Bad Business

by JC Harroway

  Shame heats every part of me from within.

  You knew all along that it wasn’t the bells and whistles roller coaster it should have been...

  But I limped along out of obligation and inertia. The crushing fear of letting people—my parents, Greg’s parents—down, the wasted years I’d already invested in our relationship, the feeling, one I was scared to acknowledge, that I was better off sticking with what we had than risk never finding love again.

  Flashes of the day I lost my patient, Mr Burgess, on the operating table detonate in my head. Without the wake-up call of that horrible day, I might still be living in a deluded bubble, lying to both Greg and myself.

  The high of my night with Ryan swirls down the drain with the soap-scented water. The anguish on Mrs Burgess’s face when my surgical colleague and I broke the news that her husband of forty years hadn’t survived the routine hernia operation materialises from the steam. He’d had a heart attack and never regained consciousness, despite our best attempts at resuscitation.

  The enormity of her loss presses in on me from all sides once more until I’m conscious of my every breath fogging the glass.

  Greg showed understanding that night, of course. Losing patients is a tragic but unavoidable part of our work, but my melancholy lingered in the weeks after, my memories returning time and time again to the night Bryony died, the years spent watching her live a kind of half life out of necessity, and the associated guilt.

  Until one day, I woke up and saw my life with greater clarity—the beginning of the end for Greg and me. The beginning of the end of playing it safe and pretending.

  Because had she been fit and able, Bryony would have grabbed life by the balls. She never once asked me to curtail my activities to stay with her through hospital visits or days when she didn’t have the energy to get off the couch. I did that all on my own. Because she was my sister.

  I owe it to her fearlessness to live the way she dreamed of living. And this holiday, my fling with Ryan, is a start.

  I finish my shower quickly, eager to get to my first teaching class. Today emerges the new Grace in all her glory, one who came here from the other side of the world alone. One into risky outdoor sex with a sinfully hot paddleboarder within earshot of another couple. One who wants more than one night. One who’d go home a changed woman, with a fresh perspective on life and what she’d demand from it.

  I pull on shorts and a tank top over my bikini, tie back my hair and grab my sunglasses before heading for the resort’s reception on rejuvenated feet.

  When I arrive, the small meeting room is packed with assembled staff members. My heart gallops for a glimpse of Ryan, sinking when he’s nowhere to be seen. I slap on a smile for the staff and outline how I plan to structure the day’s lessons.

  I’m halfway through my introductory spiel on the basics of cardio-pulmonary resuscitation when the door opens and in saunters Ryan, casually dressed with his hair still damp from the shower as if it’s just another morning, not the morning after he left me hoarse from crying his name. I look away, certain the evidence of my sex marathon decorates my face, as surely as Ryan’s ripped physique under that T-shirt carries marks from my fingernails.

  A pang of frustration gripes like a bout of colic. Him leaving denied me waking up to find his big, sexy body asleep next to me. Robbed me of waking him by taking him into my mouth the way he’d done to me in the night. Stolen another orgasm from me. Because if he’d been there when I opened my eyes this morning, I too would have been late for this class.

  I clear my throat and keep my greedy gaze away from Ryan’s handsome face, which gives nothing away—as if he didn’t go down on me at least twice in the night, that wicked mouth of his quirked in a half-smile as he delivered such devastating pleasure I screamed into the pillow so as not to wake the neighbours. I had so many orgasms I lost count, just before I slipped into a climax-induced coma.

  ‘So, once you remember ABC—airway, breathing, circulation—and you’ve established that the patient has no pulse and isn’t breathing, you need to start chest compressions.’ I undo the mannequin’s Hawaiian shirt with a grin—someone has a sense of humour—and expose his rubber chest.

  ‘The correct hand placement for chest compressions is two fingers above the edge of the breastbone.’ I demonstrate the location, my head down to better ignore the heat of Ryan’s stare, which tickles like feathered fingertips on my sensitive skin.

