I am one of those idiots.
For the most part, I believe in the four main food groups: carbonated and caffeinated beverages; alcoholic beverages; meat and potatoes; and chocolate. I was partial to Snickers bars, but I wasn’t a snobby chocoholic. I ate whatever was available and I never complained about it. Unless it was a Mounds bar. I mean, who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put coconut in a candy bar? Find ’em for me, will ya?
Anyway, I decided to load up on water because about a week before my nuptials were scheduled to take place, my mother told me about an article she’d read about a man dying of dehydration on a tropical island because he drank only mixed drinks for a week straight and never got out of the sun. She’d made me promise to hydrate, and since I still hadn’t told anyone where I was, I figured I probably shouldn’t die before sending someone a text message.
Now, Taste of Italy was an interesting concept. Pasta was vaguely foreign to me. Aside from an occasional spaghetti feed or something that Chef Boyardee cooked up for me, I considered myself pasta-sheltered. Who knew there were so many different kinds of noodles and sauces? I had to say, I was pretty impressed with the spread. I was even more impressed with the dessert table. There were six different chocolate options. Chocolate cake, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate mousse in little edible chocolate muffin liners, chocolate pudding, brownies, and a chocolate soufflé. And what kind of man would I be if I didn’t sample them all?
On my way out, while cradling my food baby, I discovered the resort gym. The equipment was all new and shiny. Everything looked immaculate and hardly used. Which didn’t seem odd at all. Almost everyone I’d seen thus far was either elderly or honeymooning. Who wanted to be pumping iron on their honeymoon when there were so many other, more enjoyable, recreational ways to keep fit?
I’m not gonna lie.
The thought of those other more enjoyable honeymooning activities made me almost instantly horny. So my mind promptly drifted from working out to finding a woman on the beach to take back to my place. That was the only motivation I needed to make a beeline back to my cottage. Within forty-five minutes, I’d shit, showered, and shaved and found myself poolside and ready for action.
“Another margarita, Drunk?” asked Manny.
A solitary woman sat at the bar. She was the first anywhere near my age bracket that I’d seen alone on the island since I’d been there. I cocked my head towards her. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
She looked over at me and smiled. She was an attractive woman. A little older than I usually went for, maybe early fifties, but Little Drunk wasn’t particular. The truth was, I’d had a lot of good experiences with older women. The woman had long blonde hair, gold dangly earrings and stacked gold bangle bracelets. She wore a red sarong tied around her hips and a red string bikini top. For an older woman, her medium-sized breasts were incredibly pert, making me wonder if they were real.
I shot an easy smile back her way. One of my best Drunk flirting mechanisms, I was told. “What is that, anyway? Please tell me there’s no coconut water in it.”
She shook her head. Her blonde hair rustled over her bare shoulders in the breeze. “No, no coconut water. It’s a Cool and Deadly.”
I slid down the bar a little closer to her, careful to leave at least a chair between us. “A Cool and Deadly? Intriguing. What’s in it?”
She looked up at Manny, speechless, and splayed her hands out. “You know, I’m not really sure what he puts in here.”
“Two different kinds of rum, pineapple juice, orange juice, triple sec, and grenadine. My specialty.”
“Sounds amazing.”
She slid her drink down the bar. “Would you like to try it?”
I held a hand up. “No, thank you. Manny’s making mine. But you like it?”
She pulled the drink back towards herself and took a long pull from the straw. “It’s delicious. It’s the only drink I’ve had since coming to the island.”
“Oh? When did you get here?”
“Two days ago. I’m just here until Wednesday. You?”
“Thanks, Manny,” I said, taking the drink he slid my way. “I got in last night. I’m here for two weeks.”
“Two weeks!” Her green eyes widened. “That’s a nice long trip.”
I nodded. I was about to try something new. My first attempt at a pity pickup. I had a buddy who used the routine often and claimed it worked like a charm, but I’d never been so desperate before as to actually stoop to trying it.
But what can I say?
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Yeah.” I hung my head slightly. “It’s supposed to be my honeymoon.”
Her upper torso turned about a quarter of the way towards me. “Supposed to be?”
“Yeah, I haven’t told anyone this yet,” I began, giving a glance up at Manny, who I knew was listening, “but I caught my fiancée in bed with another man the night before our wedding.”
The woman sucked in her breath, her ringless hand covering her mouth. “You’re kidding me!”
I shook my head. “Nope. I wish I was.”
“What did you do?!”
“I hopped on the first plane to Paradise!”
“I mean, what did you do about your fiancée?”
“Oh, her?” I waved a hand dismissively. “I left her back in the States.”
“Oh, you poor thing!”
I nodded, ashamed that I’d had to use my pathetic sob story to hit on a woman, but the way Little Drunk ached, I felt like a man with only hours to live, and the clock was ticking.
“So you’re here all alone?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to look too pathetic. “Well, at least I’ve got Manny.”
We both looked up at Manny then. He smiled. That was when I noticed the two missing teeth on the left side of his mouth.
