The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

“Anyway, I had a linguistics professor who’d write an untranslatable word on the chalkboard at the beginning of every class. I started keeping a separate notebook with those words and their meanings in it. Still have it.”

  “Was she hot? The professor?”

  “Yes. I’m a simple man.”

  She cocks her head to one side and studies my face. “Are you, though?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She blinks and shakes her head and then hops down off the bar stool, and I just happen to notice and praise the Lord that it makes her tits bounce a little. Roxy does not want to stay at the bar to have another drink with me while discussing whether or not I am a simple man, and she definitely doesn’t want to provide me with any more opportunities to see her glorious tits jiggle in that fantastic dress. She declines my invitation to go for a walk on the beach or anywhere else on the property, she most certainly does not want to check out the live music and dancing, and she also does not want to join the other guests in the lobby for Game Night. It’s like as soon as I made the comment about samar, she decided she just wanted the night to be over so she can start the day tomorrow with Aim and Bernie. I get it. It’s fine. She doesn’t want to fall madly in love with me, and she’s clearly in danger of doing just that.

  So here we are, back in the Hibiscus Cottage. She doesn’t want to take a dip in the plunge pool, she doesn’t want either one of us taking a candlelit bath, and there’s no TV in the room, so I’m on the veranda trying to FaceTime with my dog. And she’s wearing an oversize T-shirt and pajama pants while reading in bed.

  “Is the volume turned up on your iPad?” I ask the caretaker at the dog hotel.

  “It’s up all the way,” she assures me. “He can definitely hear you.”

  That would explain why he’s just lying there in his bed, staring at the wall.

  “Hey, buddy. You miss me? You having fun? Jackpot. Jackpot. Jackpot…Okay, he seems tired. Or is he depressed?”

  “No, he’s been in really good spirits all day. I think maybe he’s worn out from playing so much.” She’s not a very good liar, but I do appreciate the effort.

  “Sure. Okay, then. Thank you. I’ll check in tomorrow. Good night. Good night, Jackpot.” I end the video call. Asshole. I step back inside the room. “You want me to leave the doors open for a while?”

  “No, you can close them. I’m actually kind of tired,” Roxy says, yawning, closing her book, and placing it on the bedside table. “I’m gonna try to sleep.”

  It’s nine forty-five.

  It’s interesting to me that she’s on the left side of the bed, since I prefer the right.

  “Sure. Would you mind if I listen to music with my headphones while I do a little work on my laptop? I can go back outside for a bit.”

  “Go right ahead,” she says, fluffing up her pillow. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  We haven’t revisited the topic of discussion from earlier, so I’d like to think that since she hasn’t told me to stay outside all night, I will assume that she has realized it will be no big deal for me to sleep in the same bed as her. She turns off the bedside lamp, lays her head back against the downy pillow, and crosses her arms over her chest, closing her eyes.

  She looks so pretty with no makeup and no tension in her face.

  “Stop looking at me,” she says, her eyes still closed.

  “I’m looking for my headphones,” I say. They’re right there with my laptop, of course. I pick them up and go back out onto the veranda, get comfortable in one of the Adirondack chairs, and fire up my Jay-Z playlist. It’s what I listen to when I’m analyzing financial data. It works for me. It’s how I get into my flow state.

  Two minutes into “99 Problems,” and I think I scream loud enough to wake people up in Florida when a hand slaps the back of my head. I nearly sprain my neck turning back to see Roxy standing behind me with her fists on her hips. I pull my headphones off. “What?”

  “I can hear your music.”

  “Why didn’t you close the doors?”

  “I did. I could still hear it. I have very good ears.”

  “I’ll turn it down.”

  “Can you listen to something with a little less bass?”

  “No.”

  “Can you work on your laptop without listening to music?”

  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I don’t want to piss her off because I want to sleep in that bed. “Sure. I can do that.” I turn off Jay-Z and place my phone and the headphones on the floor.

  “Fantastic. Thank you.”

  “Sorry to disturb.”

  She stomps back over to the bed, and I watch her get in and get settled. “Stop watching me.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn back to my laptop. I can work to the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, no problem. I get back into my flow state again. I’m typing up notes and writing an email to my business manager when I hear Roxy say in a deep voice, “I can hear you typing.”

  “I’ll try to type more quietly.”

  “I’ll still be able to hear it.”

  “I can assure you I’m very good at getting the job done with the gentle touch of my fingertips.”

  “I can promise you it will still piss me off. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “You’re not even asleep yet.”

  “Exactly.”

  I sigh and save my work, close the laptop. “Guess I’ll try to sleep too then. I hope the sound of me brushing my teeth doesn’t rattle you too much.”

  “Just get it over with,” she grumbles.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I’ll bet she did.”

  When I take my pajamas and travel pouch into the bathroom, my first thought is that I should call the front desk to let them know we’ve been burglarized. There are towels on the floor and half of a Sephora store spread out haphazardly over the entire two-sink marble counter. I turn to look back at Roxy, who appears so innocent lying there, but she is clearly a madwoman, because who the fuck does this to a beautiful luxury bathroom and then doesn’t clean up after herself?

