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“Our buddies are all getting married,” Tommy told him. “Look around, man. The group has grown up. You’re like one of the fucking Lost Boys.”
Dean took that as a compliment. He let Tommy pay, because Tommy had the cash, and then he said, “I’ll call you when I get back from Miami.” He knew that somewhere deep inside, his friend was jealous. Wouldn’t Tommy like to pack his swimming trunks and favorite tees and go for a week to a place with no worries? In Miami, you could make eye contact with a pretty bikini and be in bed with her in less then fifteen minutes. And then you could go back out into the lavender evening and meet up with another girl, even prettier than the first, and do the same thing all over again. As long as you could get your dick hard, you could find some warm, wet place to stick it in.
The flight was actually one of Dean’s favorite parts of Spring Break, because the anticipation by this point was almost overpowering. He flirted with the stewardesses, almost randomly. One seemed interested in him, and he had the inclination to tell her, Sorry sweetheart, you’re too old for me. He was looking for those hard bodies in the thongs and the tiny triangles, looking for the bars on the beach where a sarong was overkill. But he played the lothario until landing, and when the flight attendant gave him her number, he took it and winked. She didn’t see him toss the paper into the garbage as he exited the chilled airport into the muggy heat of Florida.
He was staying at an old college buddy’s house to save money. 401K, my ass. He spent what he brought in, saving only enough to splurge on this one vacation every year. Brad was out of town, and Dean was supposed to have the place to himself. So when he turned the key in the lock and came face-to-face with a woman holding a baseball bat, he was beyond surprised.
“What the fuck?” they both said at the same time. Dean dropped his bag and put up his hands. He said, “I’m a friend of Brad’s.”
“How do I know that?”
“Would he tell me where the key was? How would I know to look under the potted chicken?”
The brunette stepped back but did not drop the Louisville Slugger.
“Look,” he said, “I’ll show you the letter from Brad. It’s in my suitcase. We went to school together. I’m Dean.”
“Dean.” She squinted her eyes. He took the time to really look at her, summing her up the way he did all women, automatically. Tall and slim, about his age, good tits, very attractive actually if she would drop the fucking bat. He grabbed the letter from the pocket of his suitcase and showed it to her. She set the weapon down and then sat on the sofa.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m jumpy.”
Yeah, clearly, he thought. But who the fuck are you?
She exhaled, seemingly defeated. “I’ve had a rough couple of nights,” she said. “I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I had nowhere to go. Bradley said I could stay here. He must have forgotten to tell me that you were coming.”
Dean kept quiet, watching as she poured some Jack Daniels into what appeared to be a glass of lemonade, then thought better of it and drank from the bottle directly. After sipping, she handed the bottle to Dean. He took a sip gratefully and sat across from her in a wicker basket chair trying to calm down.
“Breakups suck,” he said, although he didn’t really mean it. He’d never experienced a painful breakup, hadn’t ever dated long enough to care about anyone seriously.
“Yeah,” she said. “And this was a big one. Ten years. A house.” She put her hands to her face. Dean looked up at the mantel, and then he stood and walked over. There were pictures of this woman with Brad. Shit. She was obviously family.
“Are you one of Brad’s sisters?” he asked the question tentatively, and she set her hands down and nodded.
“I’m Connie,” she said.
“I went to college with Brad,” he told her.
“You’re that Dean?”
He didn’t know what that Dean meant, but he nodded.
“You must want to unpack, take it easy.” She looked like she felt bad she’d unloaded on him. He let her show him to the room he’d be staying in, the guest room in the two-bedroom bungalow. As he set his suitcase down, she said, “Would you like to go out later? Have dinner or a drink?”
No, he fucking wouldn’t. He wanted to pick up some little chicklet and let her ride his cock all night long. Or at least half the night. He’d been waiting for this all fucking year. But this was Brad’s sister, and she looked sad. He said, “Sure.” He could always go out after.
Except, “after” didn’t turn out the way he’d expected. They had dinner at a little seafood restaurant on the water, candles in lanterns making patterns on the table. Connie told him all about her ex, and what an asshole he’d been, and how she’d found him in bed with...wait for it...his fucking secretary. Dean inserted the different sighs and oh nos he felt were appropriate and he watched as she out drank him. He’d have her back at the pad in no time, still able to hit the clubs by midnight.
But when they got back to Brad’s, Connie was clinging to him. “You’re nice,” she said. He wasn’t. But alcohol will do that to you. “Take me to bed? It’s been so long.”
Jesus. Here was a girl offering it up to him. She was thirty-six, thirty-seven, about fifteen years past his internal expiration date, but she’d feel good to fuck. He could go out after, right? “Sure,” he said again, his mantra for the evening.
Pity fuck or not, drunk or not, she was amazing in bed. She sucked his cock and looked up at him with her big, brown eyes. She rolled over and spread her legs and he gripped her hips and sunk inside her. Damn, that felt good. They both seemed to be sharing the thought at the same time. The look she shot him over her shoulder was pure bliss. He was certain his own expression echoed hers.
“This isn’t how I usually like to fuck,” she whispered.
“No? You like being on top?”
“Something like that. Maybe tomorrow.”
