by Gage Grayson
“I like a lot of films. Love a lot of them. As for mine, well, I’ve given up on that.” Aaron lifts the lid on one of the platters. “Let’s eat.”
He’s clearly ready to change the subject, but now, I have my own agenda: to figure out what’s really going on with Aaron Michaelson.
Aaron
“I give up already,” Macy announces as she grudgingly opens the door to the lobby.
“On what?”
I’m almost sure the private cabana dinner was a success, and I’m absolutely sure I’ve got a proud, maybe even smug, smile on my face as we stroll into the lobby.
“Nothing.”
Stopping and turning in Macy’s direction, I put my hand on the door, holding it open for nothing but the cool, evening breeze flowing in. Macy removes her hand, looking at me with an annoyance that’s already starting to wane.
“I just wanted confirmation that it was the best dinner you’ve ever had.”
“You’re trying to tell me it’s not some game you’re playing? With the door and shit?” It feels like there’s a small weight being lifted in Macy’s face as she realizes how ridiculous this is.
“Macy...” I soften my voice to a near whisper, making this conversation as private as possible in this public space. “I don’t give a shit about the fucking door, okay? I was being playful earlier, but it’s not some sort of game I’m playing.”
Macy nods her head—not ready to believe me just yet.
“I didn’t realize who you were, and I don’t know anything about the way people are in...your world. I don’t speak Hollywood.”
“That’s fine.” I let go of the door, letting it close. “Because I don’t speak Hollywood, either. Because there’s no such thing. All I did was ask if the dinner lived up to the hype. I didn’t even mention the door again.”
“But you know it was the best dinner I’ve ever had?”
“It was?” I can tell my face is lighting up, and it looks like Macy’s is, too—although she’s clearly confused.
“Are you actually happy about that?”
“That’s what I wanted for tonight, Mace. For you to have the best dinner you’ve ever had. If I’ve accomplished that, it’s okay to be proud of it.”
Macy throws her hands up, with a weirdly sarcastic smile.
“I don’t get it, but it’s another thing for you to be proud of then...” Macy’s hands drop, and her sarcastic smile is replaced with a slight but real smirk. “We probably look like a real married couple arguing right now, don’t we?”
I look out into the rest of the lobby, which is now mostly empty, then back to Macy.
“We are a real married couple, aren’t we?”
“You know what I mean—one that’s been at it for a while. This isn’t honeymoon behavior, is it?”
It’s subtle, but Macy takes on my usual look of smugness, seeming to say, Yeah, try that one on for size, motherfucker.
Out of everything I predicted might come from the whole newlywed scheme, I never thought she’d end up having fun with this part of it. But if she is, I’ll sure as hell fucking embrace it with her.
Plus, I need to show I can hold my own.
My eyes search the lobby again quickly, I imbue my look with the nervous energy of someone trying to hide how embarrassed they are.
“What is honeymoon behavior, anyway? Are you only concerned with it because we’re in public?”
“Are you?”
I take a step in Macy’s direction, and she stays where she is.
Macy, now fully in character, is getting a kick out of watching Aaron, also in character, be humiliated. It’s an impressive acting choice, but it’s another reminder of why I’m not married for real.
“First of all,” I whisper intensely, “you need to stop being concerned about how we’re supposed to behave. It’s not dictated by where we are, or what we’re doing.”
Macy crosses her arms and does her own look around the lobby, considering what my character just said.
“If not those things, then what?”
“Who we are, Macy. That’s all that matters. Don’t you see? I didn’t marry you for the honeymoon, I married you for you. To spend my life with you. To be there for you and with you, to be by your side no matter what. The here doesn’t matter, the what doesn’t matter, only you matter, at least to me. If you wanted to honeymoon at a Motel 6 in Jersey City, I’d be just as happy to be there, because you would be there—the same you that’s right here. That’s why I’m the happiest man in the world. And that’s not just for this honeymoon—that’s forever.”
Macy nods slowly, digesting my performance, and her response soon follows.
“I don’t know how you got there from talking about behavior, but I admire your commitment.”
Macy smiles slyly as she starts towards the elevator, and I somehow manage to keep a straight face, although it’s a fucking struggle.
We’re both smiling silently, as the elevator ascends. Macy snorts slightly, desperately holding back a laugh. I don’t think we’re staying in character very well.
Once the doors open on our floor, we both race down the hallway as if our fucking lives depend on it, and when I use the keycard to open the door, I feel like I’m actually fucking shaking and that I’m about to fucking explode.
Finally, we get inside the suite.
Macy starts keeling over as the suite door closes behind us, slapping her hands on the wall to keep from falling then regaining her balance as her laughter peals loudly through the room.
I’m fucking laughing, too, but Macy’s face is fucking purple at this point, with tears running from her eyes, as she points at me.
“D-dude...I can’t believe you just said all that shit in the middle of the fucking lobby. You know people heard that, right?”
“I think your response was better. ‘I admire your commitment.’ It works as a critique of my performance, and as a response to your poor sap of a husband.”