  ‘Okay, let’s have a volunteer. Who’d like to give it a try first?’ I ask, my face flushing when for long silent seconds no one raises their hand. At last, Ryan stands from the back of the group. ‘Great, a brave volunteer, but, the rest of you, don’t get comfortable—everyone will be having a turn.’

  Ryan drops to his knees beside me and I shuffle over a few inches, the hairs on my arms lifting and my pulse throbbing between my legs with him at such close quarters, as if my body remembers the source of my long night of nocturnal pleasure.

  But unlike yesterday, the roles are reversed. I’m the teacher, his seriously impressed expression seeking my guidance. Why do I feel like the only woman in the room...the island...heck, the world?

  I swallow down the renewed surge of lust. Whether the sex is over or not, the chemistry burns as fierce as ever.

  ‘Place your fingers here to find the bottom of the sternum.’ My voice feels rusty. I demonstrate the position again, sliding my hand away in time so our fingers don’t touch. Because if I touch him, I’ll want to kiss him. To press my mouth to his neck and feel his scruff against my skin. My breathy voice and nervous gestures alone are probably enough of a sign that Ryan and I are more than work colleagues.

  ‘Good. One hand over another, fingers intertwined,’ I say.

  He follows my instructions, focussed and professional, where I struggle to forget the demanding touch of those hands now delivering chest compressions to a rubber mannequin.

  Ryan performs the CPR in his trademark confident manner, topped off with a roguish smile for the other members of staff who all clap when he’s done as if he’s brought the inanimate casualty back to life.

  This is his skill. People.

  He makes them feel at ease, even while he nudges them out of their comfort zone, showing them that anything is possible, be it paddleboarding or screaming orgasms against a wall in a public place with people nearby...

  From then I may as well be stretched out on a medieval rack, so gruelling is the simple teaching session. Where Ryan is relaxed and competent, I’m flustered and garble my words any time he’s close or asks an intelligent, insightful question. He’s a natural leader, encouraging even the shyest of the local women to step up and practise the techniques involved in CPR.

  My mind is fudge; all I can think about is dragging him back to my room for a private anatomy lesson, or exploring all of the hidden nooks and crannies on the island—me, him and a jumbo box of condoms.

  ‘Lets break for lunch,’ I say, once the last staff member finishes their turn with the mannequin. I pack away the equipment as the small crowd departs, leaving the stragglers, Charlie the bar manager and Ryan, who stop for a chat.

  Relief and anticipation play tug of war with my insides. He’s waiting for me. As soon as Charlie leaves, I can persuade him to give our just-sex arrangement a few more days...

  Be brave. Tell him what I want. Easy.

  I tune into the tail end of their conversation.

  ‘No worries, boss,’ says Charlie. ‘Catch you later.’

  Boss?

  I glance up, catch the flash of guilt, hastily concealed, on Ryan’s face.

  Every tiny hair on my body prickles to attention. Why would Charlie call the water-sports instructor boss? Is it some sort of joke? But why Ryan’s guilty look, unless he is the boss?

  Have I been naive? Lulled into a false sense of security with sunshine and holiday vibes that I could trust him wit
h my newfound sexual exploration?

  Humiliation rushes through me. I don’t really know him at all. I thought I was okay with that, but maybe I’m not... Perhaps this lesson proves I’m not a fling-with-a-stranger kind of person, after all.

  I box up the resuscitation mannequin, my movements brisk and jerky, as I avoid looking at Ryan. It takes three attempts to fasten the clasps on the case as my head battles to make sense of what is clearly obvious.

  Ryan deceived me about his identity. Why?

  I hold my breath as the door whooshes closed behind Charlie, the air around me pulsing, my body attuned to Ryan’s silent presence.

  Sounds of the resort’s comings and goings grow muffled. I feel Ryan’s closeness like a bonfire burning my back. I force my shoulders back and plaster an overly bright smile on my face as I turn, every muscle screaming at me to scarper from my confusion.

