Sun, Sea and Sangria: Escape with a feel good romantic comedy in the summer sun!

by Victoria Cooke

  ‘You know what? I’m going to arrange another date.’

  ‘Good for you!’ she says.

  Chapter 16

  As I leave the apartment complex, I pause to fasten the clasp on my handbag. When I look up, I jump.

  ‘Jay?’

  ‘I know I haven’t shaved but I’m not that terrifying, am I?’

  ‘Sorry, I was in a world of my own. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve just finished at the gym and was coming to see if you fancy heading down to the beach or something. It seems weird not having a show tonight – the guys have all gone to watch the match but I wasn’t in the mood.’ He stuffs his hands into his pockets and twists nervously. His hair is wet and he smells of coconut. He looks me over. ‘Sorry, are you off out?’

  I twist my mouth, feeling guilty about leaving Jay at a loose end, but then scold myself because he isn’t my responsibility. ‘Yes, I have a date with Alonso.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He glances at his Havaianas then back to me. ‘So are you two becoming a thing then?’

  I shrug. ‘Not really. It’s still early days yet, but we seem to be clicking and he seems really nice.’

  I turn to walk off but something holds me back. I glance at my watch. I’m already running ten minutes late but something about Jay’s soulful expression gives me a heaviness in my stomach and I think I know what’s wrong with him. He’s lonely.

  ‘I know it’s not what you’re here for, but why don’t we set you up on a date? You never know …’

  He presses his lips into a hard line and folds his arms. ‘Kat, just because you’ve found this new version of you that’s experiencing things you’d written off years ago, it doesn’t mean I have to.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’ I turn to leave again, feeling scolded, but I get a niggling bubble of anger. He’s come to me for company, and in the past, he’s had no qualms asking me personal questions. What exactly is Jay’s deal?

  ‘Why are you so set against meeting someone?’

  He regards me for a few seconds too long. My nerve endings seem to light up as his eyes travel over my body.

  ‘I’m not who you think I am, Kat.’

  Oh? My chest clenches. A million thoughts whirl through my head, ranging from the alarming to the absurd.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I almost trip over the words.

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing. You’re going to be late for your date.’ With that, he shuffles down the steps and heads towards the apartment he shares with Marcus. It’s a second before I can shrug off the strange exchange but I can’t process it now; I’m late.

  As always, Alonso is the perfect gent. He regales me with tales of when he sank his friend’s sailing yacht by crashing it into rocks, and his early mistakes as a bar owner. He takes me behind the bar to teach me how to make some of my favourite cocktails, but all the while, I feel guilty because my mind is on Jay. There’s something about him – a melancholy – that’s got under my skin. I swear if I fell asleep right now I’d dream about him.

  ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, Kat.’ He leans forward and places his lips on mine and I must admit, I find the rhythm naturally. It’s starting to feel a lot more normal, like the rusty mechanism has had a good old blast of WD40.

  When we pull apart, Alonso takes my hand in his. ‘Goodnight, Kat.’

  ‘Goodnight, Alonso. I’m sorry I need to leave early, I just have this awful headache.’ I get a pang in my stomach – lying has never sat well with me.

  He bats the air. ‘Nonsense, you go home and rest. Perhaps we could go to a picnic on the beach next week. I’ll check my schedule and let you know some dates.’

  I place my hand on his firm upper arm. ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Before I forget, I think I have a gig lined up. I’ll text you the details when I know for sure.’

  My chest lifts. ‘That’s brilliant. Thank you.’

  I kiss his cheek and we say goodbye.

  By the time I’ve walked back to the apartment, I’ve convinced myself that I need to go and see Jay. He’s come from nowhere, joining the Hunks and asking me personal questions, wanting to spend time with me, but he won’t give anything away about himself. I need to find out why he’s not who he says he is, as a friend but more importantly as his employer. Is he trying to tell me that he’s a drugs baron or something? A fugitive? A spy sent to check up on me? Not who you think I am. What does that even mean? How does he even know what I think of him anyway? Secretive, for one. The lights are off but I bang on the door anyway.

  ‘Jay?’ I shout, banging again.

  The light goes on next door and a lady swings the door open. She shouts something in a language that sounds Eastern European and I apologise in English.

  ‘Jay?’ I shout again, once her door closes.

  Finally, his door swings open. ‘Kat? What the hell is going on? Is the building on fire?’

  ‘What? No! I’ve come to talk to you.’

