by Tamara Lush
“And this is why you were reluctant to bring him up here.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled against my neck. “Not very romantic.”
“Poor Chunky.” I giggle and snuggle closer, nuzzling my nose under the corner of his T-shirt. Even with the explosive and lethal dog fart, it feels damned good to be tight in Damien’s arms.
“Poor us.”
“It smells awful. But somehow I don’t want to move.”
“Because you’ll probably die from the odor. I’m like a human oxygen mask.”
I’m laughing so hard now that tears pour from my eyes.
“You kind of are,” I say softly.
“I guess that’s kind of a temporary mood killer.”
I lift my shirt collar over my mouth and nose. “We could try watching the movie.”
Damien kisses my forehead and we shift so we’re tangled together and facing the TV screen. After a few minutes, Chunky joins us on the sofa and refrains from farting. For how long, we don’t know, but….
Somehow, cuddling and watching a movie tonight—and not having sex—feels right.
Feels perfect, in fact.
Eight
Damien
I stretch and yawn in my familiar bed from high school, my muscles achy as if I’ve spent a day at the gym. If I got two hours of sleep last night, it was a miracle.
That’s what pent-up lust does: accumulates in my body like a toxin, leaving me feeling like I want to claw my skin off. I’d spent half the night tossing and turning and the other half jerking off, thinking about all the things I wanted to do with Kate.
Because I sure didn’t get a chance to do any of them last night.
After Chunky’s fart fireworks, Kate and I watched a movie. Well, made out and tried to watch a movie. Okay, I didn’t watch shit. I don’t even remember the title. Daredevil? Was that it? I’d let her choose.
Basically, it was extreme cuddling. I don’t think I’ve ever done that with anyone. It was excruciating and tempting and the best two hours I’ve had in years. It wasn’t right to drag her into my room and get naked. Like I told her, I don’t want a casual fuck.
I want so much more.
I drove her back to her car, and we made out some more in the parking lot of the bar. Sometime between us kissing on my parents’ sofa and her grinding into me in my dad’s wagon, we decided we needed to find somewhere private for a night. I told her I’d handle it.
Trouble is, I want more than one night with Kate. I think she wants more than that, too, but who the hell knows? I’ve never paid this much attention to a woman or to what she thinks. Usually my “relationships” are casual hookups, friends with benefits, temporary flings during a stopover in Germany or London.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie then yank open my bedroom door. My twin brother is sprawled on the sofa in the upstairs den.
“Dude.”
Remy’s playing a video game. I grunt a hello. He’s far more of a morning person than I am. More of an afternoon, evening and all-day person, too. Even though we’re twins, he somehow inherited Mom’s sunny, happy personality.
I’m more like dad. Grumpy.
“Jesus, what got into you? Didn’t you get laid last night with Kate?”
I stop in the middle of the room, blocking his view of the TV. He waves his hand and growls at me to move the hell away.
When was the last time I beat his ass? Has enough time elapsed so I could safely do it again right now?
Instead, I roll my eyes. Taking a couple of steps, I pause and turn. “How the hell do you know about Kate?”
He punches on the game console with his thumbs and doesn’t even look at me; he’s so focused on the action on-screen.
“Mom.”
Of course. The two of them probably planned the wedding over breakfast. “Jesus.”
With a press of the button, the shoot-em-up action silences. I hate those games, probably because I’ve lived them. Remy turns to me.
“You into her?”
I dig my hands into my hoodie pocket. “Maybe.”
“How’s that going to work with you leaving? You’ve always liked her, you know that?”
“You need your own TV show, you know that?” I mock him mercilessly, every chance I get. “You’d be like Dr. fucking Phil. Only tan. You could host the show on a boat and give relationship advice.”
I flop down on a brown microsuede chair that matches the sofa and groan. “I don’t fucking know. She’s…” I wave my hand in the air. “Awesome to be around.”
“That’s a great idea, about the TV show. So when are you going to screw?”
