by Meghan Quinn
“None. Just the memories of two wedding crashers and the remnants of an island tan.”
It’s my turn to smile. “Then what are we waiting for? It’s time to see what this two-by-four island is all about.”
Beck links my hand with his. “That’s the girl I was looking for.”
You’re kidding, right?” Beck stares me down, disbelief in his eyes.
“Dead serious.”
Pulling me away from the counter, from the prying eyes of the rental worker, he says, “We’re not sharing a Vespa, and if we did, you sure as hell wouldn’t be the one driving.”
Hand on my hip, I reply, “And why the hell not?”
“Uh, so many reasons.”
“Name them.” I challenge him.
“Well, for one I have more experience. I own and drive a motorcycle.” Of course. I could have easily guessed that from the way Beck carries himself. “Also, I’m much bigger than you. Bigger in the front to cushion any blow we might have.”
“That’s a lie. No way that’s a thing.”
“Well, it is in my head.”
I can tell he’s not going to back down on this, but too bad, I’m just as stubborn.
“I’m driving.”
“Fine, then we’ll get two Vespas.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Then we won’t be able to talk to each other. Plus it’s a waste. We could easily get the two-seater and pay less as well.”
“You’re not driving us.”
“I’m driving.”
“No, you’re not.” He matches his hands on his hips to mine.
“Yes, I am.”
Stewart, the man in charge of the rentals clears his throat, drawing our attention. “Can I make a suggestion since it seems like you two are having a hard time deciding who’s going to drive?”
An outsider. Hmm, he might be partial. “Yes, Stewart, we would be delighted to hear your suggestion.” I turn toward him, interested in solving this little dispute.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a quarter and says, “Flip a coin to decide.” Duh, that was easy.
“Brilliant idea.” I snag the coin from Stewart and hold it up. “Would you like to call it, Beck, or shall I?”
“We are not flipping a coin to decide.” Beck tosses his ID on the counter and says, “I’m driving.”
Stewart, the beautifully hairy man takes one look at the ID in front of him and then folds his arms over his chest. “I believe the lady wants to flip a coin.”
“Yeah, Beck, the lady wants to flip a coin.” I stand there in my black cover-up, at least eight inches shorter than Beck, chest puffed, and putting up one hell of a fight.
Eyeing me, Beck asks, “You’re not going to back down, are you?”
“Nope.”
“But you could kill us.”
I shrug. “What happened to living in the moment? Here’s your moment, Beck, flip a coin and decide your fate.”
Sighing heavily and running a hand through his short strands, Beck says, “I’ll call it in the air.”
Giddy, I flip the coin and Beck calls out, “Heads.” I catch the coin and flip it over to the back of my other hand. Beck, Stewart, and I all lean forward, eyes trained on the fate of the toss.
With a touch of flair, I lift my hand and reveal the coin.
“It’s tails,” Stewart declares with far too much excitement for being a third party in this little disagreement. “She’s driving, dude. I’ll take your ID, Rylee.”
Feeling like I won the lottery, I hand over my ID and lean on the counter while I smile all too brightly at Beck, who seems to be . . . yup, grinding his teeth. He’s not happy, and for some reason, I really like seeing that.
Tapping his cheek, I say, “Just think of it this way. You get to hold on to me. Now that’s something to look forward to.”
Bending toward me, Beck whispers in my ear. “Damn right I do, and if my hands accidentally rub against those sweet tits of yours, then so be it.”
Cue gasp and beet-red face.
Damn him!
You have to ease into the brakes, or else we’re going to fly over the handle bars.”
“It’s more fun this way.” I hit the brakes at a stop light, jerking the Vespa forward and causing Beck to grunt behind me.
“Woman, as much fun as you think it is to crash my cock into your backside, we’re going to have a serious problem if you continue to do that.”
From over my shoulder, I ask, “Getting excited, Beck?”
His jaw ticks, his hands on his thighs, the strain in his neck evident. “Don’t play with me, Saucy.”
