“Will this work?”
His question recaptures my attention and I look at the spread laid out on the kitchen bar.
“This will be wonderful. Thank you.”
We settle on the bar stools and do some serious damage to the food. Well, mostly Max does the serious damage. I gork-out on kiwi fruit and strawberries and buttered croissants, all things not on my peanut butter and ramen noodles budget and chat with Max about the homeless people I try to help.
“Usually, I take The Wombat and make the rounds of the fried chicken and pizza places on Friday nights. I collect whatever food they are willing to give me and take it to the homeless.”
“The Wombat?” He cocks his head in question.
“Yeah. It’s my vintage, pink and white, hippie van complete with a hand-painted peace sign on the hood. It belonged to my mom. Patty traveled the United States in it. Told me I was conceived in the back.” I wiggle my eyebrows. Max chokes on his Smart Water, which triggers a paroxysm of coughing. I hop off my stool and pound him on the back until he regains his breath.
“Good. I’m good. S-stop now,” he sputters, laughing. Turning on his bar stool, he captures my hands playfully and holds them up with a grin. “This is assault…” His voice trails off. The humor in his expression dies away, replaced with another kind of awareness. Holy smokes. I stand between his legs, inches from his groin. Heat radiates off him. I want him to close the distance and kiss me. His thighs close on my bare waist and his eyes stray to “the girls” overflowing my bikini top and then back to my face. “Holiday Jones,” he whispers.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
“I’m going to k-kiss you.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
His long fingers wrap my bare waist and pull me into the vee of his legs. He has a serious erection working. His eyes hold mine. A hand leaves my waist and slides under my hair to cup the nape of my neck. He tilts me forward, angles his head and feathers his lips over mine, then presses more firmly. His tongue asks for entrance and I open to him. I respond to each quest of his lips and tongue. Sweet baby Jesus, this man can kiss. I know I have pointers and down below, Miss Kitty’s doing the Merengue.
You know when I said holding his hand felt like being plugged into low voltage? Well, kissing him is straight 220. When he stops, I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself but he’s the one who’s shaking. I see only the top of his head.
“Max?”
He straightens and faces me. His eyes gleam wetly and he swipes at them with his forearm, but he’s smiling.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” I wipe dampness off his cheekbones with my fingertips. “I’m outta practice kissing straight guys. Did I do something wrong?”
His chuckle has that watery sound you make when you laugh through tears.
“No. Something r-right.”
He doesn’t explain any further and I’m too disconcerted to press. I’m dying for him to kiss me again, but he doesn’t do that either. Darn. I know he enjoyed kissing me. It’s hard to ignore the good eight inches of hard maleness under the thin white cloth of his cargo shorts.
Max pushes me away gently and stands. “Had enough?”
“Food or kisses?”
Crows’ feet appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I love them. Everything about Max fascinates me. He’s so fricking sexy. Why is he alone? There should be a topless bathing beauty on the lounge chair by the mini-lagoon masquerading as an infinity pool. Max is ideal for some Palm Beach cougar looking for a boy toy. Just try it, Ms. Cougar. I’ll scratch your eyes out. I got here first. Please, kiss me again, Max.
“Food,” Max answers.
Oh yeah, that. “Bummer. Yeah, I’ve had enough to eat…any more and I’ll pop. Let me help you put things away.”
Being a gentleman, which I suspect is second nature to Max, he and Snafu walk me to the beach. I smile up at him and pat Snafu. The dog and I have a tug of war over the Frisbee, but Max quietly tells the Lab to “Drop it,” and I reclaim the plastic disc and stow it in my backpack.
“I have to get going. I have a catering job tonight and I need to buy my uniform. Finally, some money coming in for a change.” I break out a fist pump and then shrug into my backpack and face Max. “Thanks for lunch. Thanks for your company. I enjoyed my morning with you and Snafu.” I look at my feet and cock my head, catching his gaze with a sideways glance. “May I come back tomorrow and take Snafu out again?”
“Can I…hire you?”
I straighten and regard him quizzically.
“To p-play with Snaf?”
“Sure, but I’ll do it for free. You don’t have to pay me.”
