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I spent too many years looking down the sight of a sniper rifle in hundred and twenty degree heat to understand fun, I guess. It’s been baked out of me. At least that’s what my buddy Reed, who owns this resort, always tells me. He’s right, in a way. There’s shit you see when you’re deployed and trying to survive.
And trying to help your friends survive as well.
I’ve seen parents hold their kids out in front of them as shields. I’ve seen men throw their wives into the line of fire so they could run dead at us, strapped with enough C4 to put a crater the size of a bus in the dirt.
I’ve seen too much to let me understand there is still fun to be had. So here I stand, the fun police, ready to shut down anything that gets out of hand.
Only problem is, my renegade hard-on seems to have changed its tune about what might constitute fun.
I scan the pool and the deck, picking out a few patrons that will likely need to be escorted out of the area soon, but that doesn’t seem very important right now. I help out here on weekends mainly because Reed asked, and I don’t have any fucking thing else to do really, so bouncing a few dumb assholes in oversized swim trunks and backwards ball caps on Friday night is as much entertainment as I usually get.
Until now.
I can’t keep my fucking eyes off her. She’s making my temples pound as my heart knocks against my chest wall.
There’s no sense in it. No woman has ever had this effect on me.
I don’t need this job. Not for the money, anyway. I’ve saved practically every nickel I’ve made my entire life, from the time I was seven and got my first paper route and ran a little gambling ring at recess at Dwight D. Eisenhower Elementary school back in Philly, where I grew up.
From there, I mowed lawns, babysat all the brats in the neighborhood no one else would, and took any odd job that got tossed my way.
I’d do anything to not be home back then.
My parents were the poster-couple for break up and make up. They were obsessed with each other and somewhere in that mix, I came along, but outside of making sure I had food and clothes and a roof over my head, there wasn’t much parenting going on.
Fast-forward to after I got out of the service, my best friend from high school, Reed, told me to come here for a visit. Take some time. Breathe some air.
He’d taken over some run-down little resort on some island I’d never heard of, and within a few years had turned it into a high-end destination hotel with a boutique vibe. He’d expanded it and was making huge bank.
Nowhere else was home, and moving back to Philly, where my parents were still in their endless cycle of dysfunction, was a big fucking no. So, I ended up buying a place way out on the other side of the island, where tourists never visit and my only neighbors are palm trees and a few monk parakeets.
No internet, no fucking TV. Just me and my garage, where I work on my bike and weld sculptures for some shops in town. I also take some pricey as fuck sculpture commissions, thanks to Reed and the unauthorized website he set up showing off my metal work.
Another fucking Jimmy Buffet song comes on, and for once, I don’t want to punch the fucking wall. Instead, I work my way closer, her pull getting stronger by the minute as a couple of her friends tug on her arms, urging her into the pool.
She grudgingly capitulates, and what happens next seals her fate.
“Fine. Fine.” She snaps at the two women pulling her arms, then unwraps the little black cover up and tosses it on the pool deck beside her, the colored lights strung around the pool cascading down over everything God gave her.
Holy fuck.
She’s wearing floss and a couple scraps of beige fabric, which for me, fucking heaven. But for all the other swinging dicks that are looking her way, I want to kill them all.
She’s the perfect size for me to carry around on my hip or over my shoulder. Walk her around piggyback for the rest of her life. Turn her over my knee, then bounce her on my cock. She barely came up to my chest when she stood next to me earlier, and she’s the perfect blend of curves and tight turns.
“Hey!” I roar as some douchey guy with enough hair gel to fuck up the pool chemical balance for the next week, gives her a thumbs up, flicking his fucking tongue out. “You! Get the fuck out of the pool.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.
“Why? I’ve been here all evening, I’m not doing anything,” he says in a dipshit Jersey Shore accent, smacking his chest with one hand then taking a sip of some shitty light beer in a clear Solo cup he’s holding in the other. “I’m paying to be here, man. Step down.”
He’s lucky he takes heed and steps away, turning his back on her as she hits me again with her green eyes, then her lips curl in an apologetic smile. She adds a shrug as I growl and settle in next to the edge of the bar, my fingers curling into my palms.
“Don’t put your fucking head in the pool,” I yell to the guy. “Your hair will melt and fuck up the filter.”
He screws up his face, but my little pocket-sized princess snickers. One of her friends passes her a pink foamy drink and her lips wrap around the straw. This girl’s mouth is so fucking sexy, my heart is pumping like I’ve run a marathon.
She’s classy, smart, funny, and over the next thirty minutes I barely take my eyes off of her, intent on every word that falls from those magical plump lips.
The rest of the guests could be drowning for all I care right now.
