by Billie Dale
A simple day spent with a father and son. Laughing, poking fun, falling. Something blossomed but needs fertilized.
Does it make sense?
No, because I just told you we needed to sprinkle shit on our relationship. Sit there while I break it down for you.
Joey and I are an old sidewalk with tons of grass-filled cracks. Our time together rises in a budding bloom between the weathered worn splits. A tenuous growth with the potential to be stunning, unless it’s mistaken for a weed. With protection and water, it could open into a beautiful flower.
Yeah, I’m not buying my bullshit either. I want to love him, keep him, and name him George. No past, no loss… but lots of boning.
The road to the resort is narrow and winding. Through the windows muggy wind circulates, ripping the strands of my hair free from its messy bun. Tendrils stick in the sweat at the back of my neck. It’s hot as balls and more suffocating than the devil’s asshole.
“Holy hot biscuits, why aren’t we using the air-conditioning?” I whine.
Sammy twists from her second row to me in the third. Despite her tomato red face and perspiration drenched temples, she wears an enormous smile. “Just,” she takes a deep inhale expanding her chest, “breathe it in, Preslee.”
“No thanks, I don’t want to choke on the humidity,” I sass. I hate pissing all over her happy parade, but damn it I’m melting here. We’re talking boiling boobs and mossy ass. Nothing on my body is dry.
We reach the hotel and I all but sprint to the lobby, sighing in relief when the icy draft hits my skin. Thank you, Triple Sands.
The others follow and thankfully Joey remembered to grab my suitcase. My soaked skin dries, forming a sticky paste from head to toe.
Very much wanting a shower and clean clothes, I stroll to the counter for our reservations. The delightful man with a thick accent directs Sam and Mazric to the secluded beach front cabin on stilts I picked for them, then sends the rest of us straight to hell.
A sweet teen-ish young woman offers to escort my friends to their wedding bungalow while the man behind the counter directs two boys to lead us to ours. Joey heads off through a side door while Seth, Miguel, and I follow the kid through another.
In a perfect world Seth and Miguel would be reassigned but a day before we departed, I received a package. When I opened it, a scary as hell clown jack-in-the-box popped up, waving a sign written in blood red stating, “I see you.” It set everyone on edge and Joey insisted my guards close ranks.
Our little dude bustles us through a long hall and out a set of double doors leading to the beach. The sight of the endless turquoise sea steals my breath. Or it might be the oppressive humidity slapping me in the face. Either way, I can’t breathe. We clomp down a well-worn path in the sand. I fight my sinking suitcase. Too focused on battling the plastic wheels, I don’t watch where we’re going until my face hits Seth’s hard back.
When I scoured the internet and chose Triple Sands, I patted myself on the back for saving Mazric hundreds of dollars by booking Joey and I dwellings the establishment labeled cabanas. I adored the pictures of the cute beachside rentals, but I failed to read the small print.
Pulling my sore nose out of the middle of Seth’s spine, I peer around his bulky frame. Before me stands a tipi. Legit, Sitting Bull would applaud the construct. I’m hoping it’s like the tent from Harry Potter and when I step through the canvas style door, it magically turns into a sprawling chalet.
There is no magic here. Nope. The floor is sand because well, it’s the damn beach. Off to the side, a king-size bed sits inside a ginormous glass cube with some weird contraption attached to it. Lounge chairs dot the front area and the kid points toward the back explaining the restroom and shower are outside in another tent. OUTSIDE!
He attempts a quick escape but I catch his wrist, yanking him back to me. “Uh… I think there’s been a mistake. We can’t stay here.”
“No, ma’am, this is what your reservation specifies,” his pubescent voice cracks.
I drag him out and around to the back of the thing. “Son, that’s a freaking outhouse and beach shower. I reiterate, this cannot be my room.” Panic climbs up my spine, adding to the nasty ick coating my skin. A gust of wind drops a bucket of grit, compounding my misery.
He pulls out his phone, glaring at my hand until I let go. I’m not keen on how he’s shaking his head, nope not one bit. “You picked a cabana. This is it, and I’m sorry we’re all booked until tomorrow. Would you like to reserve the one cabin opening?”
