by Ben Boswell
Honeymoon Hazards
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Honeymoon Hazards © 2014 by Ben Boswell
Edited by Kenny Wright
Cover design by Kenny Wright
Cover image © Getty/iStockPhoto used under license
First digital edition electronically published by KW Publishing,
September 2014
First print edition published by KW Publishing, September 2014
Printed by CreateSpace, Charleston SC
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Contents
Cover
Copyright Information
Honeymoon Hazards
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the author
KW Publishing
www.kennywriter.com
PREFACE
This book was a lot of fun to write.
In fact, it sort of forced its way into the queue, so to speak. I was working on a different book I had hoped would be quite light, but which kept turning darker and more emotional. That happens reasonably often for me… not necessarily the turn to darkness, but the sense of losing control of a story or a book. Anyway, I was sort of stuck and a little frustrated.
Then I got sick. Food poisoning, something. I don’t know. All I know is that for the first twenty hours of it, I alternated between thinking I was dying and, well, hoping I would. While I was in bed, the idea for this story came into my head. I sort of conceived of it as an erotic version of the old Hitchcock classic Rear Window, well, without the murder plot, and with a lot of sex. So basically a voyeur book.
Ultimately, that’s not quite what I ended up with, though it does have elements of that. But I did get a light romp and it gave me some time off from the other book I was working on. It turns out, that’s what I needed, because I have since completed a first draft of the other book as well. Anyway, I hope you like it. Honeymoon Hazards is much closer in tone to my first book, The Two Sides of Terri than to my second, Whatever it Takes, though as is often the case in my stories, there is a certain casual attitude toward the sanctity of marriage vows.
I owe a debt of gratitude to many people. I want to again thank Kenny Wright, who provided editorial guidance and who is also responsible for the design, both of the cover and interior. I always feel bad imposing on him for help since it inevitably takes time away from his own writing, and I already find myself often anxiously awaiting his next book. If, by any chance, you’ve read and enjoyed my work, but have not yet read his, I would urge you to immediately put down this book and read his stuff first. You can follow him at http://www.kennywriter.com/.
I also want to again thank Julie P for copyediting this work. You can find her at https://www.freelancer.com/u/jp2004.html.
Most importantly, I want to again thank all of you who have supported my books and written encouraging emails over the past few months. It really does mean a great deal to me, and I appreciate it tremendously.
PROLOGUE
I loosened my bow tie and stared across the dance floor. There was Claire, my wife, though it still felt weird to call her that, dancing with Danny, my best man. He was probably, as usual, reminding her she’d had a shot with him first.
Danny and I were unlikely best friends. He was a frat boy, LAX player, and I was, I guess, a geek, double major in CS and Philosophy. He had six inches on me… and that was just in the pants. Bada bing! But he was a seriously nice guy. Fate made us freshman year roommates, shared interests made us friends. We were still hanging out almost a decade later. He was a finance guy by then, I was in computers. We were both in Los Angeles on business and hitting some local clubs.
We both spotted Claire, almost simultaneously, at a loud, crowded, happy hour. We argued about who’d spotted her first, as if that, somehow translated to romantic priority.
“She’s not your type. Party girl.” He insisted.
“No way. Definitely bring her home to mom,” I argued.
“We’ll see,” he replied, striding off to strike up a conversation.
He didn’t last long. He’d played it wrong. She wasn’t the tequila shot and bathroom hookup type of broad after all. I laughed as she dismissed him. Now it was my turn.
She chuckled darkly as I approached her; she’d apparently noticed Danny and me standing together earlier. “What is this, you and your buddy running some sort of pig party?”
“Huh?”
“You know, a puerile game you boys play where you compete to score with the ugliest chick?”
I laughed. “So, now I’m intrigued. What are you?”
She shrugged. “Not a bimbo who’s gonna fall for your shit?”
“Well, sure. But I already knew that. So, what’s your deal?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Should I study crystals? Kabala?”
“You know cynicism can become pathological, right?”
“Or just realism.”
I looked at her. Pretty, pretty, young girl with a weirdly dark sensibility. I had no illusions I could score with her, no desire to engage in empty flirtation, and yet… she was strangely addictive.
I studied her more closely. Big, blue eyes, skinny with a great ass. She was too objectively hot to consider herself ugly.
“Okay, so you don’t really think you’re a pig.”
She wasn’t dressed slutty. She was wearing a simple pair of well-fitted jeans, and a ribbed tee that accented her flat belly, small, pert breasts, and well-toned arms. But no visible piercing, no effort to invent non-existent cleavage. No desperation about her.
“And you’re not insecure enough to be just fishing for complements. So I’m thinking you just said that to fuck with me.”
She laughed. “Amazing powers of deduction, Sherlock. Do girls really fall for this?”
Man, she was making me work hard. And Sherlock or not, I thought I’d done a pretty good job assessing her from afar.
I continued, “This isn’t your scene. You think everyone here is an asshole.”
