by Ben Boswell
He walked away, with his erect posture, and broad shoulders, and firm ass.
“The guy’s an asshole,” I muttered.
Claire giggled.
“What?”
“You didn’t even pause to change out of your PJs.”
“I wasn’t sure I had time.”
“You thought I’d run off with him while you pulled on your bathing suit?” she said, mirthfully.
“I couldn’t be sure. Hey, was that story you told him true?”
She looked at me over her glasses, her beautiful, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Well, you know I can do a standing split.”
“Yes, but…”
“But nothing. I’m getting hot out here. Time for a swim.”
She rose quickly and without another word, dived headfirst into the water. I walked to the edge and gingerly dipped my toes into the pool as Claire shimmied through the water like a mermaid, though I was beginning to think of her more as a siren, luring me toward a rocky shoal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Claire and I went back to the room, and I changed into a swimsuit and tee shirt. Then we went down to one of the pool bars for lunch. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, dry, hoping it wouldn’t trigger another outburst of intestinal distress. I ate gingerly, and then waited anxiously. But after a half hour, I was still okay.
I still felt shaky, but couldn’t tell whether that was the residue of my illness or my anxiety over Claire. I knew she’d spun that story just to lure me out of the room. But even still, what a story. Not that I would begrudge her some youthful indiscretions. I mean, good for her. But sharing it with a stranger… a tall, dark, and handsome stranger. A funny and clever, tall, dark, and handsome stranger with a killer accent. And what of my visions, my premonitions?
“Are you attracted to Trent?” I asked.
She laughed. “God, you are obsessed.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Well, Trent is attractive. Why, are you attracted to the women you’ve been spying on?”
“I’ve mostly been spying on you.”
“Yeah, what’s that about? A resort full of women in bikinis, and you’re focusing in on the one woman in the whole place that you get to see naked whenever you want.”
Except, I hadn’t been focused just on her. Given the chance, I’d definitely take another look at the female half of the Newlyweds, that little sex goddess with the feathered hair.
“Well, you’re the hottest woman here,” I said.
She laughed skeptically.
“No way. And I’ve seen at least a dozen gals who are plenty pretty and who aren’t members of the itty-bitty-titty-committee.”
I rolled my eyes. “I love your boobs. And anyway, fakes don’t count.”
“Miss Brazil isn’t fake.”
“No. She’s what people used to mean by ‘curvy’ before the fat chicks stole the adjective. But she’s also with a guy whose watch costs more than our car.”
“So you can’t be attracted to her because she’s attached? Or you can’t be attracted to her because her hubby wears expensive jewelry?”
I wasn’t sure where this was going. In a weird way, our conversation felt more like a competition than an exchange of views.
“Are we arguing?” I asked.
She paused. Then laughed. “Oh my, I think we are. Our first fight as a married couple.”
“What are we fighting about?”
“I don’t know.”
We both laughed. It was absurd. What were we fighting about?
We walked around the resort, hand in hand. Claire was eager to show me everything she’d discovered the previous day on her own. We played with the family of cats. We checked out the sailboat on which they did the sunset cruises. We dipped our toes in the various pools.
Along the way, we scoped out the other guests. Funny how that goes. If you observe people from your balcony through binoculars, you’re a voyeur, a pervert. If you walk around with your wife and make up funny stories about people you see, you’re just a cute, romantic couple, people-watching.
We tracked down the Millionaire and marveled at the quality of the material engineers who’d managed to design a swim suit to keep his wife’s endowments in place. She really was something else, and even prettier up close, with perfect skin, full red lips, and a delightfully trilling Latin American accent.
“You think he pays her by the hour?” Claire asked, sotto voce, uncharacteristically catty.
“I think they’re in love,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes. It gave me an insight into the blonde’s mindset. Having this woman as her stepmother was probably driving her crazy.
We actually ran across the daughter moments later, sitting by the bar. She was all in pink. Tiny bikini bottoms, a sheer cut off USC tee shirt, suspended over her belly by her inflated boobs, the same Chi Omega ball cap, and oversized designer sunglasses. She had a drink in her hand, was talking loudly on her phone, and casting disdainful glances in all directions. It was almost inspiring how aggressively she seemed to want to embrace all the clichéd attributes of a spoiled rich girl.
“This place is sooo fucking lame,” she whined into the phone. “Nothing but old people.”
She glanced over at us and seemed surprisingly unembarrassed that we may have heard her.
“Well, at least the drinks are good,” she added grudgingly as she turned away from us. The slur in her voice attesting that she spoke from experience.
I wondered if she had described her encounter behind the bar to her friend. I thought not. Considering how drunk she was already, I imagined she had more such adventures ahead of her.
Another fling with a waiter? No, that hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped. My mind roamed. She was embracing all the stereotypes so fully that I wondered if she ever fooled around with women. I glanced back at her. She was definitely the type to make out with another girl at a party for attention. But maybe she was curious for more? I imagined what those athletic lesbians might do to her. I pictured the tall one, the brunette holding her by the hair, forcing her go to down on her lover.
That’s it, you little slut, lick that twat!