“Isn’t that what this is all about? Playing?” The light turns green and I slam on the gas pedal, sending us into a speedy fifteen miles per hour down the colorful road of Duval Street where flags hang from buildings and palm trees offer a brief shade to passersby.
Wrapping his arms around my waist, his entire chest eclipses my back as he brings his head forward and speaks into my ear. “Are you going to be a tease this entire time?”
My inner goddess smiles. “Count on it.”
His chuckle rumbles against my back. “Fair enough, but be warned, two can play at that game.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I direct the Vespa down the road, the wind breezing through my hair, Beck’s hands roaming from my stomach to my thighs, depending on how close he’s leaning against me. I can only imagine how he must look behind me, a massively attractive and larger-than-life man gripping me, his arms flexing under the beaming sun. From the stares we’re getting from tourists on the streets, I’m going to guess he either looks ridiculous, or the women who have their mouths open as we pass by are a tiny bit jealous.
Hell, I don’t blame them.
Believe me when I say this, I don’t do “non-committal flings” often, or ever for that matter, but there’s something about Beck and his live life motto that has me throwing caution to the wind and experiencing something new, something crazy out of the box for me, something I know will stick with me for years to come.
So why the hell not just experience rather than worry?
Maybe it will spark my imagination.
Maybe this little break from reality is just what I need.
“Where we going, speedy?” Beck grips my hips, pulling my attention from another red light.
“Uh, straight?”
“Straight?” He laughs. “Well, if you keep going straight you’re going to end up in the ocean. I don’t know about you, but drowning this rental wasn’t on my list of things to do today.”
Such a smart-ass. “Okay, then what was on your list?”
“Let’s go to Mallory Square. It’s up there on the left.” He directs me with a point of his finger toward a parking lot.
Making the turn, I rumble our bike over the uneven concrete of the road and park between a red Ford Mustang convertible and a black Hummer. I give our “whip” a once-over and talk over my shoulder to Beck. “We look a little ridiculous right now.”
“Slightly. But what’s really going to get us into some trouble is people thinking this spot is empty only to realize you parked this hot two-wheeler here instead.”
“Ugh, I hate people like us.”
“I’m partial to park whatever you want, wherever you want.” Beck hops off the back of the Vespa and holds his hand out to me.
“That’s because you drive a motorcycle. You’re the person everyone hates.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t care less what everyone thinks. Plus, I park in the back to avoid a kick to my bike from angry car drivers.”
“Ah, smart.” After Beck helps me off, he pays for parking and tucks the slip in a crack near the speedometer.
“Come on, Saucy.” Saucy. No idea why he’s sticking with that, but it’s kinda cute. He takes my hand in his and guides me past a brick house labeled restroom that smells like a place to dispose of excrements, and down a little narrow path where we come across a bunch of little kiosks selling your typi
cal touristy island souvenirs. “Are you a souvenir kind of girl?”
“Sometimes, depends on the souvenir. It has to be good, something I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere else, and I’m not talking about your typical location-branded shirt or mug. It has to be super unique.”
“Something off the wall?”
“Exactly.”
Beck stops in front of a kiosk full of musical instruments particular to the island like bongos, maracas, and didgeridoos. Not that a didgeridoo is necessarily an island instrument but contrary to popular belief, I don’t see didgeridoos sold everywhere. Beck picks up a rainmaker and turns it upside down so the beans start bouncing off the pins inside the tube. “Tell me, what unique souvenirs have you bought before?”
Okay, let’s pause for a second. You know how I said I only buy a souvenir if it’s super unique? That’s true, but what I left out is the massive collection of a certain souvenir that I have at home. And when I say massive collection, I mean a good shelf full of a particular item I seem to find everywhere I go, or that my readers have purchased for me.
Interested? Want to know what it is?
You’re thinking silver spoons, aren’t you? Tiny silver spoons labeled with each location, right? Even though they’re cute, that’s not it.