“No, I don’t” she hissed. But she did.
“It’s okay. Almost everyone here is an asshole.”
“But you’re not?”
I shrugged. “Maybe I am. But here is my number. I’d love to talk about it over dinner.”
I don’t know what gave me the strength to walk away from her that night. Pretty, smart, cynical. I knew, or maybe hoped, I’d be with her forever. But she wasn’t the kind of woman you win; she was always the kind of woman who chooses you.
My approach worked. She called me. Away from the club scene, she let her shield down. She was everything I’d always liked in a woman. Beautiful, smart, but more; wickedly sarcastic at times, strangely competitive, predictably unpredictable. Just like that first night, there was always something about her that kept me on edge. I liked that.
CHAPTER ONE
A beautiful bride, a gorgeously appointed hot
el room, a sweeping vista of tree studded mountains. It should have been the beginning of a perfect honeymoon, a week in paradise to kick off a lifetime of marital bliss. Or something like that.
Except that somewhere between Seattle and Maui I caught something. I spent most of my wedding night not in bed with my new wife, Claire, but rather in the bathroom, hugging the commode. She spent the night on the sofa, keeping her distance from me, and from the vile sounds periodically emanating from the toilet. It was about as unromantic as imaginable.
“God, honey, I’m so sorry,” I said, peeking my head out of the bathroom once I heard her stir.
“It’s really not a big deal, John.”
“It was our wedding night.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like I really had a right to wear white anyway.”
“Yeah, but --”
She stepped closer to me. God, she looked ravishing. She’s one of the few women I’ve ever met who looks as good first thing in the morning as any other time of the day. That perfect, alabaster skin, the big, blue eyes, the mop of wavy, brown hair. She was wearing just a loose nightie. I peered down the front to catch a hint of cleavage between her pert breasts, and below the lines of her long legs.
“Oh crap,” I growled and spun back into the bathroom.
As I completed my business, such as it was, I heard Claire from the other room.
“So I guess you’re not feeling better yet, huh?”
We were newly married, but had been together for years. Seven to be precise. Our friend Jean accused us of getting hitched just to avoid the embarrassment of having to explain, again, why we weren’t married after being together for so long.
There was no real explanation for our delay, except for the fact that we were still not quite ready for kids. We’d met when Claire was twenty-three. I was a few years older, twenty-six at the time, thirty-three now. Frankly, Claire’s thirtieth coming up in the late fall seemed to loom larger than our June wedding.
So it isn’t like I was particularly embarrassed to be sick in front of my new bride. But I was so grossly ill that I would have been mortified to share it with my mom. Then there was the cost. We’d splurged on our resort, and spending $600 a night to puke in a toilet was not my idea of money well spent.
“Please, honey, go to the beach or the pool. Something.”
“I’m just as happy here with you.”
I was standing in the doorway to the balcony watching as Claire ate her breakfast. Steaming hot Kona Coffee, a basket of pastries, perfectly crisped bacon, fresh melon and pineapple. It made me feel ill. Everything did.
“I’ll be fine in a day or so, but I really don’t want you to waste them.”
“Spending time with my husband is not a waste.”
My stomach growled. I’d already exposed her to enough disgusting sounds to last a lifetime.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked. “Is that what this is all about? You got a girl coming up to visit you?”
I laughed. “Yes, Claire, I’ve been faking my illness for the past twelve hours. Her name is Yvette. I snuck her into the hotel disguised as a maid. She’ll be here sometime this morning.”
She grinned at me. “I knew it.”
“I never could fool you.”
She shrugged. “You’re not the first man to fail, helpless before my withering powers of deduction.”
“You’ve been reading too many mystery novels.”
“Speaking of which, I have a new one here with me to read while I keep my sick hubby company.”
But a couple of hours later, she changed her mind. The breaking point was a game of Scrabble.
Not Words With Friends. Claire refused to play that. She calls it a “cheap knock-off,” and insisted the bonus tiles are “misplaced,” whatever that means. Anyway, we were playing Scrabble on my iPad. We were tied with only a few tiles left. I played “QUEAN” on triple word tile, for 45 points. She objected.
“That’s not a real word.”
“The computer accepted it.”
“Use it in a sentence.”
“I, um, I don’t know. I just know it is a valid word.”
“If you can’t use it in a sentence –“
“Claire, we’ve never played that –“
She was tapping away on the iPad. “It’s archaic. No one has used it in hundreds of years. It’s bullshit.”
“Well, what does it mean?” I asked.
“A slut, basically. But that doesn’t matter, you can’t play it.”
I sighed. Normally seeing this side of Claire was always good for a chuckle. She’s perhaps the most competitive person I’ve ever met, but it is an intermittent trait. She’s not competitive about everything. Just some things. Even after seven years I can’t predict it consistently. But when she gets in these moods she’s like a pit bull. Unfortunately, I was feeling too sick to either fight or take amusement from her irrationality.
