by Gage Grayson
There are no second chances at first impressions, but the chance to spend some more time with Macy at that bar seems close enough.
Even though it takes a little over half an hour to get down there and for our eggs benedict to be served.
“Are you going to tell me some movies you like, or what?” Macy casually stuffs a forkful of spinach and runny eggs into her mouth.
I must say, I’m enjoying the grilling overall, even though I’m not that huge a fan of the subject matter.
Still, I’m not going to be a dick and tell her to look up an old interview like I would to almost anyone else in the world at this point.
She might appreciate a joke, though, if she gets it.
“Oh, you know...” Even though I’m wearing sunglasses, I look up into the sky reflectively. “Citizen Kane, Goodfathers, Godfellas…the real classics.”
“Oh, ha, ha. Think you’ll get out of this with some above-it-all irony?”
“What if I don’t want to get out of it?”
Macy taps her fork a couple of times against her English muffin before answering.
“Then we won’t get into it, I guess.”
“That’s fine with...fuck.”
“What?”
“My excuse, Macy, is that I enjoy talking to you so much.”
“We missed the fucking shuttle, didn’t we?”
“There she goes.” I point to the small, white bus motoring away from the lobby entrance.
It’s times like these, when you have to run a mile down the beach so you’re not late for what may be the best part of a vacation, that I’m glad I only took a few bites of my eggs benedict.
I guess that this is the only time like this, actually.
“I can carry you, Macy.”
“I don’t...want…”
“You don’t want me to carry you?”
“...to fucking hear it.”
Macy’s not happy, but she keeps up with me like a fucking champ until we see the departure pier, and the boats.
As we approach, I see a large, older yacht—though not what you’d call a luxury yacht—and a series of smaller, open speedboats, most of which are boarded, with engines started. The larger vessel is the guide boat, and the speedboats follow individually.
Just like they’re starting to do now—just as we get to the booth by the pier.
“Can we still get on the tour? We have reservations.” I’m starting to get slightly winded as I ask.
“Mr. and Mrs. Michaelson?” The college-aged kid there asks, a bit too slowly.
“Yes,” I almost yell, focused on getting the fuck on the water. I can feel the relief coming from both of us as he hands me a two-way radio.
“They’re just departing now, and you’re on the guide manifest, so make sure to radio them on the frequency it’s on now if you have any problems. You’re in the last boat left...”
“Thanks!” I yell as we run to the pier.
Macy jumps right on the boat before me, and I save that as something to be impressed about later as I get the engine started.
Things start looking up as the engine starts with a full-throated roar, and they start really looking up as I steer us rapidly towards the band of boats ahead of us.
It is fucking beautiful as any sign of land vanishes quickly behind us, and we’re surrounded by nothing but the paradise of limitless, tranquil waters.
As we start to catch up with the tour group, the air and water seem as calm as could be—except for a slight breeze, which starts growing stronger.
And now it looks like the guide boats are bearing away from the wind, and I do the same, towards the port side. We stay in the same general bearing though, which is good, because we will hopefully see something out here—as beautiful as the sea is.
The wind picks up again, and we all bear away from it a little harder, towards the port side again.
Then suddenly, I can’t steer.
Tell me this isn’t fucking happening.
The engine’s really fucking loud now, and there’s very little visibility because the entire boat is fucking vibrating like crazy, until there’s a dull impact and the engine powers down rapidly.
And dies with a sound so definitive that I wish I’d recorded it to sell as a fucking Foley sound.
“The good news is we didn’t hit another boat,” I announce after the engine dies.
“Is that good?”
We’re ashore.
And it’s not St. Maarten.
21
Macy
“How long has the radio been broken?”
Aaron’s standing with his hands on his fucking hips, looking out onto the island and not even fucking facing me when he asks.
“Since we left. I told you more than once already. I was trying to radio the guide boat for this very—this is an eventuality, isn’t it?”
I slam my thumb, then the palm of my hand, on every fucking button on the goddamn thing, willing it to make some freaking noise.
There’s always a pattern to situations like this, when you don’t want to accept that something is, indeed, fucking happening.
I drop the radio intentionally on the sand between my feet. The sound inspires Robinson fucking Crusoe over there to finally turn around and face the issue instead of basking in whatever he thinks he’s found on this tiny heap of sand, rocks and old, bowing palms.
“Now it’s dead, Macy—if it wasn’t before.”
That pattern I was talking about?
It’s more like a road, with different signposts along the way.
When the boat engine started going crazy, we passed that first signpost:
No, this isn’t happening, no way.
“I dropped it on soft fucking sand, Aaron. And it was dead to begin with. Long dead!”
When the boat ran ashore on some random fucking island, we passed the next signpost:
Now this is really not happening. No, it’s all some big misunderstanding, and I’ll just blink and everything will be back to normal.
“Did you check your phone, Macy?”
“Did you check yours?” is the best I can manage as I dig my phone out from the waterproof pouch in my handbag.
