by Teagan Kade
“So she left your cock in one piece,” I laugh. “That’s comforting.”
“You’re stalling.”
A knock on the tower door is the conversation-breaker I was looking for.
“I’ll get it,” says Robbie, levelling a finger at me, “but we are far from done here, boy-o.”
I stand at the desk continuing to observe the water.
I hear Robbie opening the door.
“Hello,” comes the knocker’s voice.
I can’t help but glance over to the doorway. A man’s standing there who’s certainly no Breaker. He’s wearing a paisley gray-and-blue print shirt, chinos and boots. Who the fuck wears boots to the beach? His dark hair’s slicked back over his head, a single tear tattooed underneath his eye and a grin that cuts across his face like a knife wound. Normally, I’d write this guy off as another Escobar copycat, but it’s the two guys in suits behind him that are of greater concern—muscle.
Robbie seems as surprised as I am by our morning visitor. “Can I help you gents?”
I return to the watch but continue to listen attentively.
Escobar smacks his lips before speaking. “I was wondering if there were any rescues last night, a woman, perhaps?”
I stiffen.
“Last night?” says Robbie. “The beach isn’t patrolled at night, sorry.”
“Nothing at all unusual?” asks the grease-ball. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
Robbie gives a nervous snigger. “You can save your money, my friend, because I’m telling you, if something happened on the beach last night, it would have been reported. Have you tried the Police?”
“Ah, the Police!” laughs the man. “Of course, but should you hear something about a girl, early twenties, brunette, attractive… be sure to let me know.” He passes what looks like a business card to Robbie.
“O-kay,” replies Robbie awkwardly. “See you ’round.”
He closes the door, waiting for a moment before coming over and lowering his voice. “What the flying fuck was that?”
It’s a damn good question. “Sounds like he lost his girlfriend.”
Robbie shakes his head. “So fuck knows why we’d know anything about it. I mean, you didn’t see anything when you came back here last night, did you?”
Now would be the time to say something, but lovable as he is, I can’t trust Robbie to keep this under wraps, and something tells me there’s a lot more to Winter than she’s letting on. “No. A couple of kids making out on the sand, a few passed out.”
Robbie holds up a business card. “Look at this shit. There’s nothing on it but a number. Could have done with the cash, though.”
I take the card, placing it down on the desk. “He tried to bribe you?”
“Dude had a wad of Benjamins ready to go, which is great if I actually had any information on his so-called mermaid.”
“Not that you’d tell him anything anyhow, right?”
“Right,” winks Robbie, picking up his binoculars. “Now, let’s see which lucky lady gets the Robbie Torony treatment today.”
*
I step outside the tower during my lunch break and take out my cell. It’s got to be upwards of eighty today, fuck-all cloud cover to keep the masses from turning into lobsters.
I bring the cell to my ear, bringing my hand up to cover the other to be heard over the din of tinny speakers and guys shouting ‘Sprinnnng Brrrreeeaakkk!’ like they’re Joe Franco.
I intended to call my friend at the police precinct, but just as I go to call I think better of it.
Winter.
Just thinking about her is making me hard, her soft features and doe eyes, the forlorn way she was looking at me in the bed this morning when all I wanted to do was pin her down and fuck her worries away. “Early-twenties, brunette, green eyes…”
She clearly didn’t want me going to the authorities, but what am I supposed to do?
I’m caught, ultimately deciding to let it wait a little longer.
“Fuck,” I exhale.
What happened to you, Winter who likes the cold? What the hell happened?
I stare down at the blank screen of my cell trying to piece it together but only coming up with shards, broken pieces of possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come across a damsel in distress, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this one slip through my fingers.
CHAPTER FOUR
WINTER
It’s all gone to hell in a handbasket.
I wave at the smoke, trying to find a ladder, a step, a small child… anything to get up high to switch off the smoke alarm.
I hear the front door open.
“Winter?” comes Archer’s voice, an upwards inflection as he no doubt spots the smoke-fest his apartment has become. “Winter!” Louder now.
“In here!” I yell back.
He comes barreling into the kitchen, hands outstretched, eyes darting between the stove and me, back again, up to the smoke alarm.
He grabs a broom from the corner and uses the end of it to reach up to the smoke alarm and switch it off, immediately spinning around to turn off the stove burner.
The alarm might not be ringing any more, but smoke continues to float around the room like we’re at a vape convention.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” Archer asks, moving to open the kitchen window and doing his best to shoo the smoke out. I can’t tell if he’s mad or simply curious.
I point to the pan on the stovetop. “I’m so sorry. I thought I’d try and make dinner, some pasta…”
Archer looks into the pan. “Where’d all the water go?”
“Water?” I ask.
He smiles and the knot that’s formed in my stomach loosens just a little. “You do know you cook pasta in water, right?”
“Oh,” I squeak. “My father did all the cooking growing up. I don’t think I inherited any of his skills in the kitchen, sorry.”