“I’m Cynthia, by the way,” she said, extending a hand to me.
I took it and kissed the top of it lightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Cynthia. I’m Drunk.”
She pulled her hand away giggling. “Drunk? Have you been down here all day?”
“No, this is my first drink today, actually. My name is Drunk.”
That was worthy of a full torso turn and a partial barstool swivel. “Drunk? Your name is Drunk?”
I sipped my drink. “Mm-hmm. This is really good, by the way, thanks for the recommendation.”
She ignored my thanks. “I’ve never met anyone by the name of Drunk before. That’s pretty cute.”
I winked at her. “You’re pretty cute.”
I heard Manny coughing then.
“Yeah, she is pretty cute. She’s also taken,” said a deep voice behind me.
I grimaced and let out a sigh. Dammit.
“Greg, this is Drunk. Drunk, this is my boyfriend Greg.”
I gave a half turn and nodded at the bulldozer of a boyfriend. Women should really come with warning labels—you know, taken, taken by a large man, taken by a large man with fists the size of bowling balls. “Nice to meet you, Greg.”
“Drunk caught his fiancée cheating on him the night before his wedding,” Cynthia revealed to Greg. “He came on his honeymoon alone.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, my smile tight and my eyes swung down towards the concrete.
Surprisingly, Greg slapped me on the back. “I’m sorry to hear that buddy. Lemme buy you a drink. Manny, give this man another one of whatever it is he’s having,” he said before flashing his all-inclusive bracelet Manny’s way. “Cynthia, let’s go.”
Cynthia grinned at me sympathetically before walking away. “Bye, Drunk.”
Manny slid another drink forward. “Here you go, Mr. Drunk.”
Swiveling back around to face the bar, I leaned over my drink. Only my eyes my looked up at the bartender. “It’s Drunk, Manny. Just Drunk.”
18
“Where are all the women, Manny?” I groaned three hours and six drinks later. I was pacing my
self. One drink every half hour on the dot. No need to get sloppy drunk before a good-looking single woman showed up.
“Drunk, the women that come here are on their honeymoons or are married. We don’t get a lot of single women.”
“Well, why don’t they put that shit on the brochures? ‘Don’t come here if you’re looking for a good time.’”
Manny laughed and mopped the bar top with a white towel. Since I’d been there, I’d met a variety of people, all of them either old or taken. I was starting to think I’d have been better off staying in Missouri. I’d have been laid by at least two different women by now if I’d stayed in Missouri. “The single women are at the clubs, man.”
I stopped drinking and looked up at him. Had he been holding out on me? “Where are these clubs you speak of?”
“In town,” he explained. “Of course, those aren’t always the safest places for tourists to visit.”
Fuck it.
I knew how to handle myself.
I sucked the last of my drink through my straw and slid it forward to Manny. I was going to go find the ladies even if it killed me. I pulled out my wallet. That kind of information deserved a tip.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” said a smooth voice next to me.
My body tensed up for a split second. My head turned forty-five degrees towards the sound of the voice. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. It was Megan Fox, the woman who’d throat-punched me on the plane. My eyes widened.
That was when she turned to me. “Hello.” Her voice was melodic and smooth, and every bit as beautiful as she was.
I swallowed hard. I was sure my throat felt sore again. Without a word, I slid a tip Manny’s way and then hopped off my seat. “Thanks for the advice, Manny.”
“Running off so soon?” The woman’s voice rode in on the ocean air behind me.
I gave a half turn to look at her out of the corner of my eye.
She wore a skintight black sleeveless dress that ended just below the swell of her perfectly round ass. Her arms were cut. Her physique lean. How could I walk away so quickly from that? Even though every instinct in my brain told me to ditch the ruthless bitch, Little Drunk begged me to give her an opportunity to apologize and make amends.
I pointed towards the golf cart. “I don’t want to miss my ride.”
“In a hurry to get somewhere?”
I glanced backwards at the ocean. The water glittered like diamonds beneath a low-lying sun that had just begun to think of retirement. It was early. I shrugged a single shoulder. “I think I’d rather hang out with someone who doesn’t throw right jabs at my neck.”
She curled forward, against the bar suggestively. “I’m sorry,” she purred, plumping out her bottom lip. “You creeped me out. Hasn’t anyone ever told you women don’t like to be sexually assaulted in airplane lavatories?”
Dammit if that didn’t make me smile. “No. See, no one’s ever told me that before. How was I supposed to know?”
She tipped her head to the side. Her silky dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail with only her blunt-cut bangs and a few wispy strands framing her face. “Well, now you know.” Her red lips curved into a smile.
“Yeah, now I know,” I agreed. Maybe if she’d slapped me in the face or kneed me in the groin, I would have considered staying, but she’d punched me in the throat. I walked away. Little Drunk couldn’t believe what I was doing. But Big Drunk was in control, and Big Drunk knew a sociopath when he saw one.
I’d gotten around the pool and past the hot tub when she caught up to me, two drinks in hand.
“At least let me make it up to you,” she begged. “Come on.”
I stopped walking and turned around.