When the radio stayed dead when we needed it most, and Aaron started skulking around like this was some newfound land to conquer, we passed the next signpost:
Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is really fucking happening, isn’t it?
“No signal on mine, Mace. How about yours?”
Looking at my phone, I resist the urge to stab it with my thumb like I did with the radio.
“No. Nothing.”
And there goes the next and final signpost.
No, no, no, no, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
“Let me take a look at the radio.” Aaron points to the useless hunk of black plastic on the ground.
At least he didn’t just reach down and take it.
“Be my guest.”
I take a few steps backwards, and he scoops the radio in a weirdly swift and fluid movement, then began working on it immediately.
I look at my phone again. There’s no signal, but there must be some way to get through to the rest of the world.
Aaron now has the battery or something already pulled out of the radio.
I go back to my phone.
“Ah. No. This thing’s completely defunct. Why did they give us this piece of shit?” he exclaims.
“I said that like twenty times already—and there’s no Wi-Fi here either.”
Aaron goddamn laughs loud enough to shake the goddamn trees, but I don’t entirely mind it.
Panicking’s not going to do us any good.
“Do they have another manifest back at the pier? Or will they mention us to the guides when they get back? And notice we’re missing?” I ask.
I don’t know why I think Aaron would know all this shit—but he fucking might, and there’s little else I can think of right now.
“Those are possibilities,” he says, “but most likely
, they’ll notice their missing boat before anything else.”
“So, they should be out here in like an hour at most?”
“That’s possible, but highly unlikely.”
“Then, when will they find us?”
“Depending on how many other islands are out there, how far we are from the group, and the resources they can put on this, it could be days.”
I feel like we’re about to go down that road again, with those signposts—but this time I’ll just skip a few steps.
“No, no, no, fuck!”
“Or it could be shorter, if this sort of thing happens often. Although you’d think they’d have better fail-safes.”
“Alright, fine, no time to panic.”
I’m the only one panicking, but Aaron nods understandingly.
“Nah, I don’t think so. But it still happens, too. It’s also not the time to beat yourself up, either.”
My hand travels into my handbag as if both were suddenly magnetized, and emerges a second later with several tiny gin bottles from the suite’s fridge.
“It is time to drink, though.”
“Whoa, lady, you carry those around in your purse? I think we might need to have a little talk.”
“Oh, you always want to have a little talk, don’t you? Well, it’s not always a good time to do that.”
Aaron pulls four tiny gin bottles from some seemingly bottomless pouch at the back of his swimwear.
“You got me, Macy. When I say I want a little talk...well.”
I’m going to have to start thinking of some new analogies, because there are no signposts for what starts to unfold next.
There are no easy ways to describe it at all.
“Seriously,” Aaron begins as we look out onto the sea, sipping from our little bottles, “do you have the habit of carrying liquor around in your purse?”
“In my purse? No. In my handbag?” I shrug, waiting a perfectly uncomfortable couple of seconds. “Also, no.”
This time, Aaron’s laugh seems to echo down the yawning chasm of water before us. There’s no actual echo, but it just feels so...powerful.
“Do you usually carry around liquor next to your butt?”
“Only if I’m on set, and if one of the stars has something about that in his rider.”
“That the producer has to carry around liquor somewhere...special?”
“That might as well be my job description, to be honest. But it’s never for me. Even today—it was for the both of us.”
“Well, I’d ask how the fuck you knew we’d be in a situation like this, but I grabbed some too, so...did you happen to grab any snacks, too?”
“Hell yeah! Did you?”
A little more straight rum, a few crackers with hummus, a few more Belgian chocolates... I don’t need any fancier dining than this.
It seems to be working out tonight, at any rate.
Yes, it’s somehow gotten dark over the course of a few snacks.
And we’re still sitting on the sand, staring out at the ocean—although the view is mostly stars, now.
I polish off my latest bottle, trying to think of the right thing to say.
“At this moment, I am seeing more stars than I’ve ever seen up until now combined.”
I turn lazily to the side to gauge Aaron’s reaction to that bit of poetry I just fucking dropped.
He just keeps looking up to the fucking sky as he says, “Heh. Upper West Side, right?”
I bring my view, even more lazily, back up to the sky.
“You can’t see any more stars on the East Side. Or in fuckin’ Midtown. S’all the same. Where did you grow up, Mr. Big Shot? Fuckin’ Big Sur or something?”
We both laugh upwards into the vastness of the night sky.
“No, but close. Brentwood.”
My head drops for another look at Aaron, considering this information, and then back up at the universe.
“You’re really born and bred, aren’t you?”
“I’m a product of the system, baby.” Aaron twists the cap off another rum bottle. “The studio system.”
“I didn’t know the studio system produced human beings.”
“You should ask my parents about that.”
“Ask them about what?”
“Being part of the studio magic, that old-school Hollywood glamour, when I was trying to grow up and be an actual person.”
“Did they try to make you a child star or something?”