  ‘Hey, how’s your grandmother today?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone of voice neutral and devoid of my self-directed disappointment. I struggled to trust my instincts with Greg, a man I’d known for years. Why did I think I could trust my instincts for a man I’ve known for five minutes? I could have predicted that this situation, strings-free sex, wasn’t really for me. Not even the brave new me. I’m a relationship person. I just need to find the right partner.

  He presses his lips together, regret haunting his eyes. ‘She’s in good spirits, thanks. Grace, about—’

  ‘That’s good news. I’m glad.’ I interrupt his excuses, already cringing. If only I could turn into a rubber mannequin and avoid this conversation, which feels like another failure.

  But he wants to have it out. ‘Can we talk?’ he says, with a frown.

  ‘Sure.’ So breezy, when all I want to do is retreat and regroup my thoughts on casual sex. Yes, I hoped to enjoy it for a few more days, but he owes me nothing. It really doesn’t matter who he is. But a part of me, the part that trusted him enough to share our incredible night, to step out of my comfort zone and embrace the chemistry we share, feels tiny stabs of defeat rain down like grains of sand flung by the wind.

  ‘I was going to tell you.’ He winces, trying to take the heavy mannequin case from my hand.

  I shift it out of his reach, even though it twists my shoulder into an awkward position and the weight digs the handle into my fingers.

  ‘Do you mean the boss thing?’ I deposit the case onto the table near the door and swallow as much of the embarrassment from my voice as I can. I face him, lift my chin. ‘Don’t worry—we were just fooling around. You don’t owe me any explanations.’

  Ryan stares for one beat, two, his expression devoid of emotion, but fire brews in his eyes. The same fire in which, last night, I’d have happily burned alive.

  He steps closer, his voice low. ‘I want to explain. I meant to last night but we... I got carried away.’

  ‘Hey, it’s no big deal. I’d have fucked you even if you are the boss.’ The words feel foreign; casual words for casual sex. ‘So what are you? The resort manager? I thought that was Taito’s role?’ I ask, annoyed that I haven’t pushed for answers before now. Not that it really matters beyond making me feel stupid for thinking I’d cracked the whole hook-up thing.

  Bugger—I’ll have to leave this part out of the story I tell Neve and Brooke.

  He slings his hands in his shorts pockets and sighs. ‘Look, why don’t we get some lunch and talk? I wanted to invite you out for a boat cruise this evening...’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say, snappy because I feel my resolve slipping, feel his magnetism drawing me back in. I can go willingly, continue to sleep with him because that’s what I want, but no more seeing romance where it isn’t. Yes, I want this passionate connection in my future, but I also want trust.

  ‘A walk on the beach, then? Please, Grace. Give me a chance to explain. After last night... I thought we had a really good time—’

  ‘We did have a good time, which is why I don’t get that you couldn’t tell me your true identity.’

  He nods, contrite. ‘You’re right—I should have told you, but I got sidetracked. You’re fun and smart and sexy enough to fry a man’s brain.’ He holds up his hands. ‘That’s not an excuse.’

  Then I remember why I’m here and drop my stare to the floor. I’m hiding how I should have been accompanied by my new husband. But he’s right. We can discuss this like mature adults—strangers, who just happen to have had lots of sex.

  I take a shuddering breath. ‘Okay. Let’s walk and talk.’ With a silent lecture on distinguishing orgasmic hormones from feelings playing in my head, I lead the way the short distance down to the water’s edge, Ryan at my side.

  Typically, the beach is busy with a group kayaking lesson for eight or ten of the resort’s couples. By the time we’ve walked out of earshot, I’ve talked myself around in circles so many times, torn between booking the next flight home to avoid feeling foolish that I celebrated the success of my first fling too soon and demanding more sex until I’m an expert at casual.

  I stop and face him. ‘Listen, let’s forget it. I feel a bit silly, if I’m honest. I got carried away by your hotness, too.’

  He moves as if to touch me, his intense eyes searching, and then stops himself. ‘You’re not silly. It wasn’t calculated. My intentions were more about self-preservation or... I dunno...laziness.’ He scrubs a hand over his face. ‘I should have told you. I own the resort. The island, in fact. Well, co-own it with a local businessman.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I gape. ‘Wow. You really are cagey and cynical. Were you worried I’d seduce you in your shower or lure you into a public sex act?’