“I want…to pay. An official job.” Max appears very serious. “Fifty a day. Seven to twelve. P-plus lunch. Monday through F-friday.”
“Wow. Can you afford that?”
Max nodded. “Easy. Army pension. I n-need Snaf happy.”
Well, that sold it. “Mister? I never did get your last name.”
“Harper.”
I grin and hold out my hand. “Mr. Harper, you just hired a playmate for your dog.”
I wish I could take a picture of Max’s face at that moment. It’s beyond price to know you can give someone such happiness so effortlessly. I do the whole backing-away-not-wanting-to-lose-eye-contact-with-Max thing again until finally I turn and jog off.
It’s all I can do not to leap in the air and wave my arms around like a complete fool. I’m going to make $250 dollars a week! To play with a dog! The few people dotting the beach look at me like I’ve lost my mind and I realize I just screamed that out loud. I’m too happy to care, and I keep on jogging.
When I return to Studio Six—cause it’s a studio apartment in an old Motel Six—I wrangle the door of The Wombat open and step on the door frame. I launch myself onto the woven vinyl seat, careful not to put my foot through the hole in the floorboard. With a tinny, ding-a-ding-a-ding-ding-ding, and a cloud of exhaust, the engine turns over and I put-put-put out of the parking lot on my way to Harvey’s Tux & Bridal Rental. I need to purchase a tuxedo shirt and tie for my job tonight.
Harvey’s sells their “retired” clothing for pennies on the dollar and I’m hoping I can pick up a couple of white tuxedo shirts and a couple of red bow ties for under $10.00. I have a knee-length black pleated skirt and I can wear the black “nurse” shoes I’ve owned forever. Seriously, do you know anyone who has worn out a pair of those three-inch waffle soles? I don’t. They are shoes for a lifetime.
I’m determined to have a job that doesn’t require me to be on my feet all day—one that comes with a 401K and health insurance. On that day, I’ll throw the black comfort soles in the waste bin, slip three-inch stilettos on my feet and do a happy dance. I’ll have achieved my singular ambition, a degree from Palm Beach Junior College and a desk job as a certified legal assistant.
***
Snafu and I watch Holiday jog down the beach until she is out of sight before returning to the cabana. A stupid grin distorts my face the whole time as I strip down and go free-balling. I walk back to the pool and lower myself in. I intend to swim laps until my arms fall off. I need relief from the arousal she’s created and swimming doesn’t wreck my leg. Pounding out laps sure beats the shit out of crying for fuck’s sake. Holiday didn’t seem fazed at my tears. I have a feeling Holiday can handle most of what life throws her way, including a dick-broke Army Ranger with a case of the boo-hoos.
Goddamn emotions. I have to get a handle on the pure-ass elation I feel about the resurrection of my dick. As Holiday is 100% fuckable, I’m sure it will come up again. Sorry, bad pun. I’m not such a bottom feeder that I’d use that adorable girl just to get off—no matter how good an idea the little head below the belt thinks it is—no matter how much Holiday, herself, might like it. I wouldn’t like myself very much if I used her like that. The sex will come when it comes. Shit…another bad pun.
Holiday is special. She’s the kind of person you don’t find often. Genuine
and selfless. She cares more about other people than she does about herself. Selflessness is the thing that bonds tight-knit combat units. The guys next to you will give it up for you if it comes down to it. That kind of self-sacrifice is a rarity in the civilian world. Most people are out for me, myself and I. Full stop. To find her sort of giving nature in a kind, gorgeous, feminine-as-hell package…shit. I’m a goner and I know it.
I hit the wall and flip for another lap, pushing my muscles to power me faster through the water. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Damn, it feels good to think that. I’ve acquired you in my scope sight, Ms. Jones. I have your location and range dialed in. This Ranger sharpshooter considers you a High-Value Target. You simply don’t know it yet.
Chapter Three
I arrive early again. A grin splits my face when I get close enough to see the tall silhouette of Max and the smaller dark mass of Snafu. I wave, perhaps too exuberantly to be considered “cool and sophisticated,” and I may have jumped up and down a little bit, but I don’t care if Max knows how glad I am to see him, ah, them.
I cup my mouth. “Hi, Max!”
He puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head and laughs. The he cups his own mouth and hollers back, “Hey, Holiday!”
When I get closer, Max bends down, puts something in Snafu’s mouth and straightens. Snaf gallops to me and this time I prepare for his crash landing.
“What have you got there, fella?”
Snafu holds a fake mallard duck in his mouth—the kind dog trainers use to teach retrievers to fetch. I have Animal Planet to thank for that bit of knowledge. Oh, and they’re called “bumpers.”
“Command h-him to…‘drop it,’ Hol!” Max called as he walked down the beach toward us. He held a curved blue plastic wand about three feet long with a cup at one end. A fuzzy yellow tennis ball nested inside.
I hold my hand under the Lab’s chin. “Drop it, Snafu,” I order in my most stern voice. He merely grins at me, wags his tail and mouths the duck. Max is within easy speaking distance now. “He knows I’m not the alpha in this pack, Max.” I grimace playfully.
Max smiles. “Snafu, drop it.”
The duck bumper lands in my hand and Snafu eyes me hopefully. “Traitor. Now your dad will think I’m not a responsible dog sitter.” I hand the bumper off to Max with a shake of my head.
“You’re a n-nut, Holiday Jones.” Max laughs. “Here.” He shows me the curved blue wand. “I brought you s-something to…save your arm. It’s a tennis b-ball chucker. Watch.”
As soon as Max raises his arm, Snafu barks in excitement and begins to streak down the beach. With a smooth, effortless motion, Max slings the wand and shoots the tennis ball almost the length of a football field.
“Wow! Look at you. Were you a quarterback in college or something?”
“No,” he says laughing. “You t-try it.”
When Snafu comes back, he drops the tennis ball at my feet and stares at it. I load the ball into the chucker and try to copy Max’s motion. The tennis ball soars. “Will you look at that!” I shriek with delight. “Tom Brady, watch out.”
Max and I stand there and take turns lobbing the tennis ball down the beach. There’s no doubt in my mind that Snafu lives to retrieve. His dedication and energy is unwavering—which makes it doubly strange when I whip the ball into the air and instead of his mad dash, he remains in front of Max, licking his owner’s hand and whining. A grim expression fixes itself on Max’s face. A moment before, he was laughing.
“What’s wrong, fellah?” I look at Max in question. His face has blanched under his tan.
“Please, god…not now.”
The anguish in his voice concerns me. “Max?”
Max starts to shake and then collapses to the sand. His eyes roll to the back of his head and his body jerks like a marionette. He’s having a seizure. Oh, shit…oh, shit…oh shit! What do I do? Snafu circles him, whining, while Max thrashes violently on the sand. I’m so afraid he’ll hurt himself with his wild flailing. I pull a beach towel out of my backpack. I straddle Max at the waist and capture his floundering arms. The only way I have the strength to restrain him is by lying flat on his chest and twining my legs around his. Between my thighs, he arches and writhes. Riding a bucking bronco must feel like this, but a cowboy only has to do eight seconds. I think I ride Max for at least a minute. Finally, he subsides. He is still. I lie on his chest, panting and tense. My thighs grip his hips. My calves wrap the backs of his knees. I can’t see his face but something tells me he’s conscious. He’s too quiet. Snafu settles next to Max and lays his head on Max’s outstretched arm with a soft whine.
“S-still think…I’m…a h-hottie?”
“Oh Max!” I give a cry of gladness and hug his neck. I push away a little. I look him right in the eyes, inches from his handsome face. “Oh…Max,” I whisper. His eyes swim with anguish and disillusionment. I ache for the emotional and physical pain this man must overcome on a daily basis, but the self-hatred and defeat in his voice hurts me far worse. I raise a finger, trace his mouth and whisper, “I told you. Once a hottie, always a hottie.”
His eyes close and little by little, his body relaxes. “Nut case,” he whispers back.
There is no point in trying to be cool. I kiss him…and kiss him…and kiss him. He puts up no resistance. Holiday, you skank. The man just had a seizure. He’s probably too weak to defend himself. With a pang of regret, I stop. I still wrap his chest like a baby orangutan, and while most of his body feels warm and relaxed, there is one part of him distinctly hot and hard.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I kinda threw myself on you. I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself.”