Fuming, I resist the urge to punt his too-old sounding, narrow ass straight into the surf.
“It’s one night. Surely you can rough it for a few hours.” I swear I hear snark in his voice, but it could be my anger sounding off in my ears.
“Yes,” I hiss, “book the cabin.”
“Very good,” he chimes. I hope he chokes on his accent. “Check in is at three. Good night, Miss Carmichael.” Before I grab him again, he races up the path.
“FUCK MY LIFE!” I shout. I want, no require, a shower, food, and a comfortable bed where I won’t sleep with sand in my crack. Yes, it could be worse, I could be homeless for the night, but damn this sucks sweaty nuts.
Speaking of swampy balls, “Uh, Miss Carmichael?” Seth says.
Can I say it again? Can I? Fuck. My. Life.
Okay, all right, we can do this. It’s one night. I force a grin in place and face Seth and Miguel. With a quick follow me wave, we step inside. My mind whirls while my eyes narrow to slits, flicking between the enormous bed and the beefy men, sizing them all up.
“Her nose scrunch isn’t good, man,” Miguel says. “When women think that hard it’s never bodes well.”
“No, no. It’ll work. Might be tight, but we can all fit. I’ll sleep in the middle. I mean, how much safer can I be than sandwiched between you two?”
“Miss Carmichael—”
“Might as well call me Preslee, Seth, I mean we are going to share a bed,” I interrupt, offering a nervous flirty wink.
He scrubs a hand down his handsome face, mumbling curses. “Miss Preslee, we most certainly will not be sharing a bed. We will camp right here on the sand. I promise we’ve slept in worse conditions.”
“Nonsense. We will fit. Now while I hose off this sludge, you two decide who is on what side.” Before they can argue any further, I fish out a camisole and sleep shorts, trying not to fill my suitcase with beach before rushing out to the shower.
The water pours fresh and cool, feeling glorious on my skin. Despite its outward appearance, the facility is rather nice. A quick scrub and shampoo with a few extra minutes of soaking and I’m done. Of course, the clean last about two seconds because tiny shells and grainy white earth line the path to hell. I’m gritty before I ever reach the front flap.
I step inside, where Seth and Miguel were now stands a pissed-off Joey Holmes. Well shit, I forgot about him.
Twenty-Seven
Preslee
“Hey, J-J-Joey.” Is it me or is he vibrating? “Where did,” I gulp down a mouthful of saliva, “Seth and Miguel go?”
He steps closer, towering over me. “Sunflower.” His breath skitters across my forehead. I fight the urge to close my eyes and revel in his nearness. The reemergence of my nickname sends my heart palpitating every time it rumbles from his lips. “Why are we camping out at a tropical resort?” The patronizing edge of his voice grates in my ears. If I don’t answer smartly, he might punt me into the ocean.
“Oh this,” I wave toward the ground. “It’s great, yeah? I mean listen to those waves and the breeze knocks the heat right out,” I lie. Yes, it sounds all romantic and shit but we’re in a burlap sack where no wind blows and the sweat dripping down my ass crack negates the shower I took.
“You did this on purpose?” he seethes through gritted teeth.
I flop in the closest chair, fisting my hand in my wet strands, I wrangle them with angry fury into a sopping topknot. “Yes, Joey. I picked this sweet setup, w
here I’m building beachfront property in the crotch of my panties, while wishing I could put my tits in a ponytail, and eating grit brings me enormous pleasure. I fucked up, Joey. These were cheaper and I wanted to save Mazric some money. The pictures lied,” I deadpan, anger heating my cheeks and swelling in my eyes. “Now where are my freaking bodyguards?”
He meets my watery stare and all his ire dissipates with the release of a lone exasperated tear from my lashes. “I sent them to my…” he scans the room, “… whatever this is. No way are you sleeping between those two.”
Without an ounce of give a damn left, I can’t even castigate him for liberating my guards. “Come on, let’s call it a night. The sooner this day is over the sooner we can find rooms with actual walls,” he says, offering me his hand.