  I guess she hears me moving a few of her beauty products, because she yells out, “Don’t touch my stuff!”

  “I need to make room for my stuff.”

  “Well, don’t touch my stuff.”

  “Would you like to come in here and move your stuff for me? Because I think that would be a great idea.”

  The door is closed, but I swear I can hear her whispering “fuck you” and I’m sure she’s flipping me the double bird right now. But she doesn’t come to help me tidy up, so I guess I’ll be doing it for her. I line all of the bottles and containers and brushes and tubes up as neatly and quietly as possible, pick up the towels, because that’s driving me nuts, and finally get around to brushing my teeth.

  “Oh my God! Of course you would have an electric toothbrush!”

  I don’t respond, because that would just be more noise.

  This is a delightful side of Roxy Carter and such a wonderful surprise.

  I continue to brush through the four beeps and until my electric toothbrush automatically shuts off. I rinse my mouth with less vigor than I normally would and cleanse my face with as little splashing as possible. When I’m done with the face cloth, I fold and hang it back exactly the way I found it, and then I change into my pajamas. I fucking hate wearing pajamas, but I knew she wouldn’t want to share a bed with me if I’m just wearing boxers.

  You’d think a woman who’s as comfortable as she clearly is with sex would be a lot more laid-back about being around a man in private. I take one last look at that shower. She is being exactly the opposite of Oiled-up Shower Roxy tonight. Which is probably a good thing. For now.

  I am so fucking thoughtful, I even turn off the bathroom light before opening the door so she doesn’t complain about that too. The sky is so clear and the moonlight is so bright I can see perfectly. I fold up my clothes and place them over my suitcase and then climb into be
d like a ninja. I don’t even disturb the flower petals that are still lying on top of the cover. She doesn’t say anything, so I’m staying.

  She’s still lying on her back, but I lie on my side with my back to her, and I’m practically lined-up with the edge of the mattress. I can do this. I can sleep like this. She barely even smells like cocoa butter anymore. I’m barely even thinking about sixteen-year-old Roxy bending over an engine under the hood of a Corvette in a tiny T-shirt and cutoffs.

  Just as the sweet mistress of sleep is about to embrace me to her bosom, I am startled by what is surely the sound of a wild boar that has snuck into our cottage. I slowly turn over and hike myself up onto my elbow to discover—to my horror and delight—that my bedmate is snoring. Roxy Carter snores. It’s not an adorable little rhythmic quiver like a purring cat. It’s like when a fighter jet flies right overhead and everything rattles, only this jet is filled with angry barnyard animals and a sloppy drumline.

  I can’t explain why this makes me so happy, but it does.

  “Roxy,” I say. I don’t reach over to touch her, because I totally believe she’d stab me if I did, but I keep saying her name over and over until she finally stirs.

  When she opens her eyes, she is understandably confused to see me, and when she realizes I’m laughing at her, she is understandably annoyed. “What?”

  “You’re snoring.”

  “What? Shut up. I wasn’t even asleep.”

  “You shut up. You were asleep. And you were snoring. Really loud.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Oh, but you do.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “You honestly think I’m lying about this? Why would I?”

  “Why would I snore?”

  “I don’t think you’re doing it on purpose.”

  “Well…was it like a quiet little snore, like I have a stuffed nose or something?”

  “Have you ever heard Daisy the dog snore?”

  “Yeah, it’s sweet.”

  “What you were doing was nothing like that. It was like lying next to an erupting volcano.”

  She laughs. “I still don’t believe you.”

  “Try sleeping on your side.”

  “I don't want to sleep on my side. My mom's been sleeping on her side her whole life, and now she has wrinkly skin on her chest.”

  “Does she snore?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “How long have your parents been married?”

  “Almost forty years.”

  “And you're not even willing to try sleeping on your side for one night?”

  “Believe it or not, I am not trying to maintain a forty-year marriage to you.”

  “Yet.”

  “Hah.”

  “It’s probably just because of the alcohol. You drank a lot today. And by the way, you really are quite adept at holding your liquor. I’m impressed.”

  “Told you.”

  “But it makes you snore.”

  “I just don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “No one’s ever told you that you snore before?”

  “No. I told you I don’t like sleeping with guys.”

  “But you lived with Aimee.”

  “Yeah, in college. And not even for a whole year in Brooklyn, thanks to Chase. But she didn’t actually sleep in my room.”

  “How long has it been since you slept in the same bed or the same room with a guy?”

  “Years.”

  “So you really don’t date, do you? What’s your deal? You just hang out with dudes and have sex with them and that’s it?”

  “Please go outside.”

  “Okay, no more talking. But no more snoring either.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Okay. But maybe the reason you’re such a light sleeper is you keep waking yourself up with the snoring. Just a theory. So I’m the first guy you’ve slept in the same bed with in how many years?”

  “I can’t sleep with someone else in my bed. At all. Ever.”

  “Well, you were obviously sleeping before, unless you snore when you’re awake.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Okay. You’re really not going to try sleeping on your side?”

