Quick & Dirty

by Whitley Cox

  He stood up from the bed and pulled his shorts on. His pecs were still visible, as he hadn’t bothered to button up his shirt, my bite mark from just a few moments ago visible and red and possibly even a little puffy. Just like he’d done with me, with his bruises and bites, his scruff chafing me, and the Sharpie—I’d branded him. He was mine. But like the bruises and the chafing and the Sharpie, it was all just temporary.

  “I’ve gotta run,” he said, sliding his feet into his flip-flops, then coming around to peck me on the cheek. “Sweet dreams. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grabbed his wallet, watch and cell phone off my vanity and was off, leaving me sitting there in bed, staring at the closed door, tears running down my face as I willed him to come back and spend the night. To come back to me. To love me.

  It was almost one o’clock in the morning when I finally decided to do something. I’d been lying there tossing and turning for nearly two hours, unable to get comfortable or settled after the way Tate had turned me down and left. No, he hadn’t been rude or mean. And yes, he had been apologetic. But over the last week and a bit, we’d made love in my room every single night, and every single night he’d stick around to cuddle for an hour or so, look at the clock on my nightstand and then hastily get up and leave. As if he were keeping someone waiting and he had to go and meet them for a date. Did he have a date?

  I tossed back the covers with a huff, threw on my dressing gown as I stalked over to the desk and turned on my laptop. I read through all the notes I’d typed up over the last ten days. The pieces of my article, facts and interviews, things I’d done and people I’d met. Only after reading through it three times, I realized it was complete garbage. I scrunched my nose up, selected “all” and then hit “delete.” That wasn’t me anymore. Those words might have been mine, but they were no longer who I was. They were no longer the words I felt in my heart. Because now my heart was full, my heart was open, and my heart was on my sleeve. I unplugged my computer and opened up the door to the veranda, and with the sea ahead of me and the wind at my back, I wandered down to the beach, nestled down into the cool sand and began writing.

  I was leaving tomorrow, this was our last night together, and if he didn’t want to stay at my place, maybe, just maybe, he’d want me to stay at his. Perhaps he had a special bed or pillow or wore a night-guard because he ground his teeth. That I could handle; I used to wear one, too. But what I couldn’t handle was if he had someone back in his house. That he wasn’t as “unattached” as he had professed. I made my way back from the beach to my villa, quickly printed what I wrote with the complimentary printer, slid into my flip-flops, grabbed my key card and headed off into the gardens and up the path.

  Although I’d never been to his homestead, as we’d always wound up back at mine, I knew where it was. And thanks to my presidential villa all-access pass, I had no issues making my way through the locked gates and down the garden path that led to Tate’s bungalow. I had thought he would have wanted to claim one of the oceanfront villas as his own, but then he lived on the ocean, owned the whole resort and his office overlooked the water, so in the end it was probably more financially lucrative for him to rent out an ocean view unit than keep it for himself.

  The lights were on inside, but the blinds were drawn, and as I approached, I heard his voice murmuring through the door, followed by his rich and hearty laugh. It wrapped around me like a mantle as a wave of melancholy washed through me. This might be the last time I ever heard such a wonderful laugh.

  And then I heard a woman’s voice. A woman’s laugh.

  Oh, no, he did have someone in there. I turned to go, embarrassed and furious at my own stupidity. I’d come here ready to do something I’d never done before, and that was show a man my true feelings. Let my emotions, my heart, take the wheel rather than my fear. But in my haste as I spun around, I managed to bash my elbow into a tin watering can, sending the empty vessel to the ground in a noisy clatter.

  “Fuck!”

  I didn’t even have a chance to flee before the door opened and bright light from inside pierced the night. “Parker?”

  I shook my head, fresh tears burning my eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to bother you and . . . your guest. I’ll just go.” I turned to leave but was stopped by a soft, fluffy thing wending its way between my legs. I looked down to find a cat. A sandy-blond, long-haired cat. A Maine Coon. My mother had two gray ones, Ruckus and Mayhem.

