by Xavier Neal
The black halter-top maxi dress, with a bright floral bottom half, covers my swimsuit perfectly. While I’m not sure where we’re going, given that the resort has many restaurants built into it, it’s a good outfit for most options. Plus, if things run late, I don’t have to worry about darting back to the room to change before the daily poolside concert.
I adjust my sunglasses in my wavy hair and give my reflection a satisfied smile.
So patting myself on the back right now for choosing to shower last night when we got in. Part of me was tempted not to. I loved having Dusty’s smell stained on my skin. Hints of his sweat and mine clinging to me from a night of endless dancing. Rinsing it away felt like I was committing some sort of crime against love.
Love?
No.
Maybe.
No.
Love is not an overnight sensation. It’s not nonstop grinding and drunken giggles. That’s just sets of chemical reactions hoping to be enhanced further with sexual satiation. Love is hard work. Endless commitments to countless things. Self-sacrifice and unpleasant rituals. What we’re experiencing is infatuation. Infatuation is fun. Infatuation is love adjacent. It’s like love with a ticking timer. This is the problem most people face in life. They confuse the two or force one into becoming the other. It’s another reason my job exists. To help people decipher the differences and only pursue the one that will lead them down the path of marriage, kids, and possibly lifelong happiness. The latter seems to be a fleeting concept to most. If I were one of my clients, matchmaker me would list the obvious reasons why things with Dusty need to stay in the temporary column and remind myself that this may be enjoyable, but has a low probability of lasting….God, if I were client me, I would probably tell matchmaking me to shut the fuck up because I have no idea what it is client me is experiencing. And matchmaker me doesn’t either. I’ve never felt this way about a person in my entire life. How can I be so certain it’s eventually going to go away? Aren’t there people in the world who are actually in love, and not just with their significant other because it’s convenient or comfortable?
I shake away the conflicting thoughts and open the bathroom door, revealing Audrey’s half-awake face.
She gives me a long look before quietly asking, “Going somewhere?”
“Breakfast.”
“Want some company?”
The guilt I batted away earlier makes another round. “I’m going with…um…Dusty.”
Audrey tilts her head in curiosity. “You really like this guy, don’t you?”
My head bobs without my consent.
“Embrace it,” she demands with a squeeze of my hand. “I know you. I know the part of your brain you use for business is telling you this isn’t real. This is just a fling. This is just something to have fun with while you’re away from your normal life. And that may be true…but it may not be, Carly. Don’t keep Dustin in the temporary zone just because you’ve spent the last eight years of your life dictating to others where the people they’re interested in need to fall. Sometimes love needs your assistance. It’s why you make so much money. But sometimes love has the situation handled….”
Her nuggets of wisdom are proceeded by a tiny tap on the hotel door.
“Go before The Little Mermaid’s evil twin wakes up, and we’re all doomed.”
I suppress my snicker, slip past her, and out the door to where Dusty is waiting.
His green eyes are thrumming with excitement and my heart can barely handle it.
Why do I feel like Audrey’s absolutely right?
He skips the option to say anything. He swiftly wraps one arm around my waist to tug me into him and presses his lips to mine. My body instantly melts against his. Dusty tightens his grip to prevent me from falling as our lips part, tongues anxious to touch again. They tangle in ceaseless twirls. They push back and forth until our entire bodies are mimicking their feverish actions.
Dusty forces himself to draw his mouth away on a heavy groan. “Baby, if we don’t stop now I can’t guarantee we’ll make it to breakfast.”
My pussy aches in agreement.
Inconvenience of sharing a room with people. Makes the availability for sex difficult.
I fold my fingers with his. “Where are we going?”
He starts to lead the two of us towards the stairs. “One of the concierge people told me about this little taco cart near The Rook. Figured we could grab a couple and eat ‘em on the beach. That sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
Our joint walk continues and he quietly confesses, “I missed the hell out of you and we jus’ saw each other, what? Four hours ago?”
Post last night’s concert, we all went to “The Pawn Ram” the country themed night club where it was rumored Cooper Copeland was going to be hanging out. According to drunken Cordie, who we listened to complain during our entire walk back to the hotel room, it was a lie. I honestly couldn’t have cared less. I was so consumed with having Dustin’s body against mine for a few more hours that, unless one of them were dying, I couldn’t be distracted. Audrey, apparently, spent a chunk of the night sulking at the bar until Cordie decided they should do body shots with a pair of dentists she met. I vaguely remember being called to join them…but Dustin’s body begged not to be deserted. It felt like my obligation to appease.
“Is this crazy?” He questions at the same time we descend the stairs. “To miss you like hell? To not be able to get you off my mind, no matter how hard I try?”
I sidestep the idea of having to find those answers. “Off your mind? You don’t want me there?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You think I’m trespassing?” My tone remains teasing. “Am I gonna be prosecuted?”
Dusty lets the corner of his lip kick up in a devilish nature. “All night long if I have any say about it.”
Another pang makes an appearance between my thighs.