His eyebrows rise and the corners of his mouth twitch. The limp body underneath me shakes with silent laughter. It’s as if I can read his thoughts. Really, Holiday? You were kissing me to prevent injury? I can’t help myself. He may never be this defenseless again. I kiss him one more time.
“Give me a minute here, Max.” I take my time disentangling myself from him and the beach towel. “God forbid I should knee you in the cojones after I have sexually molested you.”
He coughed. “Come back. Molest me…more.”
I laugh and wave my hand at him. That’s the last thing he needs right now. I knee-walk to my backpack and drag out a clean towel and a bottle of water. The towel I spread on the sand and the water I offer to Max. He sits up and drinks it in silence. He appears weak and demoralized and I feel bad for him. I know he wouldn't want me to notice so I smooch to Snafu. “Come’mere, Snafu.” I pat my lap and the Lab wiggles to me, grateful for attention. My gaze returns to Max and I do a good imitation of ‘unconcerned,’ even if I do say so myself. “You okay? Need anything? More water? A mostly-good orange?”
The smile that lights his eyes settles my anxiety. “Is that a…Holiday-ism? What’s a m-mostly…good orange?
Oh dear. He would pick up on that. “There’s an orange stand on Old Dixie Highway that gives away their fruit when it starts to go bad. I get stuff there for the homeless. They let me pick through for the oranges that might have a soft spot but are ‘mostly good’.” I draw a circle in the sand with my forefinger. “Sometimes I keep a few for me when money is a little tight.” I brighten and look up. “But I got paid last night so no worries.” I inject a note of triumph into my voice. “This afternoon, I go grocery shopping.”
He props his arms on his knees. The plastic Evian water bottle that I re-filled from my tap at five this morning hangs from his hand, empty. His grey eyes regard me steadily. “You seem…alone in t-the world. Where’s…your family—m-mom, dad, sisters, brothers?”
I purse my lips and shrug. “Mom died of breast cancer a year-and-a-half ago. No brothers. No sisters. No aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. My grandparents are dead.” I shrug again. “It’s just me and Rover.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Rover?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re really going to think I’m a nutcase.” I squint at him.
Both of hi
s eyebrows come together and his gaze finds mine. Wow. He looks fierce. “Give it up, Jones.”
I sigh heavily. “You know I adore dogs.” Max nods. “I can’t have a dog where I’m living, so I have a fish. A goldfish.”
“And you call h-him R-rover,” Max finished for me.
“Yeah…but maybe it’s a ‘her’ and I’ve insulted her gender as well as class, order and family.” I look at Max and my smile grows with his until both of us are laughing.
Max flops back onto the sand and scuffs Snafu’s ears when he attacks Max’s face with slobbery dog kisses. “No dad?”
“He’s still around, but he’s not a person I want in my life.” I study the turtles that decorate my beach towel. A silence falls between the two of us that lengthens as I struggle with how much to tell Max. I turn to find he has rolled to his side. He strokes Snafu and studies me. Shoot. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
He nods solemnly. “I want…to know…everything about you.”
I sigh helplessly. “Okay. My mom, Patty, was a free spirit. She came from Palm Beach money and ran with a loose crowd. I really was conceived in the back of The Wombat. She said it was a night of pot and sex with the oldest son of one of her parents’ wealthy friends. When she discovered she was pregnant, her parents and my birth-father’s parents shipped Mom off to a ‘health spa’ on Hilton Head Island. Mom said it was more like an asylum for the mentally ill.
“When Mom came home with baby-me, both sets of parents pressured her to place me for adoption. Mom finally snapped. I guess the fight between her and the two sets of grandparents was epic. She stormed out in The Wombat with me in my baby carrier on the seat next to her and never went back.
“She got a live-in maid position in Palm Beach with the parents of a kid she knew from high school. It was just the two of us. I never knew we were poor. We had the basics and I never doubted for one moment that Mom’s world revolved around me. She was the best mom in the history of ever.” Tears threaten and I straighten and hug myself. A warm hand wraps my ankle.
Undertow: A compilation of short beach stories Page 26