I’d made the mistake of nibbling on the edge of the piece of toast, and my stomach had immediately begun to rumble ominously. The tremors soon became an earthquake and I interrupted our Scrabble game to run into the bathroom.
When I came out, I caught her staring wistfully out at the perfect blue sky laced with high, thin, wispy clouds. She’d changed into her bikini, blue to match her eyes, and was wearing a thin white cover-up over it. Her sun hat lay beside her, her book in her lap.
“Come on, Claire, at least go for a walk or something. You know you don’t want to stay in this hotel room even for one whole day.”
She hesitated. It was a typical Hawaii morning. 82 degrees with a light ocean breeze. We love Seattle and our world champion Seahawks, but it rains there 150 days a year. It is cloudy 200 days a year, partly cloudy another 100.
I could see the temptation building. She was often like that. An idea needed time to germinate before she would act on it.
“Come with me.”
I shook my head. “Honey, I would love to. But in addition to my stomach, I am now woozy from lack of food and dehydration. I wouldn’t make it ten paces. Believe me, if the situation were reversed, I’d leave you in a heartbeat.”
She laughed. “See, none of my friends ever get to see this romantic side of you.”
“Go. I’m going to be sleeping anyway.”
The anti-nausea pills Claire had procured from the resort doc had me permanently groggy.
“Fine, Mister. But only for a little while. Just to feel the sun on my face for a few minutes.”
I lifted my arms in thanks. “Take your time. I’ll be wearing out a path between the bed and the bathroom.”
She stood. At five-seven she’s a few inches shorter than me, though as she stepped into her cork soled sandals we were about the same height. She blew me a kiss.
“I’ll explore and report back.”
I was already climbing gingerly into bed. “Have fun.”
CHAPTER TWO
She was gone for about an hour when I woke from a sweaty nap. I had left the balcony door open and the breeze periodically kicked up, carrying with it the scent of the tropics, the tart saltiness of the sea, the moist lushness of the forest.
I timidly went out onto the balcony and sat in the surprisingly comfortable wicker -- or was it rattan? -- armchair. I’d eschewed ocean front in favor of the mountain view. It was less expensive, and in a way even more scenic. The only downside was that the rest of the resort lay between us and the forested hills. The resort itself was gorgeous. Three pools, several restaurants, some townhouse-style luxury suites. From our balcony I had a view of most of it.
Despite the scope, or maybe because of it, the resort didn’t seem particularly crowded. There were no vast expanses of lounge chairs, no lines at the water slides. The design created a sense of separation. The pools undulated, each curve bordered by palms and perfectly manicured hedges that created endless small islands of privacy. The super-expensive poolside cabanas seemed almost superfluous,
more about showing off than anything else.
I’d brought out my binoculars. For a while I trained them on the distant ridges. I’d gotten it into my head that I should get into admiring nature or even birding. I’m not sure why. I guess it seemed like a mature hobby befitting a married man. It was a beautiful view. After about five minutes, I was bored of it, and instead turned the lens onto my fellow guests at the resort.
At first, I pretended I was just looking for Claire. And I did look for her. But that didn’t stop me from noticing other guests. Many of the guests seemed to be couples. Generally young. Probably most of them probably honeymooning like me and Claire.
I lingered on an athletic brunette, sunning herself in a lounge chair near the bar. The first thing I noticed was her long hair in a thick ponytail. She was lanky and muscular. Maybe a little too much so, I thought, as I zoomed in. Her lack of body fat manifested in a disappointing lack of boobs. She was joined a few moments later by an equally fit blonde with short, cropped hair. Honeymooning lesbians? I let my mind picture that scene for a few minutes, but ultimately the lack of curves had me moving on.
There was a short, overweight man making his way to one of the poolside cabanas. He was bald yet hairy, looking almost like he was wearing a sweater. He was wearing a huge, gaudy watch. Surely a Rolex or something similar, though I couldn’t be sure. What made him particularly interesting was that he was followed by two hot numbers in bikinis, a tall brunette and short blonde.
The brunette was olive-skinned, overflowing her swimsuit. Not that it was too small or too skimpy. It was, in fact, a rather modest one-piece. But it was just that her curves were too much for any Lycra construction. She had long, wavy hair, full, sensuous lips, and oversized designer sunglasses. She was obviously used to being looked at and she sashayed with unabashed confidence.
The blonde looked almost mousy by comparison, and yet, she was anything but. She was wearing a tiny, green bikini, definitely too small and too skimpy, but she had the body to pull it off. A perfectly flat stomach, high, firm breasts, probably implants, and a tiny, heart shaped ass, a small reddish tattoo on her hip. But her face was the issue. Worst of all was her sour expression, which turned into an outright scowl when she turned toward the brunette. But even aside from that she had a visage that people sometimes nastily describe as “horsey,” the kind of thing that only gets worse with age and plastic surgery. Still, she was young enough and had a hot enough body that I doubted she lacked male attention.