“Dude, we can’t hook up. She’s staying with her mom, and I’m here. Last night, we came back and Tate’s dog unleashed his own brand of chemical warfare that killed the mood.”
“You wanna use my yacht?”
I screw up my face. He has two boats, one for his fishing charter business and the other, a beat-up Benetau 28. It’s definitely not a yacht. “You mean, your floating bone zone? Thanks, but no thanks.”
Remy guffaws. “Bro, why don’t you grab a room at the resort? It’s low season, for Chrissakes. I’m sure there’re vacancies. Natalia will arrange it.”
I grimace. “I’d prefer not to beg my sister for a room so I can have a night of wild sex.”
“Dude, we own the place. Do it right. You’re not a teenager. Have some class, asshole. You need to act like less like a Marine from some war movie and more like a character from a Nicholas Sparks flick. Chicks dig that. The Notebook and shit.”
“Kate’s different. I don’t know if she wants all that romance stuff.”
“All chicks love romance, you tool. You’ve never romanced a girl before. Unlike me.” He grins wickedly. I’ve heard about Remy’s reputation around the island as a carefree, love-em-and-leave-em fuckboy-merman mashup.
I wince. “I have my doubts about your romance expertise.”
It’s another way we’re different, despite having identical DNA.
“Do it, dude. Flowers. Champagne. Chocolates. Guaranteed fucking.”
I throw a pillow at him. But maybe he’s onto something.
I’ve obviously been gone for too long and spent too much time playing war, because somehow, my twin brother might have have better ideas on how to seduce women than I do.
Nine
Kate
I’m restocking the beers in the cooler when everyone in the tiki bar applauds like the Dolphins made a winning touchdown. Except the Dolphins suck and aren’t scoring today, so the volume’s turned down and we’re listening to the Buffett channel on satellite radio.
Sunday afternoons in mid-November are always packed with regulars, probably because we close at six and don’t reopen until Tuesday. Lime and Salt isn’t merely a kitschy, Instagram-worthy tourist spot—it’s also the community center, meeting point, and living room for a certain group of longtime island residents. Sure, many of them are functional alcoholics, but they’re all lovable.
They hadn’t been happy when Mom and I made the executive decision to close early on Sundays and not open on Mondays, but they understood that I needed a break, and Mom needed to not worry about the bar for a while as she recovers from surgery.
Bernice lets out an ear-splitting whistle, something I haven’t heard her do in years. A few other regulars whoop and holler.
“What?” I call out, grinning.
That’s when I see it: a guy in a hot pink polo shirt and jeans coming toward the bar with a dozen red roses in a vase. The embroidered logo of The Pink Orchid, Paradise Beach’s lone flower shop, is on the guy’s chest. I vaguely recognize him as Manny, the owner of the shop.
“Kate Cooper?”
My jaw drops. “Yeah?”
“These are for you.”
The regulars, who are good and buzzed by now since it’s four in the afternoon, erupt in another round of cheers.
“Are you sure?” It’s been a long time since anyone’s sent me fl
owers.
The guy sets them on the bar, and they look totally out of place against the naked woman lamp covered in decades of cigarette smoke and a worn placard offering happy hour specials.
“Yep. A dozen roses. Kate Cooper.”
“Uh. Thank you. Um. Wait.” I hustle over to our ancient cash register and tap on a button. The draw shoots open, and I extract a five, handing it to the flower delivery guy.
“Thanks.”
“You want a free beer?” I call out.
He turns and shrugs. “Sure. I’ll take a Heineken.”
“You got it.”
I’m shaking as I slide open the cooler, pull out a bottle, and pop the top. Setting it on the bar in front of him, I pause to wipe my hands.
“Who sent them?” Bernice’s raspy voice cuts over the radio that is playing some Steely Dan tune from 1980. Yacht rock is popular here at Lime and Salt. “That loverboy who was here the other night? The Hastings boy? He’s pretty hot, kiddo. I saw those muscles. Like Jason Momoa. Mmm-mmm.” She goes on to talk about how Jason is married to Lisa Bonet and a few details of their sex life that should probably be private.