  She huffs and flips over so her back is to me. I watch as her breathing slows. I wonder if her nipples are still erect. They’ve been on high alert all day long. They must be exhausted.

  “Stop looking at me.”

  “Good night.” I turn over onto my other side. I know why it makes me happy that she snores. It’s because it makes her seem like more of a real person and less of a hot chick from a video game.

  Five minutes later, she’s asleep and snoring, and I’m holding my phone over her head, recording this amazing noise as a voice memo. I really want to use the camera so I can prove that it’s her, but that just seems creepy. I also really want to wake her up again so I can play this back to her, but it’s probably a dick move to wake her up twice just to prove a point. I stop recording and place my phone back on the bedside table.

  It takes an hour of lying here listening to Roxy snoring before I realize that I can put on my headphones and hope that they block out the sound. I lie on my back with the headphones on for another half an hour or so, unable to fall asleep because I’m so amused by the fact that she snores and that she’s able to sleep so soundly with me in the same bed as her. She isn’t going to believe one of those things in the morning, but she’ll wake up with a better idea of just how special Keaton Bridges really is to her.

  9

  Keaton

  It’s after ten when I get to the breakfast buffet. I woke up to an empty room, a note that said The headphones are a bit much, and a multitude of group texts telling me that everyone else was eating breakfast two hours ago. Now, everyone else is already at the pool, but Chase is being an actual best friend for a change, and he has come over to keep me company while I eat and guzzle coffee.

  “She snores? Really?”

  “I would have had a better night’s sleep if I’d shared a bed with Godzilla. I could still hear it with the headphones on.”

  “Well, she’s in an awfully good mood this morning.”

  “I’ll bet. She must have slept really well.”

  “And not because…” He dips down to get me to look him in the eyes.

  I look at him straight on. “Definitely not because…”

  “I don’t believe she snores. Really?”

  I tap the voice memo on my phone. If she’s going to leave me alone in the room while she has breakfast with our friends, then I am going to share the astonishing sound of her airway tissues vibrating with them.

  “Holy shit.” Chase covers his mouth and laughs. “That sounds fake.”

  “If it was, then I’d better have a talk with her to clarify exactly what it is she’s supposed to be faking while we’re here.”

  “So…you’re totally turned-off now, then?”

  I sigh. “No.”

  “Because I gotta warn you. We’re all hanging out at the pool.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s wearing a bikini and you need to keep it together.”

  I look down at my half-eaten breakfast and place my fork on the plate. “I think I’m done.”

  “I’m serious. You need to mentally prepare yourself. I mean, Matt and I have our gorgeous wives to look at, but you should probably stare directly at the sun or something.”

  I laugh. “Okay.” I pat him on the back. “If you’re trying to talk it up so I’ll be disappointed, I think you’ve done an admirable job.”

  Chase shakes his head and puts his sunglasses on. “I do not envy you. You are in for a world of pain, my friend. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  When we arrive poolside, Aimee and Bernie are dangling their feet into the water and Matt and all twenty of his abs are lying out on a chaise lounge. Fucking asshole. Where’s the dad bod? He squints up at me. “Hey, man. Nice of you to join us.”

 
“Yo, Keats!” Bernie lifts her chin at me. “We were just about to come get you.”

  “Roxy said you had a hard time getting to sleep last night,” Aimee says.

  “Did she? I don’t suppose she mentioned why that was...” I am momentarily distracted by the stunning view of the bougainvillea and the beach and the sea and the sailboats and the sky, but all of a sudden, I wish I had taken Chase’s advice about staring directly into the sun.

  A slim figure cuts through the center of the crystal-clear water in the infinity pool, and then everything that isn’t that slim figure just fades away.

  There’s that Phoebe Cates pool scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High that I jerked off to a thousand times between the ages of twelve and twelve and a half, and then there’s this Roxy Carter pool scene that I will be jerking it to for the rest of my godforsaken life.

  She ascends the steps at the side of the pool, glistening wet and carefully adjusting the top and bottom of her black bikini to ensure that nothing that isn’t supposed to be exposed to the good people of Antigua and its tourists are showing, but it hardly matters because what is exposed is the most gorgeous toned but curvy body I have ever seen in the flesh. And I’ve dated women who look good for a living. But there’s just something about Roxy Carter that screams sex to me.

  I mean, Roxy Carter herself may be screaming “I’m not having sex with you” to me over and over again, but methinks the lady doth protest too much, and also I can’t hear what anyone’s saying because all I hear is “Moving in Stereo” by The Cars and every cell in my body is muttering fuuuuuuuck and covering its lap with a textbook.

  And that’s just when I’m getting the view of her backside. When she turns and starts walking in my direction, I realize that my sunglasses have actually started to fog up a little. So I remove them, and I do not bother to hide that I am staring at her magnificent perky tits in that triangle bikini top, because it’s her fault that my brain is barely functioning this morning and my reaction time is a little slow and because I do not want to stop staring.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” she says as she walks right past me to pick up the towel that’s lying on the chaise lounge right next to me.