He yanks me up from the sunken seat and my mind battles. Should I tell him? I obligated to, right? He needs to know there will be no separate quarters, but I don’t want him to smother me in my sleep. No, I’ll wait until tomorrow if the barometric pressure doesn’t do his work for him.
I must let my mask slip because he throws out a, “Jesus I don’t want to know,” before he erases all my brain function removing his clothes. Maybe the heat isn’t too terrible, I think watching sweat slick down his chest. Thank you, God of Glistening Muscles!
Son of a monkey spanking porn star, he is one fine-ass man. The last time we slept next to each other sends my needle scratching across my drool album. “Wait. We cannot share a bed again. I think you should go back to your cabana and I’ll deal with Seth and Miguel.”
His cocked brow and wrinkled forehead glare asks if I’ve sprouted three heads and spewed the recipe for world destruction. He crosses those big guns over his impressive chest, making his biceps plump, amping me up a notch to stupid with a side of dumb girl pudding. The button on his jeans hangs open. His lays bare for God and country to marvel over and his happy trail of blond hair disappearing into his waistband makes me want to go on a treasure hunt to find the pot of gold at the end.
I had a viable excuse for not climbing into the same bed as him, but I can’t think of it because all the blood in my head is pulsing between my legs. My wetness mixed with sand turns the gusset of my panties to concrete. Seriously, I could surf the waves on the tiny swath of hard fabric.
Don’t judge me. Born again virgin here, remember?
“Preslee,” he calls, and I wonder how many times he’s said it because the wicked gleam he’s angling my way speaks volumes. I blink out of the lusty fog, prepared to listen. He sees my attention and continues, “You will not be the meat in the bodyguard sandwich. Now get your ass in the sand remover.”
He’s jealous. So green with it, Kermit the Frog is taking a shit in his stare. Don’t victory dance, don’t do it. It requires willpower of steel to keep from doing The Floss in celebration.
“Don’t get all triumphant there, Sunflower. I overheard your suggestion when I came over to kick your ass for sticking me in a bona fide tent. Those poor guys were mortified. I saved them the trouble of arguing with you,” he jeers, but the malice isn’t there and his hand tugging on the back of his neck is his I’m spewing bullshit tell.
Knee bent and hip cocked with one hand fisted at my waist, I chide, “Last time we shared space, I woke up with you diddling about inside my shorts.”
“And you were wrapped around me tighter than fur on a cat. What’s your point?” he retorts.
My exhaustion displays on a yawn. I don’t want to fight anymore. “Fine. Whatever.” I throw up my hands. “What the hell is a sand remover?”
“Knock, knock,” a cheery voice calls from beyond the flap. Joey sidesteps me, mumbles a thank you to the person at the door before returning with bottles of water and smorgasbord of junk food. He walks to the cube, opens a door at the end, and sets the goodies on the mattress.
He crooks a finger, telling me to follow.
He. Drops. His. Pants.
Woo-hoo-hoo. I whistle, licking across my lips at the sight.
He glances at me over his shoulder, flashing me a one-sided, crooked dimple-pulling smirk.
Oops, did I do that out loud?
Heat climbs up from between my legs, blazing a blushing path to my hairline.
My mortification spans a mere minute before he turns back to his task. Along the clear bedroom wall, he enters a frosted rectangular outcrop. The door snicks shut and a whirl fills the room. Inside he vanishes for a second in a cloud of white. When it stops, he exits the area on the other side where the bed sits. “Come on.” His voice muffled by the thick glass, he nods to the contraption.
Leery, I enter the box. A large vent sits at my feet and multiple hoses climb the walls circling my body. A waist-high panel with two buttons, red and green. Hand shaking, I jab the green one. I jump when a shower of white falls from the ceiling. It smells of powder but feels like air. In a blink, loud fans kick on at the same time as a deafening vacuum sucks at my skin. Before I can panic all the grimy stickiness clogging my pores and the gritty sand vanishes, leaving me fresh as a baby’s bottom.
The noise stops and a light flashes the word clean. Another snick tells me the opposite door unlocked. I step through and oh glory, hallelujah, I’m blasted with a cyclone of air-conditioning.