“Um, you’re drooling,” Claire said, noticing my distraction.
I jolted my head back in her direction.
“Am not.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think she’d be your type. Since getting married, I’m learning all about your kinks. You’re a voyeur and you have a thing for blonde coeds.”
“Those aren’t kinks. They are synonymous with being a man.”
“All men are voyeurs?” she asked incredulously.
“Really Claire? Why do you think porn is a multibillion dollar business?”
She shrugged. “I thought that was mostly for overweight guys living in their mom’s basement. You know, guys who aren’t getting any.”
“I’m not getting any,” I laughed.
It was true. It had been almost two weeks. First it was Claire’s time of the month, then we got wrapped up in the final preparations for the wedding, and then I got sick.
“We’ll fix that tonight,” she replied.
“I thought we had that luau tonight?”
“We do. We’ll go to the luau, eat some pig, watch some hot Polynesians dance with fire. We’ll take a romantic walk on the beach, and then, Mr. Rivers…” she lowered her sunglasses and flashed her bright, blue eyes at me, “I’m going to fuck your brains out.”
“Claire!” I gasped in surprise.
She laughed. “I had to do something to get your mind off blondie back there.”
I probably should have taken her back to the room and consummated our marriage right then and there. But we were clear on the other side of the resort, and Claire wanted to show me the tropical flower garden. By the time we got back to the room we only had time to shower and change before getting to the cultural show and dinner.
The luau was set up on a small grove just off the beach. There was a lo
vely view of the sea, just a few wispy clouds marring the otherwise perfectly blue sky. They handed us Mai Tais and leis as we were walking in. I was wearing my silk, brown and orange Hawaiian shirt. Claire had on a white dress, very form-fitting except for a little flare at the hem.
We skirted around a pit from which emanated pig-scented steam. It smelled delicious. And I was pleased my stomach didn’t let out a warning rumble. They seated us at one of a series of long tables running perpendicular to a stage. The tables were covered in flowers and various Hawaiian delicacies, including bowls of purple poi, which I am convinced is not actually a food but rather some sort of elaborate practical joke the natives perpetrate on haoles.
Even though I was feeling better I was determined to take it easy. I barely sipped at my drink and planned to just nibble on the safest foods. Nothing was going to ruin what I was already thinking of as the first real night of my honeymoon. I pulled Claire close and gave her a kiss.
“Erm, mind if we join you?”
I looked up to see Trent’s smiling visage, and standing next to him was the Millionaire’s daughter. Claire seemed shocked to see him, or perhaps it was seeing him with her. He caught her glance.
“Claire, meet Annabelle. Annabelle, this is Claire and Jack.”
“John,” I corrected, though I was pretty sure he’d botched my name on purpose. I gestured toward the chairs across from us and they sat down.
Annabelle gave me a wan smile, then looked over my shoulder to see if there was anyone more interesting in sight. She sighed when she realized she was now stuck with us.
“How do you know each other?” Claire asked, her voice tight.
Annabelle pointed at her beverage. Trent added the details. “We’re old drinking buddies. We met at the bar this afternoon. I had an extra ticket to his dinner, and Annabelle graciously agreed to join me.”
Or more accurately, she took the first excuse to allow her to duck out on dinner with dad and stepmommy.
I could tell Claire wasn’t happy about it. I’m pretty sure she would have been pleased as punch had it just been Trent. Her quirky sense of humor wouldn’t have been able to resist teasing me further, but she was regarding Annabelle with the expression of someone watching a worm crawl out from under a rock.
Annabelle had cleaned up nicely. She was wearing tight little white shorts and a fitted tee that showed off her enhanced chest to perfection. She had on light makeup and had her hair brushed out, marking the first time I’d seen her without a ponytail. I could definitely see his attraction to her. He was about old enough to be her father, which may have helped explain her attraction to him. Maybe this wasn’t just a date of convenience.
I let out a small sigh of relief. I was happy that Trent had another woman, one other than my wife, on whom to focus his considerable charm and good looks.
The buffet opened first. We settled back down with plates of food.
Annabelle was picking over her plate, a disdainful look on her face, rolling her eyes. Already apparently on edge, her attitude seemed to set Claire off.
“I guess you don’t get out much?” Claire snipped.
“You talking to me? I’m a regular at Nobu’s. Where do you go?” Annabelle responded.
“They make you a special peanut butter and jelly sushi?
“Yeah, and then they shove it up your –“
“Ladies, ladies, it’s a beautiful evening,” Trent interjected, looking curiously at Claire.
“She started it,” snapped Annabelle, petulantly.
Claire started to reply, but I reached out and squeezed her thigh. “Let it go,” I mouthed silently.
She shoved my hand away and stared at the blonde, arms crossed, clearly not letting it go despite her silence.
Thankfully the show began before any real fireworks could erupt. The emcee came off like a failed standup comedian, cracking jokes that probably wouldn’t have worked even in the 1960s. That was followed by a ukulele number. Then some girls dancing in grass skirts. The high point was definitely the fire dancing. There were spinning, flaming torches, buff dudes jumping through flaming hoops and a fire eater. Cool stuff.
