from the shadows to meet them.
Within twenty minutes, two of the men had disappeared through the back door with their chosen companions. The third stayed at the bar, nursing a whiskey, looking lost.
I knew that feeling. I’d worn it plenty of nights back home, sitting alone in some bar after work, trying to convince myself I was having a good time. But this wasn’t home. And the beer was cold, the rum was smooth, and the air smelled like perfume and sweat and something floral I couldn’t name.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
Time moved differently in that room, the darkness making it hard to track.
I watched a woman lead a man past me toward the back. She was tall, with braids that brushed her waist, and she held his hand like they were old lovers.
The door swung open and closed, and they were gone.
Then I saw her.
She was coming through the door from the back, walking into the bar like she’d just finished something and was taking a break.
She was shorter than most of the other women, with a fullness to her figure that made my breath catch. Long sandy brown hair fell over her shoulders, catching the dim light.
She wore a thin gold top that barely contained her chest, I could tell she was generously built, and a tiny skirt that hugged hips made for gripping.
I couldn’t stop looking.
She moved differently than the others. Less practiced. Less choreographed.
She scanned the room like she was still learning the geography, still figuring out where she fit.
When she reached the bar, she leaned against it, spoke to the bartender, and he poured her something clear over ice.
She took a sip, and her eyes wandered the room.
They landed on me. I’d been caught. No pretending I was looking at something else, no casual glance away. She’d seen me watching her, and now the moment hung between us, thick and charged.
I didn’t look away. Her mouth curved, just slightly. Not a full smile, but an acknowledgment.
She tilted her head, curious, and lifted her glass in a small salute.
I raised my beer in return.
She pushed off from the bar and walked toward me.
My pulse picked up. Not the nervous flutter of a man out of his depth, but something warmer, more anticipatory. The way your body knows something good is about to happen before your brain catches up.
She stopped beside my stool, close enough that I could smell her, something sweet and floral, mixed with the faint salt of skin.
“You’ve been staring,” she said. Her accent was Colombian, soft vowels and gentle consonants. Her voice was lower than I’d expected, a little rough at the edges.
I set my beer down. “I have.”
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