I nod, reluctantly letting go of the fantasy that doesn’t involve her.
*
We wander down the beach as the sun disappears. The thick air cools only slightly, but the water feels refreshing, as we let the ebb and flow of the gentle waves wash over our feet. Despite the built-in romance of our surroundings, I don’t take Jules’ hand and she doesn’t seek out mine. I only now realize why Ms. Patterson’s first response to learning Jules and I were going on holiday was to be surprised that we were “that serious.” Going away together as a couple is on a different level than casually hanging out back in Dublin. It feels awkward between us again, and I suspect we’re both eager to get some alcohol into the mix.
Luckily enough, this strip of white sand beach is custom made to offer tourists like ourselves that kind of relief. We happen upon a combination restaurant and mezcal bar and plant ourselves in two padded chairs under a charming web of exposed bulbs which provide a soft glow against the darkening night sky. We’re seated on the open-air beach side of the restaurant, but there’s an indoor portion which appears to offer live music as we can hear it out here. If a drink or two doesn’t loosen the mood, I’ll suggest we join the crowd inside.
“Shall we toast?” I ask after we’ve been given our margaritas.
The request catches her in the midst of taking a gulp and she pulls the glass away from her lips with an impish smile.
“Sure, let’s,” she says and raises her glass.
“Eh,” I say, scrambling to think of something witty and light. We’re on holiday, after all. No need to get maudlin. But, of course, that doesn’t come through when I open my big gob. “To change. Or at least to finding out if change is even possible.”
Jules watches me for a moment before smirking. “Okay, Danny Boy,” she says and takes a drink.
My margarita goes down easy within a few swallows and we’re both soon on our second round.
“Do you ever think about that, Jules?” I ask. “Do you ever think about whether people can truly change?”
“Not really. I think you are who you are. No use overthinking it.”
“That’s why I’ll always be the heroin addict to you, then?”
She scoffs. “Oh, is that what I think?”
“Seems to me, yeah.”
“Well, it’s not true.”
“Then why is that what it always comes back to with you? That’s what you asked about after we fucked the first time. That’s what you asked about on our first date.”
This accusation gets her back up. “For fuck’s sake, you can’t put that on me. You’re the one who confessed it the second bleeding time we ever talked. And then you’re the one who brought it up the last time, when we were having a bath.”
I finish my drink and think about the fact that she’s not wrong. I did bring it up those times. I’ve obviously been preoccupied with my addiction history, what with all the self-analysis I’ve been doing.
Jules isn’t done having her say, though. She pulls me from my thoughts, telling me, “You have made it seem like an important part of your … identity.”
There’s that fucking word again. Identity. For a second, I wonder whether Jules spoke with Ms. Patterson and that’s why she used it. I have to talk myself down from this paranoia. It has to be paranoia, right? This has to be one of those times when I need to make sure I’m looking at what is really happening rather than letting my mind do tricks on me based on the narrative that will best suit my purposes. Which would be what at this moment?
I’ve been testing her, I realize. By bringing this up on the first night of our holiday, by turning our evening into an argument over how she views me, I’ve been looking for her to admit she wants that old version of me. Because if that’s the truth of the matter, then she truly is with me so we can get drug-lost, and knowing that, would make it all that much easier for me to give in. To give up on everything I’ve done to leave that version of me behind.
Jules stands and moves in front of me, forcing me once more to pull away from my thoughts. She’s wearing a gauzy white dress over her maroon bikini. The lights overhead shine perfectly for me to see the outline of her body, including the shape of her hips and the swell of her breasts. It’s once more incredibly easy to get lost in our sexual attraction. To be distracted from everything else. To succumb to this kind of addiction to her body. I pull her hand until she’s sitting on my lap. I’m ready to forget once more what troubles me about her, ready to turn this into some kind of semi-public sexcapade.
But she surprises me by touching my face with tenderness. “Danny Boy,” she says softly. “You are a boy, aren’t you? So ill-equipped to connect with others. With me. You won’t ever believe that I like you because of you, not because I’m after Gavin or looking to do heroin with you.”
I laugh uncomfortably and look away. She’s right. I am ill-equipped. I don’t know how to properly connect with people. I’m deficient in that way. She turns my face back to hers with her fingers on my chin.
“It is possible, you know?” she says. “It’s both possible that you are worthy of being liked—loved, even—and that I don’t have any bad intentions.”
Meeting her eyes, I will myself to believe her. Because I want to believe her. I want to believe this can all be real. That I can be something else. That I can matter to someone. And so I force myself to dismiss all my doubts. We’re on vacation anyway, aren’t we? This is as good of a time as any to play with the fantasy that sees me finding some kind of normalcy.
28
The next several days pass in a blur of the best escapism I’ve ever known outside of heroin. The crystal-clear ocean water is eighty degrees, the sun heats the days to near ninety degrees, and we indulge in a constant low-level buzz from beers and tequila. We spend a ton of time napping on the beach during the days, and we spend our nights touring the various bars on the sand before falling into bed back at the hotel. We don’t sleep for long periods, as one of us will wake in the night and initiate sex—hence the need for naps. It’s comfortable and easy, even if it also feels surface-level to me. We get along, sure, but that connection still feels elusive, no matter how hard I try to force it. On the other hand, to any outside observer, we very well could be on our honeymoon.