With canvas flaps, I wondered how in the hell anyone ever felt safe. Inside this clear, thick-walled bedchamber with dead bolts and chains on the doors, I understand. Besides the security, a toilet is near the back, tucked in a tiny area with a pocket door. The best part is there is not one granule of sand anywhere, and whatever crap the remover dusted on my body took away all the nasty. My undies are still a crusty lost cause, but a quick trip to the bathroom and viola I’m a commando princess loving the cool breeze chilling lady bits.
Boo-yaa for modern beach technology.
∞∞∞
We gorged ourselves and replenished the hydration we lost. I’m thankful for the icy temperature because it eases the edge of want with his half-nakedness under the blankets. He found a small television tucked in the wall and the sound of Friends lends itself to break the silence.
When the growling in my stomach settles, I swivel to find him relaxed with one hand behind his head and the other holding the remote. An Adonis of tanned skin curled enough for the ripple of his abs to tempt and tease before a white sheet drapes his lower half. It’s as though he’s a god awaiting a wench to feed him grapes.
He scrolls the limited guide while I watch Ross scream at Rachel about being on a break in a square at the top corner of the screen. Without asking my opinion, he hits the select button and some black and white show fills the screen.
“No, no, no. Don’t you live enough of this crap at work?” I groan, flopping a pillow over my head.
“The Andy Griffith Show is boss.” He unburies my face. “Watch, you might learn something.”
“Listen here Barney, I don’t need a syrupy dose of hometown woe-is-me pie made by Aunt Bee.”
“Whatever. I’m totally Andy. Even have the adorable little boy.” He smirks finding humor in my knowledge of the cheesy old show.
“You wish. No, you’re the bumbling idiot who is so overzealous at nipping trouble in the bud it’s ridiculous.”
He cocks a superiority brow over my intense knowledge.
Weekends spent locked inside my apartment means I rocked through a plethora of subscription service binge watching. Choices exhausted, I landed on good ole Andy while channel surfing one night. The small town and people grabbed me and I enjoyed the stupidity.
From the wicked storming up his baby blues, I suspect he thinks my comprehension of the program comes from some residual fascination with him and his profession. Unwilling to deny I had no idea he became the big bad chief of Nowhereville, I throw myself across the space separating us, lunging for the remote.
The man has skills. He reads my intent as I think it. With the slightest movement the arm behind his head rings my waist, pinning me to his side, while the other holds the channel c
hanger out of reach. I shift and wiggle, stretching my arms as far as they will go, effectively sprawling the half of me not contained across his torso. No matter how much I elongate myself, his iron grip and my T-Rex arms are no match for his long wingspan.
All the thrashing and flinging worked loose the strands of my hair and exhaustion lessens my fight. A huff of warm breath with my bottom lip pouted out sends the tendrils up and back down as I release my tensed muscles and flop flat where I lie, defeated.
A chuckle shakes his chest, vibrating mine due to his closeness, and I then I see my precarious landing place. The heat of him bleeds through the thin material of my camisole and my breasts press against the hard ridges of his stomach. Between his warmth and the cool air, my nipples poke up their knobby heads and check out the situation. While I’m cataloguing my predicament, another distinct hotness cups my exposed butt cheek. In our wrestling his hand at my waist slipped and now palms my ass where the fabric of my skimpy shorts rode up in the tussle. The tips of his fingers dance real close to where my pulse throbs.
My mind shouts PIVOT but my body stages a mutiny, voting to climb him like a tree instead. I beg myself for reasoning, pulling in a nostril-flaring breath meant to calm. Bad, bad move, Preslee. I chastise myself but can’t resist inhaling his soapy, salty scent, mixed with a hint of whatever the shit was we used to remove the sand again and again, until I’m lightheaded and tightening my thighs.
With all my strikeouts, if I were a baseball player my batting average would be shit because his hand is on my backside and he feels my clench. This man knows me better than any on the damn planet, and my wanton signals haven’t matured with age. Preslee turned on equals restless legs and ass cheeks so tight Buns of Steel would be proud. Factor in the hyperventilating worthy deep breaths, filled with soapy clean man, I’m sucking through my nose and BAM it’s an equation for terrible decisions.
