by Ben Boswell
Annual Leave
Ben Boswell
Annual Leave
Copyright © 2015 by Ben Boswell
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover image ©BigStockPhoto/©iStockPhoto used under license
First digital edition electronically published by Ben Boswell, November 2015.
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.
PREFACE
I really agonized over this book. I went into it wanting to write a piece of realistic fiction with believable characters and real emotions. I think I largely succeeded.
The challenge is that this genre is really about escapism and fantasy. Realism is fine as long as it does not get in the way of the story. In this case, for a long time, it threatened to do so. As a consequence, I’ve spent much of the past few months wrestling the realism back into a story that people might actually want to read and enjoy.
I think I’ve gotten the balance right. There are many parts of this book that I think are, by far, the best fiction I’ve ever written. I hope you’ll agree with me, and in particular I hope you find that the main characters feel plausible both in their emotions and behavior.
I want to thank Kenny Wright for his support and feedback throughout the process, and for the lovely cover he designed. Also, thank you to Arnica Butler for encouraging me to push the publish button and also some great comments near the end. Both Kenny and Arnica are bestselling erotica authors. If you haven’t read their stuff yet, I encourage you to do so. And thank you to long-time reader Rob P. for his comments and help copyediting. I am sure there are still some typos, but hopefully we got most of them.
As always, I welcome your feedback. You can email me at [email protected] or follow me on twitter at @BenBoswellAut.
CHAPTER ONE
“Oh shit, I forgot my phone,” Heather groaned.
Jeff smiled. “No, I took it out of your bag. The idea is to get away.”
“What about the kids?”
“That’s who you’re getting away from.”
She laughed. “I know, but they’ll want to hear from their mommy, and –“
“What, you don’t trust me to handle them?”
In truth Heather was wasn’t sure he could handle them. The incident with the six-year-old, Ally’s, destruction of the fridge, four-year-old Becky’s doll in the oven, and fifteen-month old Bobby’s diaper in the dog’s mouth, all at the same time, all in the same kitchen… the incident that had left Heather sobbing on the floor and led Jeff to book her a trip away….
“I do, but –“
“Yes, they’ll miss you,” he responded to her unstated objection. “That’s okay. It’ll make them take you less for granted. Four days of Daddy screwing everything up will make them eager to welcome you home and encourage them to behave.”
“That’s not how it works.”
He smiled. “I know, but you need a break.”
“I’d still prefer my phone.”
“Nope. Then you’ll be tempted to check up on me. I have my own plans for the kids.”
“Oh, Jeff, no, not the whole pizza and gummy bears dinner –“
“You saying I can’t learn from my mistakes? No this time it’ll be mac n’ cheese and cotton candy.”
“Seriously, Jeff, I don’t really need to go –“
“Yes, you do. And anyway, you’ve been half away for the last couple of months. I can see that look in your eyes.”
“What look is that?” Heather asked.
“Freedom.”
“Jeff, that is so not true,” she replied defensively.
Jeff deflected. “I was just kidding. Anyway, look, give the hotel my number as emergency contact, and then, seriously, forget about us. Sit in the sun. Have some Margaritas. Fight off pushy Mexican Don Juans –“
“Oh, so I have to fight them off, eh?”
Jeff laughed. He continued, “Sleep late. Go shopping. Just have a good time. And don’t worry about the kids and me. We’ll be fine.”
Heather still hesitated. “Okay, promise me you’ll be okay?”
He leaned over and gave her a kiss. He reached into the back seat and handed his wife her weekend bag. “Go on, you’ll be late.”
She shook her head like this was all crazy, but she was eager for a break, even if his accusation of wanting to escape struck too close to home to admit out-loud.. They’d had date nights, of course, but she hadn’t spent even twenty-four hours away from Ally since she was born. And with two others since… getting away seemed unthinkable. And indeed, she hadn’t been thinking about it. Instead, she’d slowly been going crazy. At least that’s how Jeff put it.
She smirked to herself as she walked through the airport. What he really wants is for me to be rested enough to have sex with him. It was a fair complaint. She wanted that too. Making love three times in six months was no way to go through life, especially when two of the three had been interrupted by knocks on the door.
“It’s like the little fuckers have ESP,” Jeff had grumbled the second time, as his wife pulled on her bathrobe and escorted Becky back to bed. They’d completed the act, but it was less than wholly satisfying.
***
The plane ride down to Cancun was uneventful. Heather, stressed from the idea of being separated from her kids, hadn’t slept well the night before, and the minute the plane rumbled into the air, she was out like a light. The flight attendant had to wake her as they prepared to land.
She glanced out the window, down into lush jungle and bright sunshine. As the plane turned, she glimpses a long, narrow ribbon of beach, and the rippling expanse of the Gulf of Mexico beyond. She could already imagine how lovely it would be on the sand, beneath the hot sun, a cool breeze blowing off the ocean. Yes, she needed this.