  “Grab her, please,” he said, panic in his voice. “She’s an indoor cat and doesn’t go outside.”

  I picked the furry beast up and cradled her against my chest. “Hello, baby,” I cooed, letting her sniff me a bit before I began to stroke her back. Instantly she closed her eyes and gentle purr rumbled through her.

  “Everything okay, honey?” I heard a woman’s voice call out from inside the house.

  I froze. Tate’s eyes went wide when he saw my face. Then the realization dawned on him. “Wait here,” he said as he ducked back in the house only to emerge seconds later carrying his tablet. “Parker Ryan, I’d like you to meet my mother, Helen McAllister. Mum, this is Parker, the girl I’ve been telling you about.”

  A woman in pink scrubs and hair the same color as Tate’s, but pulled into a bun, smiled back at me on the screen. “Hello, Parker. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She wrinkled her nose and chuckled softly. “Sort of. Though, in person would be better.”

  I swallowed. “Um . . . hi, Mrs. McAllister, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Tate’s eyes caught mine and he invited me inside, his kitty still safely nuzzled against my chest.

  We sat down on his couch and chatted with his mother for around ten minutes. Even though it was roughly five in the morning back in Victoria, Tate’s mother, a nurse, was on a quick break at work and wide awake. Apparently she and Tate chatted several times a week, often at weird hours. Both were so busy, it was the only opportunity they had to connect.

  When we finally signed off, I’d been extended a sincere invitation to go and visit her in Victoria. When she went to New York in the fall with a couple of other nurses, she was going to look me up, and I was to play “tour guide.”

  “So, that’s my mother,” Tate said with a sigh, flipping the cover closed on his tablet, his eyes traveling down to a sleeping and purring cat in my lap. “And this . . . this is Rosie.” He reached out and stroked her soft fur. She opened one eye just a fraction but when she realized who was petting her, closed it again.

  “Is . . . is she why you won’t spend the night?” I asked, hoping that the butterflies zooming around in my belly were all for naught.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Even though I live where I work, I’m gone all day. When I come home at night, this is our time. I feed her, we play for a bit, she sleeps on my bed.” He made a noise in his throat and looked up at me. Wariness clouded his eyes. “She’s my family. My mother won’t move here. The one brother I know lives in New York and isn’t willing to move here yet, so Rosie’s my companion. My best friend. And even though I’d love to spend the night with you, I can’t do that to her. It sounds stupid and corny, but she’s family. And I keep my family private. I keep my life private.”

  Love streamed warmly through my veins like the buzz of a fine wine, and I felt my heart swell inside my chest as I continued to run my hands lightly over her back, her sweet little face turned in toward my belly. He owned a cat. He was a devoted cat-dad. A chuckle bubbled up inside my chest, and though I fought to keep it down, I couldn’t, and I started to giggle.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m laughing at me. I was jealous of a cat.”

  Rolling his eyes, he draped one arm around my shoulders and let out a contented sigh, the tension in his shoulders dissolving much like my butterflies. “You have nothing to be jealous over. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Didn’t invite you over or ask you to spend the night. It’s just . . . well . . . I don’t ever invite women over. This is my home, our home, and invit
ing in the flavor of the week just . . .” His lips twisted in thought. “Somehow it doesn’t feel right to me.”

  I swallowed and pulled away slightly. So, that’s what I was, then, “the flavor of the week,” only for a new delicacy to show up tomorrow and he could start the whole seduction routine over again. I motioned to get up, but he put a hand on my thigh. Meanwhile Rosie stirred on my lap and made a mewl of discontent.

  “But you’re different. You’re special. None of the women I’ve ever hooked up with here knew I was the owner. They all thought I was a manager, an accountant or guest or something. You’re the first guest I’ve ever revealed my true identity to, Parker. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you over. I should have. It’s just, well . . . the last time I got attached and invited a woman to spend the night, she broke my heart and made fun of me for having a cat. So now I’m wary and I keep Rosie a secret. Ridiculous, I know. But it’s worked well . . . until now.”