At one point, a guy took a swig of whatever it is they drink to breathe fire. He leapt through a flaming hoop, did a forward flip, landed on his feet and blew out a fifteen foot stream of flame. I looked over at Claire to see her reaction, but she wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was shooting daggers at Trent and Annabelle who were giggling and whispering in each other’s ears.
She turned toward me in a snit, “What do you think he sees in her?”
Young, blonde, and loose seemed like a perfectly fine set of quality in a vacation fling. I decided not to give that response. I was pleased that she’d forgotten my own lingering glances in Annabelle’s direction. In fairness, I hadn’t been fantasizing about being with her, but rather her being worked over by a couple of lesbians. I decided not to pursue this line of argumentation either.
“Who knows? Anyway, shouldn’t you be more focused on me than on them?”
“I know,” she sighed. “It’s just, I hate that you were right. He was only hanging out with me because he thought he had a chance to score.”
“Claire, I’m sure that’s not true. He was genuinely enjoying himself with you. But he’s just being a good guy and giving us space for our honeymoon.”
I had no idea why I was defending the guy. My own view was that he was an asshole, whose only real interest in my wife was getting into her pants if he got the chance. But I knew that was a hurtful thought for Claire, so I was trying to convince her otherwise.
The show ended just in time. Trent and Annabelle had graduated from whispering to kissing. I took Claire’s hand. As she stood, I realized how unsteady she was. She’d been drinking pretty steadily throughout the show ever as she glowered at Trent and Annabelle. Maybe a little fresh sea air would perk her up. We’d planned a walk on the beach anyway.
We strolled a few hundred yards up the beach. We were carrying our shoes, feet in the surf. Getting away from her flirtation seemed to boost her mood.
“God, it is beautiful here,” Claire sighed. “It feels like we’re a million miles away from home. A whole other world.”
“Yeah, but it would get boring living here. Just one perfect day after another.”
“I’d be willing to give it a try. But yeah, I think the best part is just being away from it all. Being someplace where no one knows you. Where your only concern is planning your next adventure.”
“The only adventure I want is to sit by the pool and read a book.”
“Stare at the hot girls?”
“Sure, why not? Doesn’t hurt anyone.”
She laughed as if at some private joke. A breeze blew in off the ocean. Claire shivered.
“Let’s go warm up by the bonfire and then we can go back to our room,” she suggested.
There was a large fire pit, surrounded by wooden benches with cushions. The brightness of the fire made it difficult to see especially coming off the darkened beach. We found an empty spot and I was surprised to see, once my eyes adjusted to the light, Trent and Annabelle sitting beside us, with Trent and Claire side-by-side and Annabelle and I serving as bookends.
“Are you following us?” Trent joked.
He reached across Claire to give me handshake, which put his face close to my wife’s.
“Just a coincidence,” I replied.
“There are no coincidences,” he said. He turned to toward Claire, “Did you enjoy the show?”
“You mean the guys on stage? Or you with a girl young enough to be your daughter?”
He paused, then laughed. “Age is all in the mind,” he replied as he returned his attention to his date.
Some hotel staff brought another round of drinks. I sipped at mine. Claire took a heavy draw from her straw. God, at this pace I was going to have to carry her home. On the other side of the fire, someone began strumming a guitar and a round of campfire songs broke out, though the wor
ds were muted and indistinct as they reached us over the sound of the crackling fire and pounding surf.
Trent and Claire were leaning toward each other. From the snippets I could pick up, they were busting each other’s chops. She kept referring to his “daughter.” He reminded her of her own youthful indiscretions on the booze cruise. Was it just my paranoia or did it sound more like flirting than bickering?
I felt a hand on my leg. I turned to see Annabelle who had moved over to be beside me.
“So what’s with your wife?” she asked.
I took a quick glance over at Claire who was herself peeking at Annabelle, a look of self-satisfaction on her face. She was pleased with having chased the younger woman away from Trent. I turned back toward the blonde.
“Huh? Oh, she can’t back away from a fight.”
Annabelle nodded skeptically. An awkward silence fell between us. I wanted to ask about her dad, about her stepmom, but I knew I couldn’t. And she didn’t seem to have much to say either. She looked down at my nearly full drink.
“You don’t like it?”
I shrugged. “Not really in the mood for it.”
She reached into her bra and pulled out a joint. “You party?”
“Um sure,” I replied, though I was responding as much to the flash of cleavage as to the pot.
She grabbed an ember from the fire and lit the joint. She took a big pull and after a moment exhaled an impressive cloud of smoke. She passed me the cigarette. I hadn’t actually smoked pot in years. Not since… high school? College maybe? At the very least, not since Annabelle had gotten out of elementary school.
I inhaled deeply, held it a moment, and released. It hit me like a shot, a sudden, dizzying high the likes of which I’d never felt.
“Good shit, huh?”
I nodded, unable to form actual words. I tried to pass the joint over to Claire, but she just shook her head and pointed to her drink. She cast a hostile glare at Annabelle and gave me a small scowl. Was she pissed I was smoking pot? Or sitting next to her antagonist? I watched her giggling with Trent. Who was she to give me a hard time?