Not spoons, not mugs, not keychains, or magnets. No, this is unique, a special find you can only locate in a quirky store.
And there is always one quirky store in a touristy town, and you just have to find it. It’s the store that carries those dolls that come alive at night, but also Christmas ornaments, local hot sauce, kitchy oven mitts, and . . . hunks.
Yes, hunks.
How do I explain this? They are little glass or plastic man figurines turned into something special like an ornament, or a bottle opener, of a wine glass ornament. They are always shirtless, hunky, and so goddamn amazing that whenever I see one, I add them to my collection. It’s an immediate purchase for me.
My favorite of these glorious gems is my collection of hunky mermen ornaments. You would think, wow, there mustn’t be much variety of those. Oh by golly, are you wrong. I don’t think I will ever own all of them and it makes me sad. I want all the hunky mermen. Is that too much to ask?
Sigh.
“Why are you smirking over there?” Beck pokes me with his rainmaker.
“Oh, uh, just having a good time, you know, making rain.” I shake a rainmaker and put it back in the bin.
“Yeah, that’s not the truth. There’s a souvenir you collect that you’re not telling me about.”
Is this man a mind reader? God, he’s too damn perceptive. I have a feeling there won’t be much I’ll be able to get past him over the next few days. None of my ex-boyfriends have been particularly perceptive, so to them, I appear to be an open book. They don’t know there has been so much I’ve never bothered to share.
“Maybe,” I say coyly while walking over to the next kiosk that has woodcarvings. I pick one up and admire the craftsmanship.
“And are you going to tell me what this souvenir is?”
“Nope.”
“Then how the hell am I supposed to help you find it?”
I turn toward him, putting the woodcarving back in place. “Oh Beck. I don’t search out the souvenir, the souvenir finds me.”
“Bullshit, you’re looking for it right now, aren’t you?”
Yes.
“No. If my special souvenir is here, it will be kismet if we meet up.”
Beck shakes his head and walks me toward a shell shop. “I don’t believe that one bit. You’re on the prowl. I can feel it. You’re searching, but what could it be?”
“You’re never going to guess. Believe me. This isn’t your typical souvenir.”
“You’ve made that point. Don’t worry, my mind is set on unique, out-of-the-box objects like this.” He picks up a ball cap that has a helicopter on the top. Placing the hat on his head—entirely too large for the child’s headwear—he spins the helicopter and exudes that devastating charm of his. “You collect these hats, don’t you? You have at least fifty of these that you line up along a stretch of your hallway and try to spin them all at the same time.”
Hands on hips, I cock my head to the side. “Do you really think I have time to do such a thing?”
Unapologetically he shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know what you do with your personal time.”
I snag the hat from his head and flip it back into its box. “Not that.”
“All right.” Picking up a conch shell, he brings it to his ear and says, “Shells seem too basic to collect. Unless”—his eyes light up with humor—“you collect dick-shaped shells. That’s unique and a very hard find. That takes some examining.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “No dick-shaped shell collection, although, now you have me thinking I probably should start collecting them.” I peer my head around. “See any?”
“Not yet, but if I do, you can bet that pretty ass of yours I’ll be the first to start that collection for you.”
“Ooo, don’t get me excited, the disappointment would be heartbreaking.”
Beck studies me for a second, his hand rubbing against the light scruff on his chin. “You know, from your excitement over a dick-shaped seashell I’m going to guess your little souvenir has something to do with an adult souvenir, something . . . sexy perhaps?” There’s no way he’ll figure it out, at least I hope he doesn’t.
I give him no inclination to whether or not he’s right, instead, I turn my back and pick up a black pokey shell and examine it.
“Aha, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No.” I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible when Beck is standing next to me, playfully poking me in the side.
“Oh, I’m so right. Okay, sex souvenirs. Hmm, where do we find sex souvenirs?”
“Can you not say that so loud?” I pull on his hands that are rubbing together as he looks around.