  He frowns at my sarcasm. ‘Very funny.’

  But I couldn’t feel less like laughing. ‘So you knew who I was, knew everything about me when we met on the beach.’ I cross my arms over my waist, a shield. ‘You’re probably the person who hired me in the first place.’

  Does he know about Greg? About my aborted honeymoon?

  ‘No. Taito hired you. I instructed him to purchase the defibrillator and other equipment we might need for the resort and he suggested we employ someone to teach us how to use it.’ He moves to face me and stops walking. ‘I was genuinely covering the water-sports lessons when we met. Pita, the regular instructor, had a family emergency on the main island and there was no one else. So when you asked for a lesson but turned down my offer of a drink...’ he shrugs ‘...well, further explanation seemed unnecessary. And then afterwards...once we’d crossed a line... I was going to tell you. I planned to tell you last night, before things went any further. But then... I guess I got caught up in the sex.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, kicking at the sand, because I should make my own confession.

  ‘Grace...’ He steps close, his voice taking on that deep, seductive quality I now know well. ‘I respect what you told me last night, about your past relationship. I don’t want you to regret what happened between us. Last night was...incredible.’

  ‘It was. I felt invincible when I woke up this morning. Stupid, because we don’t know anything about each other and I thought I was okay with that, but...’ I bite my lip, reluctant to admit my folly to a man so anti-commitment. But it won’t be the bravest thing I’ve done since arriving here. ‘But, perhaps casual sex and I aren’t meant to be.’ I awoke full of optimism, as if I’d cracked my own elusive code, my predictable and safe relationship with Greg nothing like this intense longing, as if I’m about to jump out of an aeroplane, every instinct telling me to back up, but knowing the fall will thrill and exhilarate.

  He frowns, steps closer. ‘I felt invincible too. If I could go back and tell you the truth in the bar, I would in a heartbeat.’

  I feel the sincerity in his earnest stare with every thud of my heart. ‘I don’t regret it. I put myself out there, without my usual caution, but I’m not sorry.’

  We fall into awkward silence as a co
uple of the keenest kayakers sail past.

  ‘I should get back—I have to teach the rest of the class, but then you know about that. You’re my boss, too.’ I try to cut the hint of acid from my tone but fail.

  ‘Grace...’ He tries to reach for my hand the way he did last night when he walked me back to my room before a hundred other, more intimate, touches, but I step back.

  ‘You don’t have to feel guilty—I acted on impulse. Blinded by sex hormones and novelty.’ We met. We hooked up. There is no more than that. ‘I just want you to know, it wouldn’t have made a difference if you’d told me.’

  He seems to bite back what he really wants to say, his jaw muscles bunching. Then he sighs. ‘I guess I liked being just the paddleboard bum for a while, if I’m honest. I liked the way you looked at me, as if you had no expectations beyond me teaching you to paddle. I’m a loner, a distrustful prick, if you must know, and I didn’t want to tell you that, because I like you and I didn’t want to scare you off.’

  This time I’m the one wincing, because I can relate. I know what it’s like to have to live up to expectations and obligations, even your own, and I didn’t want him to know that I’m on my honeymoon, alone...

  We head back, silent for a short distance, as if neither of us knows how to proceed. Me because I presumed casual sex is free of angst, and exactly what it seems on the surface, and him presumably because he can usually walk away from his flings when they become awkward. But we’re trapped here.

  ‘Just for the record,’ I say, ‘I don’t see you as a loner. You have a way with people. A gift for putting them at ease.’ I smile because it’s hard to make a big deal about this here, where everything is laid-back and simple. Where I’m different, but in some ways unchanged. The lesson a timely reminder—don’t get carried away by romantic gestures.

  Another couple walk past and Ryan steps closer on the path, his hand gently gripping my wrist. I turn to face him, allowing him to slide his fingers down to entwine with mine.