Eight
On the beach
Thursday, late night
When Mrs. Storrey saw that Smith was going to walk the beach in his loafers, she insisted he take them off and leave them on the pool deck.
“You need to get some sand between your toes, Smith,” she told him.
What I need, Smith thought, is a double shot of whiskey to calm my nerves. Wordlessly, he obeyed, removed the shoes. Tasseled wing tips, the gleam of the moon reflected in their glossy leather surface. Smith consistently wore polished, conservative, expensive leather shoes and Mrs. Storrey always noticed a man’s shoes. Quality shoes were an indication of a man’s personality. She wasn’t exactly sure what the wearing of such shoes indicated, but she knew they were a turn on. Especially with dress slacks and navy or black socks. All of her previous husbands had worn good shoes.
An earlier pop-up shower had formed a dimpled crust on the loose sand that stretched to the water. The crunchy surface felt surprisingly good on the undersides of Smith’s naked feet as he moved across the beach, like a massage from Mother Nature. Hand in hand, they made their way to the water’s edge, then walked to a lighted pier that was a quarter mile away. Foaming surf licked at their bare feet, one pair callused and rough; the other smooth, dainty, and pedicured. Smith felt like he might throw up and wondered if he should have taken the Alka-Seltzer after all. In an absurd way, he felt almost like a sixteen-year-old. Raging hormones, insecure, and bold enough not to think of repercussions. He took a calming breath and reminded himself that Mrs. Storrey was simply a neighbor. Someone he’d known and disliked for years.
Although moonlight enveloped them, the steady sound of breaking waves offered a curtain of privacy from the other couples who were partaking in a late night stroll. Smith stopped suddenly and, pivoting, turned his companion harshly by her shoulders so they were face to face. Or, rather face to neck. She looked up at him, the ocean breeze blowing silvery bangs away from her thoughtful face. Her eyes sparkled with what could have been humor. Or mischief. Waves crashed behind him, the resonance of strength transforming into a gentle rushing surf as sea water met with packed sand.
“Mrs. Stor-”
“Sylvia.”
“Sylvia?”
“Yes, Sylvia. It’s my first name. Not many people know that.”
A wave of adrenaline rushed through his abdomen and Smith had to catch his breath before he could speak.
“Sylvia. Beautiful. What a fitting name.” He cleared his throat, twice, and continued, “I’m too old to mince words, and I’ll be damned if I’m reading you wrong. Are we actually becoming friends here? I… don’t know what to think of--”
Warm, moist lips on the side of his neck interrupted the flow of words. She nuzzled his earlobe and murmured something unintelligible in his ear. As her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her next words were clearly spoken and etched into his permanent memory.
“Smith, you old bastard. Will you just shut up for a minute and hold me?” She laughed and it came out like music. “It’s been too long since I’ve been in a man’s arms. And you always wear such great shoes.”
“What? What about my shoes?” He was perplexed. Maybe he was dreaming. One of those weird fantasy dreams that seem so real and make perfect sense until you wake up.
“Your shoes, Smith. Very traditional. Conservative. Polished leather. They make me want to undress you to see what type of boxers you wear.”
Females are a different breed, he mused. They should come with set of instructions, like a cordless screwdriver or a gas grill. He looked down at his bare feet and decided not to ask her if shoes still turned her on, even when they’d been taken off the feet they belonged to.
He pulled her to him and they embraced in silence for several long, tantalizing moments. Smith breathed deep, inhaling her sweet fragrance that mixed with earthy salt air. His mouth had gone dry. His palms were wet and his armpits had become sticky. Without thinking too much about it, he allowed his hands to roam the length of her back, slowly. His senses jumped to attention. When he reached the pronounced indentation in the small of her back, desire swirled through his body. A tornado of wanting, it was sudden and unyielding. At its center was a strange sense of calm that came from knowing his life was about to change. For better or worse, something was going to happen.