We aren’t complete heathens, though, as we do make time to explore beyond our hotel beach, including a trip to a cenote, or underwater sinkhole and cave. The water here is pure, especially with the focused sunlight shining down from the cave opening overhead. We snorkel, float on our backs, and climb the side of the rockface to do a little cliff diving.
Another excursion we seek out is a guided tour through the Sian Ka’an reserve, which finds us in our own small boat gliding through mangrove-lined canals of crystalline waters, slowing down to view the wild birds we encounter like storks, herons, osprey and vultures. Part of the way through the day, our guide fits us with life jackets and has us jump into the water. We are not only refreshed but thrilled by the way the current gently but firmly pulls us along the same route Mayans had used a thousand years before.
Jules even convinces me to try sunrise yoga right on the white sand one day since Tulum is well known for its “healing energy.” I spend most of the time alternating between watching the sky change from pink to purple to burnt orange, to watching Jules contort in ways I never knew she could. It gives me ideas for things we can try later.
The last planned part of our trip is a visit to the local well-preserved Mayan ruins. They were fortified by a thick, three-sided wall to protect trading operations of turquoise and jade. The cliffside limestone structures overlooking the ocean are incredible, but I’m even more taken by the iguanas lounging unafraid of us tourists tramping through their space. I seriously consider trying to scoop one up to take back to our hotel to have as a buddy while we’re here.
“Yes, I miss my dog, too,” Jules says with a wry smile and pulls me away.
There’s no shade in this area and by the time we’re done with the sightseeing, sweat is dripp
ing down the backs of our necks. We have a long, hot walk back to the car park before we can find relief and decide to go for a dip in the ocean before that.
But the winds are whipping the water into wild waves and so it isn’t advised that we climb down the hill from the ruins to cool off. There are some kite surfers taking advantage of the weather, and their spectacular tricks make me want to join them. Not that I know how to kite surf, but what I wouldn’t give for that kind of adrenaline rush. It reminds me of Shay’s newest hobby. He’s hooked up with some lads in San Francisco who are teaching him how to sail and apparently, they can get moving fast enough to get your heart racing. He and I have that need for a thrill in common. Well, his is fixated on the actual act of being in a dangerous situation like car racing or high-speed sailing, even as he ultimately is the one in control. Mine is more the danger of giving up all control, like with heroin or making thoughtless decisions like climbing thirty feet up a lighting rig ladder to get a closer view of Rogue playing live. I managed to come out relatively unscathed with the first bit, but I did damage with that second one. I lost my grip and crash-landed right onto Shay, breaking his wrist. Conor, Mr. Perfect, took it personally and came to Shay’s aid. He sucker-punched me and sent me to my arse. It was a whole thing. But for a brief moment it was a fucking rush and made it all worthwhile, though I’m sure Shay and his mates thought otherwise.
It’s with all of this in mind that I take a step closer to the edge of the cliff, drawn to the idea that I could jump in from here. I think of what we learned back up at the ruins, about the figure with a bird’s wings and tail that had been chiseled above the doorway of the Temple of the Frescoes. It’s known as the diving god and thought to represent a Mayan deity who protected the people. Might his spirit still be here today? I imagine the instant relief from the heat I’d feel if I were to sink deep into the water below. I ignore the fact that the waves would surely batter me against the rocks as helplessly as a ragdoll. Or, maybe that’s the real draw of it, the absolute lack of control—assuming that diving god never appears and my leap leads to my demise.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I pull against it, ready to take the jump.
“Danny Boy,” Jules says insistently. “What are you doing?”
Blinking, I take a deep breath and let her pull me back a few steps.
“You were getting too close to the edge. You know that?”
“I, em, I dunno.”
She watches me curiously, but I look back at the ocean. That wind is blowing in dark clouds. Looks like we’ll be able to cool off one way or the other soon enough.
29
The rain comes during the short drive back to the hotel. It’s still warm and humid out, so the downpour isn’t really a bother. We stand out in it in front of our bungalow, letting the fat drops of water soak us through before jumping in the ocean for a swim. Standing waist-deep, we watch, mesmerized, as the rain pelts the surface of the water. Pulling on the goggles we’d grabbed from our snorkel kits, we dive under the water and look up at the rain from the opposite angle. Even with the sun muffled by clouds, it’s still bright enough that the water retains its soothing turquoise shade. The raindrops create a vast, shimmering blanket that ripples along the surface. The scores of drops somehow work in concert to create a soothing, tapping rhythm.
It’s a magical experience.
We come up for air and lock eyes, giddy smiles on our faces.
This is the moment I feel something change. I finally feel like I can relax, that I can trust her. Our idyllic surroundings reinforce this sense of ease, I’m sure. But we’ve also spent the last five days enjoying each other. In the end, all I really needed was to give it a chance. A real chance.
I pull her to me and kiss her. Our goggles crash and we laugh before peeling them off. When I take her mouth in mine, I give her something I’ve held back all this time. I give her tenderness. I want to be good to her. I want to care for her. I want a genuine connection.