“Dunno who they’re from,” I mumble, marveling at Bernice’s knowledge of celebrity gossip.
Maybe they were sent by Lauren, my bestie. That’s probably it. In one email a few weeks ago, she mentioned she was in London and taking a tour of some fancy hotel for her Instagram account. I’d responded with a sad and pathetic message about how shitty everything was here. That was pre-Damien.
Probably she wanted to cheer me up. That’s it. But red roses aren’t exactly Lauren’s style…
Still trembling, I pluck the attached card out of the flowers and slide it out of the little envelope.
Meet me in room 501 at the Paradise Beach Resort when you’re done with work tonight. Make sure you’re prepared to stay over. — D.
P.S. No dogs.
Ten
Kate
I close the bar in record time, telling the regulars I have to be somewhere important. Some, like Bernice, correctly suspect that I’m about to meet the mysterious man who sent the roses and shoot me knowing winks and grins and boozy thumbs-up signs.
I ignore everyone.
“Night!” I call out to the stragglers leaving on foot and bicycle. I leap up to clasp the roll-down, heavy-duty plastic tarp and lock it down with superhuman strength.
When I first saw the card and the invitation, I assumed I would go right from work to the resort. But as I’m locking up, I catch a whiff of my underarms. It’s a mix of sweat and beer, with a twinge of cigarettes and seafood, since a customer had brought in some fried shrimp earlier in the day.
Ugh. Gross. No.
I race home and set the flowers on the kitchen table.
“How was the bar?” she asks, coming into the room. “Wow, those are pretty.”
“Bar’s good.” I shed my hoodie, leaving it on the back of the kitchen chair. “And, yeah, aren’t they gorgeous?”
“They from Damien?” She leans in to smell a rose.
“Yup.” I grin.
“You headed somewhere?”
I pause in the doorway of the kitchen, and a pang of guilt washes over me. Mom’s looking at me with those huge eyes. She’s back to wearing her false eyelashes.
“I was, ah, going to hang with Damien tonight.” I wince. “Is that okay? Or do you need help? I was going to take the car. But I can grab a ride if needed. Call an Uber.”
Mom has been driving the past couple of days and has become increasingly mobile. She’d even gone out to lunch with a neighbor.
“No, honey. Go out. Have fun.”
My shoulders sag. I’m the worst daughter in the world, choosing a hookup over being with Mom. She’s six weeks post-surgery and the doctor says she’s doing wonderfully. Still.
“Kate. Go. I’m okay. Beau from next door’s supposed to bring some ice cream and help me work on this puzzle.”
I frown. Beau is about sixty-five. A fit and comely sixty-five. I see him jogging and windsurfing almost daily, so props to him. Come to think of it, he does seem to stop by often. How did I not notice that he and Mom have a budding romance?
“Beau who lost his wife a few years ago?”
She nods and smiles. Then winks. Hunh. Mom’s full of secrets.
“You sure you’ll be okay with Beau?”
She chuckles and snaps a puzzle piece into another. “You sure you’ll be okay with Damien?”
“I’ll be more than okay,” I call out, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door.
“Then I’ll be more than okay with Beau.”
My heart’s racing a thousand miles a minute as I shower and put on a simple, button-down white shirt, olive shorts, and sandals. I mutter to myself as I throw a couple of things into my mini backpack.
“Toothbrush, condoms, what’s left of my cholesterol medicine—sexy!”
I sweep out of my room and kiss Mom on the top of the head.
“You call me if you need anything. I’ll be, um, at the resort. I think we’re doing dinner or something.”
The thought of food hasn’t entered my mind, and the only eating I expect isn’t the kind I choose to discuss with my mother. I try to smile innocently while thinking of doing filthy things to Damien.
“Will do, dear. Have fun. If you’re going to be out all night, shoot me a text, okay?”