Archer takes the pan and tosses it into the sink, turning on the tap. He’s still smiling, slowly shaking his head to himself. “I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but perhaps we’ll leave the cooking to Gordon and Jamie, yeah?” He swings around to open the fridge, revealing a stockpile of TV dinners, beer, and what appears to be copious tins of whipped cream. None it seems to add up to the well-toned, muscled-up man in front of me. “I’m not much of a cook myself, as you can see.”
He spots me eyeing the whipped cream. “Hey, a man’s got to have his vices, right?”
“So you eat it?” I query.
He laughs. “What else would I,” suddenly working out where I’m going, though it wasn’t my intention at all. Sometimes my mouth gets in front of my head. He wags his finger at me. “I’m not that kind of guy. You’ve got the wrong impression.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve seen my share of bachelor pads. What you’ve got here is straight out of the single-guy textbook.”
Archer looks around. “It’s not too bad,” he says, pointing out a floral tea towel by the sink. “See?”
“Who gave you that?” I laugh. “Your mother?”
He picks it up. “Well, yes, actually.”
Crapola. But I keep my expression firm. “I rest my case.”
He goes to flick the tea towel at me. I jump back through the lingering haze laughing, allow myself to be chased into the living room. “Okay, okay,” I say, trying to dodge him. “It’s not that bad.”
He places the tea towel down and stands there with his hands on his hips looking every bit the knight in shining armor… or rather tight red tee, ‘Lifeguard’ in bold lettering at the top, ‘Miami Beach’ below. For a second I imagine the kind of hard and wonderful things that are lurking below, shaking myself out of my stupor when he catches my eye.
I blush, pulling my hair across my face turning to busy myself by opening the sliding door, but, of course, it won’t budge.
Archer comes up beside me, reaching up to undo the bolt at the top. The door slides open freely, cool, sea air
rushing inside and with it the sounds of seagulls and laughter and clearly drunk guys chanting ‘Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream!’ like a bunch of rowdy three-year-olds.
But I’m aware of another smell right beside me, of surfboard wax and sweat, salt and sand, an ocean-made man. It sends a hot flicker of sensation lashing at the tender spot between my thighs.
I step back like I’ve been branded.
“Everything okay?” asks Archer, seemingly always on alert.
I brush my hair back. “Fine. Totally fine.”
He leans against the door frame, a perfect canvas of blue behind him. “Are you ready to tell me what happened, who you are, anything?”
I’ve been considering it. I sat here for almost an hour today rolling my hands together and wondering exactly what to do. I considered leaving, but where would I go? I’ve got no money, no contacts, no family here. Worse, I shouldn’t be here at all.
I don’t know why, but I’m drawn to Archer. Maybe it’s savior syndrome, the fact finally someone was looking out for me, but I know it’s more than that. There’s a pull to him, an attraction I can’t deny. Telling him everything could put him in danger. I don’t know if that’s something I want to do, if someone so selfless deserves that.
What do you think he’s going to do? my head retorts. Go running to the cops?
Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad, I consider. At least then I’d be truly safe.
Yeah, right. You know how far their reach goes, my head warns. There is nowhere you can go that’s safe. This is your best bet right now.
I shake my head meekly. “I’m sorry. I can’t, not now.”
I expect backlash, a plea for information, but Archer simply looks around the room. “Well, it’s going to take a while for the place to air out, and I’m starving, so how about we head out, grab a bite to eat?
My stomach gurgles in agreement—mortally embarrassing.
“Okay then,” Archer nods. “That settles it. What are you in the mood for?”
Some rather less culinary options come to mind, but I shift that aside. “I’ll eat anything,” I reply. “I’m not a fussy eater.”
“Good,” says Archer. “I know just the place.”
I look down at my shirt, or Archer’s rather, sniffing at it. “Do you mind if I take a shower? I don’t really want to go dinner smelling like a coal mine.”
Archer scratches his head. “Yeah, sure, no problem. Like I said, the towels are in there.”
I brush past his arm on the way through. It’s not a deliberate action, but the simple act sends fresh sensation bolting down my spine, goosebumps blanketing my body.
I step into the bathroom and close the door, pressing my hands against it, my head hanging between my arms like I’m doing a horizontal push-up. “Get a grip,” I whisper to myself, finding a fresh towel hanging on the door.
I strip and pile my clothes neatly on the stool next to the vanity, staring into the mirror at myself and unable to recognize the stranger that stares back. My hair’s basically a bird’s nest. There are deep grooves under my eyes that suggest either a) I haven’t slept in weeks or b) I’m some kind of drug addict. I look terrible, in short, not that Archer seems to think so. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I know it’s not a misunderstanding on my part. The attraction is running both ways. I’m sure of it.
Good thing dinner went so well then.
He didn’t seem to mind I almost burned his apartment down. It was almost like he found it… endearing? Given the state of his fridge, I don’t think anyone’s cooked for him in a long, long time, though I quickly dismiss the idea of trying again. I want to thank him, not kill him.
There are other ways you could thank him…
I dismiss that idea too, as inviting as it sounds. I’ve gone from a life-threatening situation to this. I know half of this excitement is down to the simple fact I’m still alive. That latent adrenaline is still clouding my thinking. I need time to get my thoughts back into order and decide what’s best. I don’t think it’s going to be jumping into bed with the first guy I meet.