The resort had a taxi service. Heather was the first aboard and took a window seat as the van slowly filled up. Still she was startled when a black man sat down next to her.
She chided herself for noticing that first. He was also a tall man. Fit, broad shouldered. Well-dressed in tan linen shorts and a patterned silk shirt. Probably in his late 30s, though she’d always had trouble guessing the age of African-American men, and his shaved head made it that much more difficult to judge. He was well-off, at least judging by his expensive, maybe a little gaudy watch. Was it really gaudy? Heather wasn’t sure. It was more ornate than anything Jeff would wear, but it was also stylish, gold and black, inlaid with small diamond chips. It matched his clothes. She wondered if that was deliberate.
“Can I help you?” came his deep, Southern-accented voice.
Heather looked up to see him peering at her intently over his gold-tinted aviator glasses. She felt her cheeks flush. He held her gaze as she felt her throat tighten.
“Yes, I, um…” her brain cast around for a reason why she’d been looking him over so intently. “I, um… forgot my phone. Yeah. Back at home. I was wondering if I could, um, maybe borrow yours to send a text to my husband?”
As she said it she lifted her left hand to show that, yes, indeed, she was married. For some reason that seemed like an important thing to convey. He didn’t speak for a moment, and she awkwardly lowered her wrist.
“Okay,” he replied finally with a sigh. And then after another moment, “Um, you want this?”
“Huh?” she asked. “Oh, yeah,” she said as she finally noticed his phone nestled in his large, outstretched palm.
Her han
d shaking slightly, she took the phone and quickly sent a text to Jeff.
>>Borrowing a phone. Landed safe. Love you. H
She returned the phone with a mumbled thanks and turned her face toward the window. Thankfully he didn’t try to make any more conversation. She chided herself for having been so completely unnerved by a stranger. That’s what happens when you spend the better part of six years alone with children. You lose the ability to interact with other adults.
CHAPTER TWO
It was already late afternoon by the time Heather got to her room and changed into her resort attire. Too late for the beach, and anyway, she needed a bite to eat and a refreshment. She put on her usual one-piece, the one she typically wore to the neighborhood pool, and covered it with a battered cover up and a pair of ratty, loose-fitting shorts. Her cork sandals with the seashell colored straps were the only thing that was less than five years old. Still, she felt comfortable and ready for a snack and a swim. She tucked her Kindle into her beach bag and headed down to the pool.
Jeff had really splurged. The last-minute airfare must have been appalling, and this resort was maybe the most luxurious place Heather had ever been other than on their honeymoon in Hawaii. She suddenly felt very underdressed… well, overdressed, but “out of style” to be more precise. She didn’t see another woman in a one-piece. At least no woman under about sixty. She actually stopped walking for a moment, considered whether she just felt too frumpy to be seen in public. Finally, she shook it off. She was on vacation, damn it. And she was going to have a burger and a margarita, and if people wanted to make fun of her mommy attire, well, then, fuck ‘em. She strode over to the bar and sat down at the first stool.
“Ah, my stalker returns,” a deep voice said from beside her.
She turned to see the same black man from the van, except now he was in board shorts and his shirt was open, revealing his smooth, muscular chest, and impressively flat stomach. Heather sprung up and was ready to run away before she caught herself.
“What makes you think I’m stalking you?” she demanded.
He grinned at her sudden combativeness. He responded to her with open palms. Isn’t it obvious?
“I… I didn’t even see you before I sat down.”
“Uh huh,” he replied skeptically.
“Whatever,” she said as she retook her seat. She wasn’t going to let his strange man and his unnerving manner get under her skin. Still, she couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t, you know.”
He didn’t answer right away and she found herself turning to look at him. Another small grin.
“Then why did you want my number earlier?”
“Huh?”
“On the bus? The text.”
“What?” And then she realized. He thought she’d sent a text to herself so that she could have his cell. “No! That was to my husband.”
“Uh huh.”
She turned away from him. Where the heck was that bartender? She could feel the man’s eyes on her. She turned back in his direction, but he wasn’t looking at her. Still, he sensed her movement and turned quickly before she could look away again.
“Can’t keep your eyes off me,” he gloated.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re very full of yourself.”
“You’re the one who’s following me around.”
She sighed. “Look, for the last time, I wasn’t trying to get your number, and I am not following you.”
“And yet you have my number now, and here you are.”
Oh God, he was infuriating. “Now listen –“
He held out his hand to cut her off. He smiled. Kindly now. “Listen, I’m flattered. And you’re a… pretty woman, but you’re not my type.” No, not kindly. Patronizingly.
That one stung. It’s one thing to get shot down if you’re hitting on someone. But she’d just gotten shot down when all she wanted was a drink and a fucking burger.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered. She was dressed a little frumpy at the moment and had never been a bombshell, but she knew she was cute in that brunette pixie/tomboy/Natalie Portman/Emma Watson mold. And if there was a mom with three kids out there with a cuter ass, then….