This endless game of foreplay we’ve ventured into is equal parts thrilling as it is torturous. I’ve never met a man who has me panting before we’ve spent any amount of time under the sheets, yet Dusty has me on the cliff of climax each time his hand drifts lower than my waist.
The two of us are leaked out onto the windy path that leads to the main resort walkway.
Like most things, the pictures online don’t do it justice. While they’re enticing, they pale in comparison to the magic you’re brought into. Every piece of foliage is luscious green, and sprinkled among it are brightly colored flowers. All the resort buildings are painted white or black in an effort to not distract from their appeal as well as to keep with the Chess theme the resort has. Navigating the layout is fairly easy. The main paths around the area are white and the black ones branch off to specific venues, like the one we attended last night, or nicer restaurants instead of the food trucks stationed near the pools. Paths that lead to the hotel buildings are checkered, and buildings are named in reference to the pool area they’re closest to. For instance, we’re staying in The Queen’s Hideaway. Dead center and closest to the pool where they’re doing the daily concerts. Dusty’s staying in The Rook’s Corner. It seems like a world away each time we part, but the reality is, it’s only a five minute walk.
I softly acknowledge our incredible view, “This place is beautiful.”
“Somethin’ sure is.”
My eyes swing to his, which are swirling with adoration. “How often do you go around trying to sweep women off their feet?”
“Tryin’? You’re not swept yet?”
He barely lets me laugh before he’s dropping my hand in an effort to physically do the act. “Oh my God! Stop! Stop!”
We playfully struggle for opposing positions. His laughter rolls into mine, but he continues his offensive strike until he’s successfully scooped me up.
With my feet kicking in protest and my face reddening in disbelief, I demand, “You put me down! Put me down, Dustin!”
He chuckles, but marches on. “Gotta be more c
areful with your words, baby.”
I wiggle harder despite the fact I know it’s pointless. “Now I wanna know how often you go around kidnapping women.”
The sarcastic expression he hits me with returns a smile to my lips.
“Why are you so strong?” My question receives a proud smirk. Despite the fact I know he probably does some sort of manual labor, I ask, “You’re not a gym jerk, are you?”
“Baby, if I strike you as any kind of jerk, I’m doin’ everything wrong.”
I quickly rush to correct, “You don’t! It’s just the term we use when referencing men who spend more time jacking off to the reflection of their muscles rather than using them.”
“It’s not usually my thing to discuss what I jack off to, but I can guarantee you it ain’t my muscles.” He lightly laughs. “I don’t actually ever step foot in the gym. The small town I live in doesn’t really have a need for one, and I spend plenty of time workin’ my property.”
“Your property? You own your house?”
“I do. Did a rent-to-own situation. Sheriff Daulder’s father got sick, but he didn’t really have the time to go through the hassle of tryin’ to sell the thing, so he let me rent it. After his father passed, he made me a deal that was too dirt cheap to pass on. When I moved in it was old and fallin’ apart. Now it shines like new.”
Thoughtlessly I say, “I can’t wait to see it.”
“I can’t wait to show you.”
The racing of my heart starts again, and I have to force myself to look away.
Why can’t I stop myself from saying shit like that? And why is it every time I do, he goes along with it?
These are big red flags. We’re talking Mount Everest size! We shouldn’t talk like this.
Fuck, I don’t wanna ever stop talking like this with him.
Needing to get back into a lighter conversation, I sigh, “You can put me down now. Your point has been made.”
He chuckles again. “Has it?”
“Yes.”
“Has it really?”
“Yes.”
“And jus’ to be clear my point was…?”
“You’ve swept me off my feet.”
“And?”
“What do you mean and?”
“And what’s the other half?” He smugly smirks. “It’s a two part point.”
I toss up a hand in defeat. “What’s your other point?”
“I’ve swept you off your feet,” Dustin’s face leans in a little closer, “and you love it.”
My voice whispers back, “I do.”
He winks, stops, and allows my feet to finally fall back to the ground. Our hands lace back together as we finish our trek to the only taco cart near The Rook pool. The venue nearby has its doors open, filling the area closest to it with fun, familiar country tunes.
“This is Shake My Boots Off!” I squeak. “Love this song!”
Dusty abruptly halts us. “Do you know how to shake your boots off?”
Confusion appears instantly.
“It’s a dance.”
The expression remains.
“It’s a dance!” He excitedly exclaims. “Let me teach you!”
“Right here?”
“Right now,” Dusty demands.
His eyes lock onto mine and the idea of doing anything else is impossible.
Why? Why is it he has me like a puppet on strings? Does he know it? Is this why he keeps behaving so wildly, because he knows I’m not going to do anything to stop it? Should I? Is there really anything wrong with loving his playful nature, especially when I spend so much of my life in a serious one?
“Show me your moves, Dusty.”
An unforgettable glow creeps into his eyes. “That’s the first time you called me Dusty.”
“It won’t be the last….”
He digs his teeth into his bottom lip.
“Now show me how this is done before I wander off to get breakfast alone.”
Dusty laughs at the same time he nods. “It’s kinda like the Boot Scootin’ Boogie Line Dance. Do you know how to do that?”