She stood with her high-heeled legs spread shoulder width apart and her hip cocked to one side. She had her black handbag clamped tightly under one arm and held a drink out towards me with the other hand. A peace offering. She tipped her head seductively. As if that was going to work?
“Please? I’m really sorry about the plane.”
I didn’t budge. “If I’m such a creeper, why do you want to have a drink with me so badly?”
She glanced around the almost-empty pool area. “Lack of competition?” she offered with a grimace and a shrug.
She had a point. But I didn’t move. She still made me nervous, and my throat still hurt just looking at her.
She shook the glass in my direction. The ice clinked enticingly. “Oh, come on. Just one drink. Then you can go do whatever exciting thing you were going to go do.”
I let out a sigh. Little did she know I didn’t have any exciting thing to do except to go haphazardly looking for a hot woman on the island. And by golly, there happened to be a hot woman on the island standing right in front of me, offering me an alcoholic beverage. I reached my hand out. She could bring the drink to me. I wasn’t about to go walking into another throat punch. And believe me, I’d be on high alert. This time, I’d know to duck.
She swallowed back whatever morsel of pride she had and came to me with the drink. “Here. Can we go sit down now?”
“One drink?”
“One drink.”
The walk back to Manny’s bar was the most awkward walk I’d ever taken with a woman. I didn’t know if I should hate her, want her, or fear her. Little Drunk, of course, had a vote in the matter, and I struggled to keep him from expressing his opinion.
Manny looked at the two of us curiously when we showed back up again, but he didn’t say anything.
“So. I’m Natasha. And you are?” she asked, extending her tanned hand.
“I’m Drunk. Natasha what?”
“Prince. What do you mean you’re Drunk?”
“It’s my name.”
“Your name is Drunk?”
“That’s what it says on my driver’s license.” I wasn’t playing it cute with this one. I was still a little salty.
“Wow. That’s a new one. Where you from, Drunk?”
“Kansas City. You?”
“Denver. Are you alone in Paradise?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Why do you wanna know?”
“Geez, you want some help getting that chip off your shoulder?” She turned and took a long drink from her glass.
“You punched me in the throat. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to get punched in the throat? People get killed from getting punched in the throat. It’s very dangerous.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, finally pulling off the kid gloves. “You’re not willing to take any responsibility for that?”
“I mean…”
“You said you were cleared to go down my landing strip and then you asked me if I wanted to join the mile-high club with you!”
Behind the counter, Manny let out a chortle.
I glanced up at him and shot him a look that clearly read shut it.
The smile washed away, and he gave us his back to take an order from a customer on the swim-up bar side.
“Yeah, well, you looked hot. I was paying you a compliment. Why don’t chicks get that?”
“You couldn’t just say, hey, you’re hot?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I mean, I could have. You just looked a bit spicier than that. I thought I had to lead harder than usual.”
“Alright, well, I had to punch harder than usual. So call it even, will ya?”
“I have balls, you know. You could have kneed me in them. Or even slapped my face. But, no, you went for the jugular. You’re kind of scary, to be honest.”
“Ohh, poor Drunk’s scared of little old Natasha?” she said in a mocking baby voice.
Goddamn, the woman was sexy. I could only imagine the kind of voices she could make in bed. “Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact.”
“You need me to make it up to you?”
Of course I do!
I put on my best pitiful face. Big eyes. Plumped-out bottom lip. “Make it up to me? Maybe. What’d you have in mind?”
She stood up and put a hand on
my shoulder. Tracing her finger along the line of my shoulders, she walked around to my other side. I turned the barstool to face her, just waiting for her offer to take me back to her room and make my boo-boo all better. Instead, she stood there, legs spread shoulder width apart, hands on her hips, and eyes closed.
I tipped my head curiously. “What are you doing?”
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me. In the throat. If it’ll make you feel better, hit me.”
“I’m not going to hit you.”
“No. I’m tired of you holding that one little thing over my head. Go on. Hit me! Let’s make it even.”
“Fine!” I got up off the barstool and walked over to her. She still had her eyes closed and her hands on her hips. Her red lips were plumped together in a sexy pout. Even in her heels, I towered over the woman by at least five inches. I scooted my body up as close as I could get it without touching her and leaned over and planted my lips on hers.
Natasha’s eyes popped open. She tried to pretend her little game hadn’t worked as she’d planned, but I knew the truth. It had worked exactly as she’d planned, which was why she didn’t push me away. She hadn’t wanted a throat punch any more than I wanted blue balls. She’d wanted me to lay one on her.
So lay one on her I did.
It was a hard kiss.
Needy and intrusive.
One born out of a hell of a lot of sexual frustration and anger. Whether the anger I felt was directed towards her, towards Pamela, towards Pamela’s ex, or towards the guys that had left Jimmie’s dead body in my room, I wasn’t exactly sure. But my mouth melded against hers, and our tongues wrestled until I felt her body melt into mine. That was the moment I pulled away. Always leave them wanting more, fellas.
Drunk on a Plane Page 8