  My heart did a flip flop in my chest. He was a wounded heart just like me.

  He swallowed and looked up into my eyes. “Would you . . . would you like to spend the night?”

  I let out a weighty sigh. “What makes you happy?”

  “What?”

  “That therapist you sent me to, she asked me to think about what makes me happy. To think about the last time that I was truly happy. What was I doing? Who was I with? So, I’m going to ask you the same thing: What makes you happy?”

  Eyes as green as the lush tropical mountains we’d hiked through and flown over stared back at me. They were so full of whirling emotions I was having a hard time figuring out how he felt or what he was going to say next.

  “You,” he finally said, reaching for my hand. “You make me happy, Parker. I haven’t felt like this in ages. Excited to start the day, to spend it with you. Being with you makes me happy.” His throat undulated with a hard swallow as he continued to look at me. “So, I guess the other reason I didn’t invite you to spend the night was because I was protecting myself. I’ve fallen for you, and you’re leaving tomorrow.”

  If it were possible, I’d be floating. My heart felt light, the butterflies were back but this time having a righteous dance party, and my body all but shook with excitement. I thrust the pieces of paper I’d folded up and put in my robe into his hand.

  “Read. Please.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “What is this?”

  “It’s my article.”

  He started to unfold it. “You could have just emailed it to me,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Says the man who doesn’t know how to Google people.”

  All he did was snort, then his eyes began to shift across the page.

  Life-Changing. Soul-Saving. Heart-Mending. My Time at The Windward Hibiscus on Moorea

  By: Parker Ryan

  The breeze, the salty air, the fragrant perfume of frangipanis and hibiscus. Green peaks, rolling hills, plantations and orchards. A turquoise sea so clear, so pure you can see your shadow on the bottom. Sand so white, so soft, so warm you want to pull it around you like a cashmere throw and sink in deep while sipping on decadent Tahitian sunrises from the beachside bar. This only just scratches the surface of the magic of Moorea, of the magic of The Windward Hibiscus Hotel. Of the magic of paradise.

  A hotel for the elite, for the one percent, for those with more money than most of us could ever dream. And yet somehow I found myself here. I am not elite. I am not of the one percent. What many of you may not know about me is that I grew up in a very small town in Mississippi. Although never without food, a home or clothes on my back, I did not come from money. My mother had me when she was but a child herself, and together we struggled to make ends meet. So, to spend a day, let alone ten at the place I am dubbing “Paradise for Plutocrats,” was positively life-changing. I’ve been to my fair share of nice places, thanks to my job, but I’ve never been to anything or anywhere like this before, and I’m not sure I ever will be again. And I’m absolutely CERTAIN nothing will ever come close.

  Welcomed with open arms and a genuine smile by the reclusive and mysterious Tate McAllister, I spent ten days touring the island and experiencing everything Moorea and The Windward Hibiscus have to offer. When I stepped off the plane onto the steaming black tarmac, it was unlike any feeling I’d ever had before. Yes, it was tropical; yes, the balmy breeze whipped my hair up into a frenzy of fire in front of my face; and yes, it was as lush and beautiful as they say. But that wasn’t it. A place I’d never been before, and only just recently even heard of, and for some reason I felt like I was coming home. The breeze, the casual island vibe, the beauty, they were all eclipsed by an overwhelming moment of complete and total serenity. Weight from a rough couple of weeks slipped off my shoulders and was caught up in a sudden gust of warm wind, where it was pulled up into the ether, only to be replaced with the benign heat of the sun and an all-encompassing feeling of peace. It’s like when you walk into your childhood home after being away for far too long and smell that pot roast your mom made every Sunday. A feeling of familiarity, a feeling of calm, a feeling of being right where you should be. Where you’re meant to be. Home.