We’ve both stopped laughing, but Macy’s still beaming, almost fucking maniacally, as she glares at me.
“You! You’re the poor sap now.”
I shrug.
“I guess I am. And you’re the poor sap’s wife.”
Macy’s smile fades, and she also shrugs.
“I’ve got a big heart, I guess.”
“So do I. Didn’t you hear my monologue?”
Macy shakes her head, her face turning slightly wistful. She walks over to the sofa and leans against the arm.
“You can just sit down on that, you know.” I finally start taking off my jacket, and open the closet by the door.
“That would be against the ground rules.”
I hang my jacket, knowing some sort of disagreement is brewing, and not looking forward to it unfolding.
“Why’s that? I’m nowhere near the couch right now.”
“I’d still be getting in your bed, though. That seems like it would violate the spirit of the rules, and it would be disrespectful on my part.”
Stretching my neck, I approach the center of the room slowly. Macy walks away from the couch altogether, and sits on a matching lounge chair near it.
Again, I’m at a loss for words, especially when I remember there are no other rooms available. But, I should probably clarify.
“Is this your way of telling me I need to sleep on the couch?”
“Unless there’s another bed here—which there isn’t, I’m sorry to say.”
This cannot be happening—but it fucking is.
I didn’t come all the way here to sleep on a fucking couch, did I?
But, why?
“Macy...”
“Yes, husband?” She looks up at me with an expression that’s downright fucking perky. Maybe I set the tone with that scene downstairs, but she’s still having fun, just a grand old fucking time.
“Why on Earth should you get that big, entire bed, while I have to sleep out here on the couch? The way I see it, we’re both equally entitled.”
“Why don’t you take a seat on your bed over there, Aaron, and I’ll give you a nice, long explanation.”
I’m still not sure what’s going on, but I feel like Macy is suddenly being very convincing. I almost do it.
“So, do I create a contract by sitting on the couch?”
Macy frowns slightly and shakes her head.
“I have no idea what you mean by that, so, no?”
“You just told me to sit on my bed. If I respond by sitting on the couch, am I acknowledging the couch is my bed, and...”
“Aaron, just sit on your bed. I can’t use it anymore, but I’d like to see someone enjoy it.”
If someone’s trying to manipulate me, I can usually see straight through that shit right away. If I ever lose that ability, I’d be chewed up and spit out so fast even I wouldn’t know what the fuck hit me.
So, it’s a bit fucking scary that I’m losing that ability now. Because I really want to sit down on that couch all of a sudden—so I do.
Macy watches me, and my body temperature starts to climb. There’s a sincere spark in her eye, but I have to try to not let any of this get to me.
“Okay, here I am, and there you are.”
Macy nods dreamily.
Shit, there’s a chance she’s just fucking tired.
Tired and happy.
“I’ll level with you, Aaron the producer. I’m already set up in the bedroom. I’d also prefer to have my own private space while we’re here, which isn’t possible out there.”
“There are other spots...”
“Hold on. When spring break is over, I’m going to fly back to New York in economy, and I’m going to sleep on a dorm bed every night, and I may never sleep on a bed that comfortable again in my life.”
Yes, I came all the way here just to sleep on a couch. But it’s a comfortable couch, and what fucking argument do I have against that? I thought I was roughing it by flying first class instead of chartering a private jet, I can’t be that much a fucking monster to take a few days of luxury away from her.
Macy perks up at the sound of my sigh. She knows she’s fucking won—but she’s still looking at me, waiting for an official response.
“Although I think you know my answer already, I’d like to thank you for opening my eyes to that perspective, really. I’m glad to sleep right here on this couch, and I want you to have the bed.”
“Thanks so much, ya sweet sap. Guess you’ve got a big heart, after all. It just so happens that I want the bed, too, so...see ya tomorrow!”
Macy’s hops up and bounces off to the bedroom. She may be gone until tomorrow, but she’s happy.
And maybe she’s seeing a side of me she didn’t know about. If she’s even a little bit charmed by anything that happened today, I’ve got many more layers of charm for her to discover yet.
Macy
“May I ask you a question, oh husband of mine?”
“Anything, anytime.”
“Do you happen to know where the fuck we’re going?”
I hate being late.
Aaron seems confident, but this place is big. We’re ahead of schedule right now, but if we end up wandering aimlessly around, that won’t last long.
“Oh yeah. I got a map when I checked in.” He’s still shoving his key card in his back pocket as we walk away from our door.
“I didn’t get a map.”
Hotels and motels with directories posted on the walls are more my thing, this world of luxury resorts is still new to me.
Aaron smirks. “I did ask for it. They didn’t give it to me just because I’m good looking.”
He’s so ridiculous. Not that it isn’t true, but, dude, give it a rest.
For some reason, I’ve always thought men tended towards the deeply insecure—especially when they seem so outwardly conceited.
Aaron’s giving me a whole new perspective on that…he knows exactly what his assets are, and he isn’t shy about them at all.
Ever.
Grabbing my hand, he entwines our fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”
He’s right. By the time we walk into the air-conditioned spa, it almost feels normal holding his hand.