“Mrs. Storrey. I mean, Sylvia.” He let out a sigh that ended in a moan. “Sylvia, you are making me feel something I haven’t felt in years. Decades. Since my wife died. I don’t like it. Heck, I don’t even like you. But then again, I do…I like it…and you…very much. I didn’t realize I still could, you know, um, feel… like this.” He paused to clear his throat, knowing that he was starting to ramble and decided it would be in his best interest to stop talking. He knew that the skin beneath her silk blouse would feel very smooth.
She moved her lips from his neck to his mouth and pressed her slim body against his, one leisurely thrust pushing into his groin, and melded into him like she belonged there.
“You feel just fine to me, Smith,” she whispered. “All of you.”
***
From a distance, an observer would have thought the pair to be newlyweds. Either that, or a long-together couple who were still very much in love. His arm protectively around Sylvia’s shoulders, Smith guided her over the compacted sand. Even though their conversation couldn’t be heard, it was clear that the woman was animated and attentive. At one point she laughed and gave him a playful shove.
Once at the Sea Shell Hotel, Smith intertwined her slim fingers with his thick rough ones, and after a brief deliberation the senior couple made their way to his room. Gus was nowhere in sight, and Smith placed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob, musing over his college days when a sock tied around the door handle signified to any roommate that the room was temporarily off limits. He laughed aloud, and figured that, at worst, he would at least hear Gus coming down the hall before the man and his putter burst through the door. Gus never did anything quietly.
Smith was as nervous as Sylvia was calm. They sat on the motel room’s sofa since the only other option was the bed, which even at their age, would have seemed too forward. Facing him, she caressed his shoulders and neck with firm, slow circles. Reflexively, he tensed his muscles, flexing the biceps. He made a mental note to renew his membership at the health club at and start lifting weights again. After all, he’d just read about a triathlon contestant who was seventy-six. Of course the man didn’t come close to winning first place, but he finished. He’d finished in ahead of many thirty and forty year-olds. And right now, Smith felt twenty-five. Younger even. If you judged by the hormones flowing through him, pubescent. At that moment, he could have bench pressed two hundred and fifty pounds. He could have won the Ironman Triathlon.
Absorbed in each other, their eyes fused and held. Still caressing his neck, she smiled lazily at him and he realized with a jolt that he’d wanted her for a long time. He’d actually held a latent desire for this annoying, red-hat-wearing, shopaholic, bad-driving woman. Nervous, he was unsure of where to put his hands. Unsure of what to say. He was sixteen again, with the girl next door in his arms and butterflies in his stomach. Slowly he stood, disengaging. When she stood too, he pulled her toward the bed. To hell with appearing too forward, he thought. After all, whatever is happening here, she started it. Smith felt shaky. Elated. Apprehensive. His nerves taught as a guitar string. A string on a guitar that was ready to be played.
“What is your first name, Smith?” she asked him.
After a brief pause he said, “Winston Eugene. Not many people know that.”
They explored each other’s bodies, softly, through clothes and murmured desires. Minutes later when he heard his full name whispered, twice, urgency prevailed. Forgetting about being delicate and forgetting to worry about doing it correctly after such a lengthy abstinence, he simply removed her black cotton jeans and cashmere tank top, admiring her black lingerie while he removed his own clothing. She fluff
ed the sheets and teasing, patted the space beside her, inviting him back into the bed. He accepted the invitation and, without any further foreplay, let his body take over. She was ready. She wrapped her arms around his lower back, pulled him deeper. Their bodies moved together and found a rhythm.
He forgot about his nervousness and surrendered to the sensations of bliss. She climaxed first and simply smiled at the shocked look of ecstasy on his face when he came immediately after. She was already anticipating future methods of achieving the same goal. Smith was a new project. One that she’d kind of like to spend a lot of time on. And with.
Afterwards, they lay together looking through the open balcony doors at the beach, its sand shimmering beneath a lazy glow of moonlight. From the seventh floor, they had a fabulous view. Smith continued to wear an expression that was half incredulity and half smug satisfaction.
“Good God, Sylvia. I didn’t know I still could do that. I think I’ve exceeded my maximum heart rate zone. I could go into cardiac arrest. Seriously, I could code right now.” He took quick, deep breaths, only half joking.