Pity, I lament.
I turn on the shower and step under the stream, enjoying the way the hot water envelops my body. I run my hands through my hair and close my eyes. He’s there behind my eyelids, of course, smiling, looking wholesome.
My eyes snap open and I have to place one hand on the tiles to steady myself. My other hand’s on my belly, fingers starting to slide south, but I pull them back. Now is not the time and this is definitely not the place.
I keep the shower short and step out, quickly toweling myself off and suddenly realizing I don’t have anything to change into.
I wrap the towel around myself and open the door, making my way to the room at the end of the hall. I’m about to walk in when Archer appears in the doorway. Except he’s not wearing anything.
He’s unclad, exposed, au naturel, in the buff, not decent, starkers… naked as a nun without her habit.
I’m in such a rush I collide with him, or his penis rather. It smacks into my thigh first, the force of the collision enough to send me sprawling onto my back screaming.
Just as shocked, Archer can’t seem to decide if he should try to cover himself up or reach down to help me, his hand kind of stuck halfway between us.
On instinct I reach for his hand and misjudge, basically grabbing his cock, his momentum forcing him into a kind of crab-walk forward until said appendage is swinging no less than an inch from my face.
I’m still screaming somehow, eyes wide in confusion, Archer trying to hobble backwards, grabbing the wall for support.
And God damn it I can’t stop looking at it. My eyes are glued to the thing—again. I finally manage to stop screaming and force them upwards, whereupon I see his eyes are directed right between my legs, because yeah, I’m lying on my back spread-eagled basically about to give birth and providing him a premium, front-row seat to the vagina show.
He sees me seeing him and his eyes dart upwards, left, right, continuing to hobble backwards until he’s back through the doorway muttering apologies.
I take a breath and snap my legs closed.
What the hell just happened?
I can hear him trying to dress himself, cursing and hitting a wall. “Are you… decent?” he calls.
With some effort I manage to stand and pull the towel tight around myself. The heat in my face is real. It’s an inferno.
He emerges this time in a collared shirt and jeans, sort of shielding his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” stealing a glance at me. “I heard the shower going, thought you were still in there…”
He’s right. I can still hear the shower. I never turned it off. My eyebrows lift. “Oh,” I stammer, for the second time that night.
I walk back to the bathroom and shut the shower off, holding my towel up with one hand because I’m sure we’ve both seen enough skin for now.
I step back into the hall. “Sorry?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
We both laugh, the awkwardness passing, though I’m pretty sure the image of his cock swinging in front of my face like the pendulum of a grandfather clock is going to haunt me for all eternity.
“Ah,” he says, returning to the room, “I’ve got some clothes here if you, ah, want to, you know, try them on.”
“Yes,” I reply robotically, unsure what else to say.
He returns. “Okay,” he says, trying to shuffle past me in the small space of the hallway.
“Yes, good,” I say.
“Awesome.”
“Excellent.” The two us jammed up there.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Now.”
“Great.”
And it’s with the conclusion of this intensely abstract conversation I finally make it into the main bedroom, closing the door and sighing against it after what is without question the most embarrassing moment of my life.
; CHAPTER FIVE
ARCHER
I didn’t dare tell Winter where the pile of women’s clothes I had came from. Truth is, I keep a sort of ‘lost property box’ of my own under the bed. The simple fact it’s close to overflowing with panties, thongs, and sex toys should say enough, but I did manage to dig out a choice or two of dress, an old leather jacket of mine for fighting the nighttime temperature drop.
As I watch her eating, I’m blown away by how Winter makes even a simple red dress look so damn incredible. I noticed eyes gluing themselves to her as soon as we walked into the restaurant. A ‘roided-up jock shifted from the bar to say something to her… just before I eye-fucked him right back into his chair. He sat there and didn’t say a single word. Sometimes that’s all it takes to get these pricks to back down—a look. They soon work out who’s the real alpha around here.
Being my usual go-to place, the service is personalized, quick, and efficient—Cuban dining at its absolute finest. Yes, the place could do with a dust and looks sort of like a Tropicana porn set, but the food can’t be beat, and this is from someone who’s spent two glorious months on the island.
Winter’s too busy stuffing her face to care. She’s hoeing into her meal like it’s her last. She’s alternating between a rusty picadillo and a side of mojo shrimp.
“Anyone would think you haven’t eaten in a week,” I offer.
She doesn’t stop, her eyes simply glancing in my direction. She talks with her mouth full, which is simultaneously kind of gross but also oddly endearing at the same time. “This is so good. You wouldn’t believe what they gave me to eat in…” She stops, trailing off, eyes downcast.
I reach across the table and lift her chin up. “Hey, what were you going to say?” I ask, hoping for a clue.
She swallows and smiles, bright enough to light up the entire room. “It’s nothing. It’s delicious, thank you.”
I lean back in my chair, deciding to test the waters. “You do remember what happened, don’t you? You don’t have amnesia?”
She shakes her head. “I remember. I just don’t want to talk about it,” she says, reaching for a napkin to wipe some of the marinade off her fingers.