She must feel something’s different because she breaks the kiss to look at me. Then she wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face into my chest.
The rain coming down around us intensifies and the sound of it crashing against the ocean is loud. Still, I hear her when she tells me, “I love you.”
Without a word, I take her hand and we make our way back to the bungalow.
We have an outdoor shower that’s partially surrounded by a bamboo fence and I pull her into it. We tug off our suits while kissing. Instead of the rough, impatient kisses borne out of the animalistic attraction we’ve always known, we now trade deep, slow, searching kisses. I stop and hold her face in my hands just so I can look at her. She’s panting slightly, her mouth open and hungry. Water from the shower and the rain that’s still coming down cascades over her naked body. Her breasts rise and fall as she watches me take her in. She’s gorgeous, every bit of her—from her expectant blue eyes, to the delicate dimple at her chin, to her firm tits, to the slight, womanly swell of her belly, to the trimmed hair between her legs. I want every part of her and drop to my knees. She tastes like the salty ocean. I tease my tongue all over her before focusing on her clit and soon her body is shaking against me.
Jules wraps her arms tight around me when I move up, needing a second to recover. It makes me smile. And then I tell her something I will end up regretting.
“I fucking love you, Jules.”
She moans in response. It’s a happy, satisfied sound, but I intend to change the nature of it to something else. Grabbing her hand, I take her inside. We’re both naked and wet and I use a towel to gently dry her body, from her hair down to her toes. I give myself a once over and then pull Jules to the bed and into my arms for another one of those tender kisses.
When she reaches for my cock, I pull her hand away. I want this to go slow. She’s already had one orgasm and there’s time for more. I’ll delay my own gratification along the way. I trail my hands over her skin, exploring her body in a way I’ve never done before. Our fierce attraction has always meant we were concerned with getting off rather than connecting. That’s all well and good, and I’m not turning into some sort of new age tantric sex guy, but there’s nothing wrong in this version. Not when it builds up the anticipation.
I replace my hands with my mouth, drawing my tongue and lips and teeth over her shoulders and breasts and nipples, before moving downward. Her sensitive body jumps when my mouth touches the skin behind her knee and then her inner thighs.
“Danny,” she breathes shakily.
It doesn’t seem like she can take much more, but I turn her on her belly and run my hands from her shoulders down her back and over her tight ass, squeezing there and barely able to stop from doing more. But I persist, again replacing my hands with my mouth even as my cock drips from the desire I’m trying to hold back. I wet my fingers with it to use as lubrication, though I find Jules doesn’t need any help. Spreading her legs with one hand, I use the other to explore her and she pushes against me, encouraging me so that I use another finger and go deeper.
“I need you,” she says, her hands reaching back for me, trying to direct me.
I turn her on her back once more and move between her legs, pushing myself slowly, deeply, into her and watching her reaction. Her eyes are half closed and her half smile is pure bliss. When she locks her legs around my hips and I feel her tighten up around me, I know exactly how she feels. She grabs my biceps, holding tight as I lean down to kiss her. Testing my strokes and positioning, I find the right spot to get her writhing against me for her second orgasm. It makes her turn her head away from my kiss so she can cry out before dissolving into a happy, laughing moan.
“Come for me now,” she says, grabbing my backside and pulling me deep into her.
Before long, I’ve done as she asks and collapse on top of her with my own smile.
It’s the first time I’ve ever made love in my life.
“You have lovely hands,” Jules says as she holds one of mine in he
rs.
We’re lying on our backs on the bed, naked and lazy as the rain continues to come down and create its music of pitter-patter against the roof of our bungalow.
I wonder if she can see the old needle marks in between my fingers, but I don’t ask. I’ve been doing a good job of not thinking about heroin since after that first night of this trip. On any other regular day, it comes to mind frequently. But this has been an escape.
“They do the job,” I say with a laugh.
“Very well, indeed.” She turns on her side and snuggles into me.
“Jules, you know what I’d love?”
“Hmm?”
“For you to sing for me.”
“Really?”
“I’ve heard your recordings, but it’d be fantastic to hear you live.”
She looks up at me and smiles. “What would you have me sing?”
“Anything you like, love. Surprise me.”
“I’ll have to think about that. I’d want it to be just right, you know, to be able to warm up my voice some.”
It charms me that she’d want to put special effort into it. I would have been happy for her to sing me a little tune right here and now.
“You ever think you’d try another take at it?” As much as she tried to convince me her artsy side gig of painting women pays the bills, it’s obvious that she just gets by. So, if her real talent is singing, it seems logical that she’d pursue that once more.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think about it sometimes. It’s just …”
“Just what?”
“I’d need a helping hand back in. By someone who has some power in the industry.”
I think about that for a long moment. And then I say something else I’ll come to regret. “Maybe I can talk to Shay about it.”
“Really? That’d be fantastic,” she says excitedly.
I go tense and she must feel it because she quickly tries to scale back her reaction.
“I mean, if one day I really wanted to explore that. I’m not there right now. I’m really happy with what I’m doing with the painting.”
Looking For Trouble Page 12