Another look of bafflement bounces around my expression.
He shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’ve got a lot to learn, city girl.”
“Then saddle up and show me.”
Through his continued laughter he demonstrates a set of simple kick on each foot movements, a small turn in which you dust the heel of your imaginary boot off, and then repeat the steps facing a new direction. It’s by far one of the easiest dances I’ve ever seen. Or at least it is until Dusty changes positions so he’s facing me, doing the moves in a mirrored fashion, and makes an attempt to grab my hand for a spin in between sets. The first four times I screw it up royally, but by the fifth, I find my footing, gleefully squealing when I get it right. Regardless of the song having ended, we keep dancing and are eventually joined by random couples, who I assume are too drunk or too in love to care about turning the walkway into a dance floor.
Dusty gives me one last twirl and dips me backwards like some sort of country dancing professional. The onlookers applaud his move, which causes me to giggle, “Show off.”
He winks before helping me back onto my feet. We divide ourselves from the still dancing crowd and head for the food cart I’m now hoping has beverages as well as decent tacos. After ordering two bottles of water and two Beach Bod Destroyer burritos, the two of us stroll towards the vacant beach area a few feet away from the luxury pool.
“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” I ask, readjusting my grip on my unopened breakfast.
“My parents. They started teachin’ us that kinda shit when we were four and five. Every Saturday night they could, they’d go into the main part of town to Cotton’s, the local dance hall, and never came home before two a.m. They’d always leave us with one of the Black sisters. Little did they know those girls’ only real care was gettin’ us to bed early and their boyfriends on the couch as soon as possible.” A panicked look darts onto his face. “Their last name is Black! Not black is the color of their skin. I’m not saying they were black people who were sisters. I’m sayin’-”
The sound of my snickers shuts down his unnecessary explanation.
His cheeks begin to burn, but he pushes past it. “We should add dance lessons to your country music agenda.”
“We should.” My agreement is proceeded with us plopping down on beach lounge chairs side by side. Once we’ve both had a moment to have a bite of the delicious concoctions we ordered, I say, “But to keep this balanced; now you get an art history lesson.”
Dusty gives me his undivided attention. “All ears.”
“Well, since we’re by the beach, it reminds me of the Polynesian artist Manu. He does these breathtaking portraits that pay homage to the way his ancestors inked their skin in the past at the same time they highlight important values such as protecting one’s family.”
His gaze instantly softens. The silent, subtle shift indicates he more than identifies with the concept. He lives it himself.
Can’t say we’re on the same page there. I come from a pair of people who consider appearance to be everything. Protecting that is more important than protecting their children’s emotions.
“However, what makes Manu even more unique is he only paints in shades of blue.”
Dusty’s bewilderment expands my smile. “Jus’…blue?”
“Just blue.”
“That sounds wild,” he mumbles, gaze drifting off as if trying to imagine it. “There can’t possibly be that many shades of blue….”
“Here, let me show you a few photos I took of his work when he came to Highland last year.”
We each place our breakfast burritos at our sides and I retrieve my phone from where it is tucked into the top part of my swimsuit. We lean into the open space between us and admire the pictures together. While he shamelessly gawks at the artwork, I drink in his sincere excitement. Everything, from the way his jaw twitches in surprise to the faint sound
of his breath catching each time a portrait resonates with him on an intimate level, has me completely captivated.
He is like artwork. A living, breathing portrait of fantasy fused with reality. I wanna frame him. I wanna be his frame.
After I put my phone away, I reach for my breakfast and announce, “We’re even.”
“Even Steven.”
The odd saying simply receives another smile. “So, what do you for a living?”
“I’m an elevator mechanic.”
Bafflement falls onto my face. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“You’re telling me you just…go around fixing elevators for a living?”
“Yup.”
I give him a curious expression, silently demanding more details. When he doesn’t deliver, I stumble over my questions, “How…? Why…? Is it….Do you….Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he emphasizes quietly. “I mainly fix ‘em, but sometimes I do inspections or routine maintenance to prevent them from breaking down. I work in Dalvegan. It’s the next city over from my town, Brestum. One of the biggest cities in Texas….”
“Wait. You work in the city but don’t live there?”
“Not a fan.”
Another obvious reason of why we won’t work long term joins the list. “Why not?”
“It’s loud. Noisy. The wrong kind of dirty. You see more buildings than you do sky. There’s no lakes or dirt roads….Mos’ people are unfriendly or flat out rude. Not to mention there’s nothin’ I like to do there. Yeah, they’ve got bars and stuff, but I have better ones with better people in my town. I guess you could say the city jus’ ain’t for me.”
My appetite completely vanishes as the uncomfortable knot in my chest grows.
Dusty places his food in the space beside him once more and angles his body towards mine. “Your thinkin’ you bein’ a big city girl is gonna be a problem, aren’t you?”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
He smiles sweetly. “I’ve spent the last two days studyin’ your face like a manual, Carly. It’s not difficult to know when doubts start creepin’ into that big, beautiful brain of yours.”