I nod and continue on my manic way, revving the car out of the driveway. I zoom down the main road that rings the island, past tourist souvenir shops selling three neon T-shirts for ten dollars, past tall, lush palm trees on Beach Drive, past the island’s nicest restaurant, the Square Grouper.
Within ten minutes I reach the northernmost tip of the island, where the Paradise Beach Resort sits. The sprawling building looms in the distance on the shore, a giant pink-and-white frosted Mediterranean-style building.
I careen into a public parking space across the street from the resort so I don’t have to pay the valet parking fees. Damien’s family owns the largest and nicest resort on the island, and even though it’s undergoing renovations, it’s still expensive to even set foot inside.
When I stride into the giant stucco building that looks like a castle, I nod politely to the doorman and the concierge.
I’m here for a night of sex, gentlemen.
Punching a brass button for the elevator, I wonder if my zero-fucks attitude is because I’d been so mercilessly bullied senior year high school. Everyone — well, everyone but Damien and Sadie, my best friend back then — thought I was a whore. Which was completely untrue — I was a virgin until I got to college.
The elevator doors slide open, and I’m suddenly awash in teenage memories.
At first I tried to fight back against the rumors. Protested that no, I hadn’t done it with Damien or anyone else. He tried to tell everyone that we’d only kissed. That backfired and rumor got around that I allowed him full access to my butt, which was outrageous and untrue. At that time, I didn’t even know what anal sex was.
He became wildly popular and was crowned homecoming king.
I cried myself to sleep every night.
Eventually, I gave up and stopped talking to nearly everyone except Sadie. If people didn't want to believe me, that was their problem. God, I wish she could see me now. She’d emailed recently, saying she was on her way back to Paradise after getting her boat captain’s license in Holland; I haven’t seen her in years.
I tap my foot as the elevator crawls to the fifth floor. I’ve never actually had sex on Paradise Beach, since I waited until I was safely in the anonymity of Chicago to have sex. It was my sophomore year and the experience had all the allure of warm milk.
Part of the problem was I’d always wanted to be with Damien.
I reach Room 501 and knock three times. He opens the door and grins wickedly, his teeth gleaming against his dark beard. Walking in, I allow my backpack to slide onto the floor and wrap my arms around his neck.
“
Hey,” I whisper.
He responds with a growl and presses me against the wall, assaulting my mouth with a hard, needy kiss.
Eleven
Kate
Damien is shirtless.
He’s pinning me against the wall, and he’s shirtless. It’s a glorious thing, his muscular, naked chest.
His golden skin is fever-hot. I want to break away from his kiss to stare at the perfection of his chest and shoulders and biceps…but the kiss.
It’s incredible. Wrapped in need and laced with lust.
I hike a leg up to his thigh, and then he’s supporting me entirely, both my legs around his waist. In some maneuver that’s graceful and totally without my participation, he scoops me up, his arm under my knees.
“What were you doing before I got here?” I try to act normal, like he’s not whisking me immediately to bed. Of course, I don’t care if he whisks me immediately to bed, because that’s exactly what I want, too
“Watching a Springsteen concert on TV.”
That’s when I notice that all the lights in the suite are off, except the flickering blue illumination of the TV. The volume is low, and something about the trademark Springsteen harmonica-sax combo is irresistible right this moment.
He sets me down roughly on the bed and climbs on top, while I kick off my sandals. Normally I’d want to take in every detail of the modern suite, but it’s too dark, and Damien is too alluring to pay attention to anything but him.
“I’m glad you came. I was worried you wouldn’t. You want me to turn the TV off?”
Finally, I’m able to run my palms over his chest. He didn’t think I’d show up? Maybe the shy high school Damien is showing through, or maybe I haven’t done a great job of signaling how much I want him.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. And no.” I look into his dark eyes. He cups my jaw and lays a devastatingly slow kiss on my lips. It’s almost so distracting and delicious that I forget to caress his back muscles.