  It was nothing but smiles and friendly chit-chat the whole way to the resort. Rico, my shuttle driver, was animated and jovial, speaking fondly of his family (wife Anila and two girls, eight and five, Yola and Kindi) and how he loves working at The Windward Hibiscus. He finds himself waking up with a smile on his face, excited to go to work. I don’t know very many New Yorkers who wake up smiling or who are excited to go to work. Maybe on that first day, maybe that first week, but eventually the stress and monotony set in, and when Monday rolls around, you’re hitting snooze far too many times before schlepping your way to the bathroom and then rushing to get out the door on time. But not Rico, not any of the staff at The Windward Hibiscus. They all love where they work and enjoy what they do, and it shows. When you are at The Windward Hibiscus, you are immediately enveloped into the low-key, carefree island mentality. It’s a stress-free zone, and nothing but love, happiness and a chill outlook on life will be tolerated. Only pure relaxation and contentment are allowed.

  The most egregious voicemail message took those immediate feelings of peace that I had embraced as I’d stepped off the plane and destroyed them. It sent me into a foul mood, a funk. (Note to self, leave phone at home on next holiday.) So when I walked into the gorgeous hotel lobby, a smile could not have been further from my face. I was instantly greeted by a handsome man alarmed by my scowl. No, sorry, handsome does not do this man justice. Let’s just say his smile alone has ruined me for all other men. His eyes were the same color as the hills around us, and his hair was a deep, dark brown with flecks of gold from time spent in the sun. He didn’t know who I was, nor I him, but without hesitation, because no staff member at The Windward Hibiscus ever wants to see you with anything but a smile on your face, he asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I told him what I needed, and he saw to my every whim, instantly making me feel like I was the most important guest there and my pleasure was of the utmost priority.

  I was given the presidential suite, with my own private veranda, beach view and fruit trees, ripe with decadence which I indulged in multiple times a day (mangoes have become a staple in my diet, and pineapples are my new favorite fruit). After a quick change, I went to go meet with Mr. McAllister. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he be crotchety and crass? Sweet and gentile like an old Southern gent? Handsy and overly flirtatious? I think you get where I’m going here—I thought he was old. I was wrong! So wrong. So wrong that when the man who greeted me at the door turned out to be the green-eyed man from the lobby, I asked him where his father was. *Insert foot in mouth here*

  Wanting to maintain the enigma and anonymity he has fought so hard to maintain, Mr. McAllister has asked that I not post any photos of him, and of course, given that I was his guest and put up in the presidential suite, no less, I have obliged. We toured the grounds, where I was left slack-jawed and humb
led again and again by such overwhelming beauty. Modern architecture blended perfectly with traditional French Polynesian, all with nature harmoniously intertwined. It’s an eco-resort—The Windward Hibiscus has solar panels on nearly every roof and flat sky-facing structure, as well an innovative recycling and composting program and its own garden, where some of the food for both the staff and guests is grown.

  Four communal guest pools, three outdoor, one indoor cover the grounds, while a tennis court, basketball court and volleyball court offer plenty of opportunity for the guests to keep up with their fitness regimes. Not to mention the gym inside that could rival any Planet Fitness, the yoga and dance studios and grand ballroom, complete with stage and wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean.

  My first day in paradise finished off with the most mouth-watering barracuda steak on my plate and a snazzy boozy umbrella-coiffed drink. I still have no idea of the ingredients, and I am just fine maintaining my ignorance. It was delicious. I had three that night and many more on the nights to follow, and that’s all that matters (I think it was a twist on a pina colada, though).

  From there, my days just kept getting better, and I felt myself falling harder and faster in love with The Windward Hibiscus, Moorea and French Polynesia as I consumed each breakfast waffle and my tan grew darker. From scuba diving on the neon-colored reef, plentiful in fish and corals and sea creatures you’d only expect to find in a Pixar film, to morning hikes, parasailing and a visit to orchards and the local juice factory, every day was full of adventure and fun, and before I knew it, my ten days were up.

  As amazing as all those excursions and experiences were, the cake was delivered and devoured by my first-ever fishing trip. Mr. McAllister, who is not only a real estate mogul, scuba diving instructor, helicopter pilot and philanthropist, also happens to be a top-notch fishing guide, and he helped me reel in my very first fish, an enormous DayGlo yellow and blue mahi-mahi.