“You wish you could get me!” she sputtered. It was supposed to come out all spunky and confident, like some feisty dame from an old Hollywood movie, Bette Davis or Katherine Hepburn or something, but it ended up sounding a little needy, even to her ears.
“Oh, nevermind,” she hissed.
She saw the man grin out of the corner of her eye. The bartender finally arrived. She angrily ordered a frozen margarita and a bacon cheeseburger.
She saw his eyebrows rise at that.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” he laughed. “Nice to see an older woman who is still willing to eat real food.”
Older woman? “Thirty-two is not old!”
“You don’t need to convince me,” he replied. “I’m sure your husband,” he said that as if he still didn’t quite seem to believe such a creature really existed, “is quite delighted with the whole… um… package.”
A small growl emanated from Heather’s throat. It was a sound she hadn’t known she could make.
“Well, then what is your type?” she snapped.
He sighed as if being horribly put upon. But he wasn’t doing anything other than drinking a beer and sitting there all… all arrogant-like.
“What, am I even too hideous to talk to?”
He turned toward her. “I never said you were hideous. You’re actually quite, ah, cute, I guess.”
“You guess?”
He shrugged.
A bleached-blond happened by, tall, curvy to the point of jiggly, skin a bit leathery from too much time in the sun, though she couldn’t have been much older than Heather.
“How about her? More your type?” Heather asked as the woman passed.
He snorted. “See, I knew you were a racist.”
“What?!”
“Of course, I’d be into blondes with big booties. Where the white women at?” he added in a Stepin Fetchit-accent.
“I am not a racist,” she replied hotly.
“I know how you people are.”
“You people?!”
“See,” he smirked, “now you know how I feel.”
“I’ll let you know, mister, that I’ve dated a black man before.”
She felt herself wince as she said it. Not just because it was a weird thing to say, but also because, well, it wasn’t quite true either. It had been freshman year of high school. Had they even kissed? She wasn’t sure. Happily he didn’t seem too interesting in pursuing that line of discussion.
“Listen…” he held out his hand as if to prompt her.
“Heather?”
“You’re not sure?”
She groaned. “Yes, Heather.”
He stuck out his large hand. “I’m Damon.”
More like Demon, she thought to herself as she they shook. Twisting everything. Needling her.
“Listen, Heather, it was a pleasure to meet you. You seem like a delightful young woman. But I really need to be running.”
And with that, he stood, took his beer in his hand and walked away. Heather stared at him, mouth agape. What the fuck was that?
***
Heather downed her margarita and ordered another. She slowly worked her way through her bacon cheeseburger, though it made her feel oddly guilty. That asshole.
She went back over their conversation in her head, wincing at her missteps, inventing snappier comebacks.
Hate to break it you, hotshot, but you’re not my type either. Ugh, instead, she’d told him she’d dated a black man before.
And nice to see that you’re confident enough to drink a light beer.
And by the way, Damon, my husband is twice the man you are, and yes, he is happy with this package.
It sounded sassy in her head. She imagined herself shaking her head and wagging her finger in emphasis as she said it.
She glanced around the pool deck. All the women were in bikinis. None of them were wearing dime store, plastic, neon sunglasses.
She looked down at herself. The package maybe was okay, but how about the wrapping? When was the last time she’d greeted Jeff in anything other than sweatpants? Or done her nails? Or even trimmed her muff?
She couldn’t really blame Damon for not being interested. Not that she wanted him to be interested, because he was an ass. No two ways about it. An ass. Well put-together, yeah. In great shape, sure. But still, an arrogant, pompous ass.
She pulled out her Kindle, but it timed out before she got through a single page. She had to give Damon credit for something else. He had a rare ability to get under her skin.
CHAPTER THREE
The whole time Jeff had been trying to convince her to take a break, her main thought had been about how hard it was going to be to leave the kids. And Jeff. And Jeff alone with the kids. But mainly the kids. They’d miss their mommy. Or at least she hoped they would. She chortled at the realization that she’d be a little disappointed if it wasn’t at least a little bit of a fiasco back home. But what she hadn’t really thought of was being alone for four days.
She’d pictured some of it. Relaxing on the beach. Sleeping in. But not some of the practicalities. There’d be no one to talk to, to hang out with, worse, no one with whom to eat meals. Heather was feeling self-conscious enough about her clothes and her hair, which she’d been putting into a loose bun so long she wasn’t sure she remembered even how to properly blow it out, that she didn’t even want to begin to think about what she’d look like eating alone. And room service wasn’t an option. Is there anything sadder than seeing that room service cart sitting outside a hotel room door?
When the sun began to set, Heather packed up her Kindle and, a bit unsteady after three margaritas, walked back through the hotel toward her room. She passed a little boutique in the lobby and admired the cute dresses in the window. She hadn’t even packed anything decent to wear out to the dinner, just beach clothes, cover-ups, and wraps.