“What? You don’t want people know you’re looking for sex souvenirs?”
Feeling my face getting red, once again I say, “I’m not. That’s something you made up.”
“No way. You are so looking for sex souvenirs.” A worker walks by us just in time for Beck to gather his attention. “Dear sir, would you mind helping us?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” the man replies in the deepest New York accent I’ve ever heard with a hint of drag queen. And from the Hawaiian shirt and heels he’s wearing I’m going to guess I’m right. I heard Key West is very gay friendly and has some of the best drag shows ever, and boy, does it seem like they were right. I’m intrigued.
“My friend over here, the cute one”—the worker eyes me up and down and smiles, hands clasped together at his chest—“is looking for a sex souvenir, do you have any?”
The man laughs as I feel a strong urge to climb into the shell I hold in the palm of my hand. I’m going to kill him.
“Oh honey, we don’t sell condoms here. Go to CVS around the corner.”
At my very blank and confused look, he adds, “Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be her sex souvenir?”
The man pats Beck on the back and walks away, or more like sashays. Spinning on his heel, Beck faces me and asks, “Am I your sex souvenir, and I don’t even know it? Oh my God, do you have a punch card or something, a form I have to fill out? Are you going to take a picture of me with a Polaroid camera, have me sign it, and then hang it with your other sex souvenirs?” He clasps his hand to his chest in disgust. “Am I merely here to be your . . . fuck toy?”
Oh for heaven’s sake!
Chapter Seven
BECK
You can’t possibly be getting that?”
“Why the hell not? She’s fucking beautiful. The minute I saw her, I knew I had to have her.” I dangle my newfound item from my finger, loving every last inch of her.
“It’s a drag-queen sea turtle with glitter everywhere,” Rylee deadpans.
“Yeah, and she’s fucking gorgeous. Look at her turtley tits an
d pearls. That’s classy.”
Rylee’s eyebrows rise. “You think that’s classy? I might be a little terrified. What sea turtle has breasts, let alone lips like that?”
“The best kind of sea turtles.” I take the ornament to the counter and pull out my wallet. Thankfully the island is full of partially dressed tourists or else I’d feel really out of place with no shirt. The vibe is pretty relaxed here, and I’m not going to lie, I fucking love the way Rylee keeps sneaking glances at my bare chest. She’s totally contemplating making me her sex souvenir.
“Oh you found our most popular ornament, isn’t she beautiful?”
“Did you hear that, Saucy?” I nudge Rylee, who’s leaning against the register counter with her arms crossed. “Most popular ornament.”
“I heard her. Seems like you’re not the only deranged person here.” She mumbles the words just loudly enough so only I hear them.
Dragging her into my body, I wrap my arm around her waist and haul her close to my chest. Her lavender scent—shampoo maybe—makes its way around me, wrapping, squeezing, engulfing. “We’re on our honeymoon,” I say, rubbing my fingers over her soft skin. “I’m getting this ornament so my new bride can remember this special occasion. When every Christmas rolls around, she’ll remember the day we said I do whenever she looks at this sea turtle.”
“Oh what a beautiful memory. You found yourself a good one,” the clerk says as she rings up Pearl, my sea turtle. Yes, I’m calling her Pearl. My initial instinct was to call her Turtle Titty Tata, but Pearl has the elegance and class she deserves.
“I tell her that every day.” I hug Rylee and kiss the top of her head. She’s stiff but with a light peck to her head, her body molds to mine.
“No souvenirs for the lady?”
“Nah, nothing for my girl.” Rylee gently wraps her arm around my waist for a brief moment, almost like she’s unsure about her touch. “She told me earlier that the wild honeymoon sex we’re going to have will be souvenir enough.”
“Oh dear.” The clerk fans herself. “Well, I don’t blame her.” She takes my card and swipes it. “I don’t know why you two are even out in public right now.” She hands me my card back and nods at Rylee. “With a man like that, I would be hanging out in bed every chance I get.”