“No. And that’s one thing to be grateful for. They just let me raise myself while I got inadvertent little glimpses into the sleaze through the artifice.”
“So, they were producers?”
“Fuck, yeah, couldn’t you tell?”
I’m not even sure what’s funny, but more of our laughter flies into the constellations.
“Wait a second...” I turn over to face Aaron, and he faces me at the same time, and the view is somehow even better than all the stars. “Your parents were into old-school Hollywood glamour when you were growing up? How old are you? Is this old-school glamour from the nineties?”
“Yeah, early nineties, and later. You know, Jack and Rose.”
“So is that one of the movies you like?”
Aaron rolls his eyes, and that’s enough to take me on a little journey—and leave me feeling flushed out of fucking nowhere.
“What do you think, Macy?”
“How about TV, music?”
That sentence was a hard one to get out.
“Oh, yeah. Music videos...the Bangles...”
“Weren’t they before your time? Also, what?”
“They’re timeless. Susanna Hoffs is not of this Earth.”
“What about Belinda Carlisle?”
“She’s more about being down to Earth, no matter what.”
“I think I get that. What else, Madonna?”
“Are you calling me Madonna?”
“No, she’s just from the same whole thing. Or maybe not.”
“No, I’d say definitely not. Like a Prayer was great, though.”
“How about beyond that? Blonde Ambition? Truth or Dare?”
Yes, I’m the one who says it. Guess who runs with it?
I’ll give you a hint: he’s suddenly got a lot more energy, and he’s now sitting upright.
“If you’re suggesting we play Truth or Dare, I think that’s a great idea.”
“I’ll tell you what...” I sit upright, now. It seems like the thing to do. “I’ll do it—but I’m choosing truth every single time.”
“Macy, that sounds perfect.”
I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll take it.
“How does it start? Fuck it I’m going: truth, ask away.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you could possibly admit right now? And remember, this is truth, so make it accurate.”
The answer springs to mind immediately, and blood rushes to my face, which I bury in my hands for a moment.
“Oh, no, not this. Not you. You’re the last person I should be telling this to.”
“Sounds like you’ve found the exact right answer to this question. So, let’s have some truth.”
Uncovering my face, I spit it out as fast as possible. “IactuallylikePaulyShore.”
“What? I have to understand what you’re saying.”
“I. Actually. Like. Pauly. Shore. Okay?”
“Uh, I said embarrassing. That’s normal. Pauly Shore’s great.”
“So those are the movies you like?”
“All I said was Pauly Shore’s great, but you’re obviously embarrassed so you’re off the hook. My turn.”
“Allow me to guess...”
“No, my turn: dare.”
That flushing from earlier return with a fucking vengeance, and I feel weak. I lie down, unthinkingly, my eyes still on Aaron, waiting for his dare.
This is it. I’m in control.
The way Aaron looks at me is clear—he’s mine to do with as I please.
I now know t
hat this is the situation I’ve been waiting for.
“Okay Aaron, your dare is to stand up and take off all your clothes.”
Aaron moves to leap off the ground.
“Woah there, Superman. This time, take it nice and slow. I want to enjoy this show.”
22
Aaron
What started as a joke has quickly turned into something...different.
Standing naked, with my hands on my hips, I channel my inner Superman. Or Thor.
From mythology or Marvel, or DC, take your pick. Any of those icons will do.
Although, I do feel like my own icon right now, in my own mythological land.
Macy’s passion-filled eyes are the first clue that nobody’s ready for this show to be over. Dropping my knees to either side of her feet, on the towel that she’s been lounging on, I slowly lean forward and connect my lips with hers.
Only our lips are touching as I hover over her.
She moans encouragingly, opening her mouth.
Slipping my tongue inside, I start traveling down what I hope is an epic, endless path of losing myself in all that is Macy.
Pulling back, I work myself down the side of her jaw kissing lightly.
“Well, I’m naked now. Maybe I could take this off, right?” I whisper in her ear, and she shivers slightly under me.
Reaching between us, I use my index finger to lightly trace a trail from her collarbone down her chest. Stopping at her bikini top at it’s joint between her tits, and giving the fabric a couple quick taps, I raise my eyebrows questioningly.
I don’t see much of a reaction at first, just that same heat in her eyes, but when I see that stellar heat start to go supernova and feel her breathing quicken, I move my fingers down slowly.
My fingers shift to the right, and I cup my hand around her tit, feeling its wonderful heaviness. Circling her nipple with my thumb lightly, I gauge her reaction before going any further.
When she moans, I capture her lips again with my own. Sliding my tongue into her mouth, I press against her softly.
She shifts slightly under me, and I draw back a bit, releasing her lips.
Are we stopping? Even though I’ll be sad, this vacation’s already progressing to more amazing places that I could imagine.
I’m happy to see that as she leans back on one arm, shifting away from me slightly, her other hand reaches up and pulls her bikini top away from her chest.