“You want me to take your pulse, Smith?” she asked innocently, slyly reaching between his legs.
“I don’t think that’s where you’re supposed to take it...”
Nine
Outside the Sea Shell Motel
Thursday, late night
“Oh, come on Maggie!” Gus motioned in the direction of the hot tub with his putter. “Let’s try it. We’re on vacation. The show was good, but why should the evening stop now? Why not enjoy a hot tub at midnight? A couple of college kids would go crazy over this during spring break. Besides, you had planned to get in the pool, anyway. You’ve got your swimsuit on.” They had seemingly run into each other at the pool by coincidence, but Gus knew that Maggie had planned it that way. His ego surfaced, elevating his mood to recklessly invincible.
“We’re not kids, Gus.”
The putter jabbed into the pool deck like a judge’s gavel on a deck, to make a point. “I paid a lot of green to come on this bus trip and I intend to get my money’s worth.” His voice was an octave higher than usual. The handlebars of his mustache twitched when he stuck a toe in the bubbling water. “I’m going in,” he declared, stripping off a Myrtle Beach tee shirt.
A late night security guard watched the pair and debated whether or not to make them leave the pool and Jacuzzi area. As posted signs informed all guests, the pool complex closed at ten o’clock every night and rules were rules. On the other hand, the old couple wasn’t causing a disturbance. They weren’t drunk and they weren’t loud. Well, not too loud. Besides, how could he discipline a couple that were his grandparent’s age? He bypassed them and continued on his rounds.
“My A & W will get hot.” Maggie complained.
“So pour the damn thing over some ice.”
“Root beer isn’t the same watered down. Ice takes some of the bite out of it. Especially wet ice like you get out of the machine here.”
“Wet ice?”
“Yes, wet. Not dry like you get out of your ice maker at home.”
“For pete’s sake. Will you just drink the root beer, and then get in the hot tub with me?” It was an in-ground Jacuzzi beneath an open gazebo and a sliver of night sky could be viewed through the rising steam. Clinging to the metal handrail, Gus entered the tub to the point where both his knees were covered with swirling foam. Goose bumps instantly popped out on the rest of his bare, stark white body. Uncharacteristically self-conscious, he sucked in the loose flesh that hung around his gut and flexed what muscle was left in his biceps. Maggie thought how adorable he was.
“You look like an alien from ‘E.T.’ or something,” she told him and drank some root beer. She tipped her head back to get the last swallows of frothy carbonation from the bottom of the plastic bottle. She’d finally gotten Gus’s attention and he was spending time with her. Even though she was thrilled, she attempted nonchalance. You didn’t want to make it too easy for a man, she figured, eyeing him over the upturned bottle, curly hair bobbing with each swallow.
“I look like an alien, huh?” Gus held up a pair of baggy yellow and orange checkered shorts as he lowered himself slowly into the steamy water. “Well, you drink too damn much root beer, for pete’s sake.” It was the only comeback he could think of. “Try a shot of whiskey instead and you might loosen up a little bit,” he added.
There were still a few drops of A&W left in the bottle. Maggie poured them over the top of Gus’s bald head before joining him in the foaming bubbles. He thought briefly about being mad, but figured a little root beer over the head was the price you had to pay if you were going to hang out with a redhead. They could be unpredictable.
Fifteen steamy minutes later, perched on opposite sides of the hot tub’s edge, Gus and Maggie swapped stories of their professional careers before retirement. They were stunned to discover that both had worked in publishing. Maggie had owned a small weekly newspaper with a circulation of ten thousand readers. Gus had owned a printing business that handled anything from financial brochures and monthly magazines to cheap paperback novels. Half an hour went by as they reminisced and tried to outdo each other with publishing career war stories. They submerged themselves a second time.
“For pete’s sake, Maggie,” Gus muttered. “My wrinkles are getting wrinkled. Let’s get out of this thing.” He began the methodical process of climbing out and his grunts made it clear that exiting the tub was hard work. White foam bubbles clung to his skin. Flattened by the steam, his wavy white sideburns and thick pepper-colored mustache appeared darker than usual and the top of his bald head shone with perspiration. Maggie decided that he truly did look like an extra-terrestrial and started laughing so hard that she slipped off the steps and fell into the water with an awkward splash. She came up sputtering.