“Michaelson for ten o’clock,” Aaron announces, all business.
The sunny woman behind the counter smiles and highlights something on the clipboard she’s holding.
“Follow me, please.” She turns away, and we follow her into a small waiting area that’s empty except for us.
Pulling two clipboards from a rack on the wall, she hands us each one. “Please fill these out for us. Would you like a drink while you do so? We have tea, lemon water or coffee.”
She seems so genuinely interested in service, something I’ve noticed with all the staff here.
It’s a little different than what I’m used to in New York.
“I’ll take some water. Thank you.” I look at Aaron—he seems much more familiar with this whole luxury thing in general. For some reason, I’m interested in seeing how he handles all the little details.
“I’m great for now.” Aaron sits on the couch, so I sit down next to him.
The ray-of-sunshine receptionist is back with my lemon water immediately—I don’t know why I was expecting a paper cup, but of course, the water comes in a tall glass with ice.
I sip quietly while filling out my form. It’s pretty standard, asking about pre-existing medical conditions, massage focus points. Yet, it makes this massage seem like a bigger deal than I thought it was—not that I’d get cold feet about a massage.
Like everything else in this resort, the reception area is opulent yet low-key. The air smells like lilac, and the mood lighting is calibrated to destroy any overt or underlying anxiety.
A duo of masseuses, a woman and a man, file in as I finish.
“I’m Manuel and this is Celia. We will be doing your massages today. Have you completed your forms?”
I hand mine out wordlessly. Celia takes it smiling from me. She looks over it briefly, and Manuel does the same with Aaron’s.
“Please follow us.” Manual leaves the room first, and Celia holds her arm out, signaling for me to follow him.
As we’re ushered into the massage room, the Caribbean resort starts to feel like an otherworldly retreat even more isolated from the stresses of the world. The massage room is spacious and dimly lit, with the same lilac scent along with other subtler, but equally soothing, floral aromas.
“You can use these cabinets here to store your clothes. Please take off as much as you feel comfortable with, including jewelry, and then lay down faceup under the sheet. We’ll be back shortly, so just try to relax.”
Walking out, they shut the door quietly behind them.
Of course, Aaron wastes no time in removing all his clothes and happily tosses them into the wooden cabinet.
I’m still in shock. How did I get myself in this situation again? Oh yeah. It’s a free massage, and the ambience won’t allow any hint of tension to last for long.
With my back to Aaron, I pull my shirt over my head and add it to the pile. Removing my earrings, I put them in the little basket and then unhook my bra. Dropping it down my arms, I put it on top of my clothes.
Do I take my underwear off?
That’s how it’s done here, I guess, and I’ll look like a prude if I don’t.
Besides, what’s the big deal? He’s already seen everything.
For some reason, that thought doesn’t make me feel any better.
Stepping out of my underwear, I throw is as quickly and casually as I can into the cabinet.
I’m relieved to see that Aaron didn’t take the table closest to me. I try to be cool as I move towards it—at what I hope looks like a leisurely pace even though I feel like sprinting.
Arranging the sheet over me for maximum coverage, I hear him again.
“This is a weird fucking painting.”
What the hell is he talking about?
Swiveling my head, I see Aaron—in all h
is naked glory—standing in front of the designer painting with his hands on his hips.
“Uh, yeah, It’s different.” I can’t really see it that well with the dim light and with him standing in front of it. But who could focus on the painting with his naked butt in front of it?
He turns away from the painting and starts circling the tables.
When I close my eyes to relax, all I see is his backside, plus the ripped muscles in his arms and the indentations in his butt cheeks.
Fucking hell.
I hope this massage relaxes me.
“What do you suppose this is?” He’s on my left and my eyes pop open at his question.
He’s holding a bottle with sticks hanging out the top.
“It’s a diffuser.” I whisper. “Put it down!”
Sniffing it, he shrugs and casually puts it back on the shelf. His cock is literally eye level and less than a foot away. My gaze is drawn to it, but I think that’s just gravity—it’s a dick with substantial mass.
The atmosphere is suddenly less relaxing, though.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I exhale slowly through my mouth and focus on a point on the ceiling.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
His feet make a shuffling sound on the tiled floor as he continues making his way around the room. Thankfully, he doesn’t say any more as he finishes his perusal, and finally lays down on his table.
Less than five seconds later, there’s a light tap on the door before it’s cracked and then opened.
Celia moves to the far corner and turns on some soothing soundtrack with ocean waves and chimes.
“Are you newlyweds?”
At Manuel’s question, Aaron and I look at each other.
Aaron’s quicker than me, and answers in the affirmative. “Yes.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” His voice is soothing, and I’m still looking at Aaron as Manuel moves to his feet and Celia does the same to me.
Rolling back the sheet to my upper thighs, she starts oiling her hands, and, within seconds, I feel her warm hands start manipulating my feet.
“I’ve been married for twenty-five years, and it’s not always easy.” Manuel seems just old enough for that to be believable—not a wise old man type by any stretch—yet his voice is full of calm knowledge.