“Chit. I loss my dennures.”
“What?”
“In the wather. My dennures.” Maggie stood in the tub’s center, scanning the bubbling surface.
“You lost your dentures?” Gus said. Maggie nodded.
“You wear uppers or lowers?” he asked, as if it made a difference in the rescue mission.
“Juss the uppers.”
He lowered himself back into the swirling water and grabbed the pink putter from its resting spot beside the tub. “For pete’s sake.” Gus methodically waded around the small hot tub, waving the putter in front of him like a blind man might do with a walking stick, his angular face intent with concentration. After two passes, he pulled up the putter and grabbed a set of teeth from its end.
“Got ‘em!” He handed the set of teeth to Maggie. She shook them off, slipped them into her mouth, and ran her tongue over their surface once.
“Thank you, Gus. Walk me back to my room?” Watching him retrieve her teeth, Maggie determined that Gus had probably been quite handsome in his younger days. She liked the way he ambled rather than walked, and thought his constant muttering was endearing. The mustache wasn’t half bad, either. In fact, he’d probably been very hot stuff forty or fifty years ago. A charismatic ladies’ man.
“Yeah, sure,” Gus grunted, bending over to put on his flip flops. “You got any booze in there? I could use a nightcap.”
“I’ve got some root beer.”
“For pete’s sake. Maggie, you’re weird.”
“I’m weird? You carry around a golf stick. Everywhere.”
“This ‘golf stick’ just recovered your teeth.”
“True,” she conceded, her wet curls bobbing in agreement. She smelled like a mixture of White Rain hair spray and chlorine. Gus liked it.
“C’mon,” he urged. Let’s walk across the street to the Scotchman. It’s open twenty-four hours. We’ll get some beer and then I’ll walk you to your room.”
“We’re wearing towels.”
“It’s more than some of these kids running up and down these streets wear.” The putter pointed onward and Gus began moving. Maggie shoved her feet into sandals and follow
ed, jogging a few steps to catch up.
Inside the convenience store, Maggie roamed the brightly illuminated aisles price shopping, even though she wasn’t going to buy anything. Gus headed directly to the rear cooler and found a six-pack of Michelob. Returning to the counter, he pried a disc off the top of the handle of his putter and pulled out a roll of bills, held by a small money clip. He handed the cashier a hundred.
“Do you have anything smaller, sir?” the kid asked staring at the putter’s handle with open curiosity. “I can’t change this. We don’t keep much cash in the drawer at night for security reasons.”
“Well, for pete’s sake.” Mumbling, Gus reached back into the handle of the putter and produced a ten. After collecting Maggie, who was in the personal hygiene section contemplating a can anti-frizz hairspray, the couple headed back to their hotel, Gus telling Maggie that her hair was perfect just the way it was.
“Come back to my room with me, Maggie,” he said, as they crossed Ocean Boulevard. “We’ll see if there are any good movies on the HBO channel. It’s free. And drink a beer or two.”
When they arrived, Gus studied Maggie as they stood in front of their hotel. He liked the way her permed hair curled around her chubby face. It had an orange hue to it, and it really was perfect just the way it was. She didn’t need any hairspray. He liked the fact that her hair was something other than white. And, that she still had a head of good, thick hair. The last woman who showed any interest in Gus had worn a wig, and it was always lopsided.
Maggie was shorter than him—only about five feet tall. Just the right amount of plumpness, the kind that was curvy and not flabby. Gus had known her for a long time at Great Wings, but they’d never spent time together playing cards, or bingo or bocce ball. She’d probably been a fireball in her younger years, Gus reckoned. A loud, full-bosomed heart-breaker.
“What are you staring at?”
Gus harrumphed. “Nothing. Well, you. I’m wondering why we never talked much to each other back home.”
Mayhem in Myrtle Beach Page 7