  ‘Couldn’t it wait until morning?’ He rubs his hands through his hair and I notice that all he’s wearing is a pair of black Calvin Kleins. With his arms up high, his muscles ripple beneath the skin of his torso. Something pleasurable flickers beneath my bellybutton, which I force myself to ignore. I’m not here to check out the talent but the sight of him does take the wind out of my sails.

  ‘Sorry, were you asleep?’

  ‘It’s midnight and the lights were out. What do you think I was doing?’

  Fair point.

  ‘Sorry, I just … I wanted to talk to you about what you said earlier.’

  He looks at me for a moment and sighs, before swinging the door open. ‘Come in.’ He pulls a dressing gown on and heads towards the kitchenette.

  The apartment is small like mine but has the stuffy smell you get when you combine testosterone, overcrowding, and one small window. Clothes are strewn everywhere.

  ‘The mess is all Marcus,’ he says, reading my expression. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  I’m about to say yes when I remember I’ve had a few already. It would be best to keep a clear head. ‘Just a glass of water will be fine. Is Marcus in?’

  He gives me a look to say ‘are you kidding?’ and pours me a glass of water from a bottle in the fridge before opening a can of beer for himself.

  I move a pile of clothes off the sofa and sit on the end. Jay pulls out a dining chair from the kitchen table and sits facing me. There’s a look of resignation on his face. The maternal instinct I have for the boys kicks in. I need to make sure everything is okay, but also, if Jay is struggling with something, I want to be there for him and help. I take a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jay, but I have to ask what you meant before when you said I didn’t know the real you.’

  ‘Forget it. You know everything you need to know.’

  Of course, he has the right to privacy, but if there’s something going on, I need to know. Whatever it is can’t be any worse than what my racing mind has already come up with. I just need to know that the guys and the show are safe.

  He’s holding his beer in two hands, staring at the can like it’s the first time he’s come across San Miguel.

  ‘I’m an ex-con.’

  My jaw slackens. I wasn’t expecting that. Jay seems so genuine and honest. Once again, my mind whirls with the possible reasons for incarceration. I remember watching a TV show about prison, I can’t remember which, and I’m sure it said that it’s bad prison etiquette to ask what landed someone inside. I go for a more subtle approach.

  ‘How long were you in prison for?’ I do my best to ensure my face isn’t displaying the full extent of my shock.

  He rolls his lips. ‘Four years.’

  My poker face is getting a full dress rehearsal. Four years. Does that mean he got out in two? Or does it mean he was originally sentenced to eight? I swallow so hard it hurts the front of my throat, which feels very expos
ed all of a sudden.

  He rubs his face with his hands. ‘You hate me, don’t you?’

  It largely depends on what he did really, doesn’t it? ‘No, of course not. I’m surprised, and a little hurt you didn’t tell me before, but I don’t hate you.’

  He stares back at his can. ‘I couldn’t. I never tell anyone.’

  ‘Why? Everyone knows people change.’ It’s possible, isn’t it?

  ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’

  I feel like the Titanic has hit an iceberg in my ribcage. I want to hug him despite that being the worst reaction possible. I don’t even know if he’s taken a few bottles of whisky from Tesco to sell in the pub or battered someone to near death. All I know is the Jay I love talking to: the gorgeous, well-toned, dressing-gown-clad man before me. This is a total mind-fuck, if I’m being brutally honest.

  All of a sudden, he throws his face in his hands and lets out a low, guttural scream. I jump. ‘This is why I moved away from home. This is why I don’t have relationships. I disappoint people. I know what I did is in my past, and I’m not that guy anymore, but it’s there like an ugly scar on my conscience and I don’t want people to see it.’

  ‘Why did you tell me then?’ I ask gently.

  ‘I don’t know, Kat, I didn’t plan to. There’s something about you. I feel like I can tell you anything. I want to tell you everything.’

  My stomach skitters. ‘Then try me. Finish your story.’

  He eyes me for a moment too long, obviously unsure, but then he begins. ‘I was eighteen. My parents were the sort of parents who grafted every hour God sent just to keep the roof over our heads. My dad went to the pub every Friday and my mum played bingo on a Saturday. Sundays we always had a family roast, no matter how hard times were, and my dad always treated Mum like a princess, no matter what.’ The muscles in his jaw flex as he concentrates on the beer can. I’m not sure where this is going but I don’t want to interrupt.

  ‘I knew things were bad when I caught my mum sobbing in the kitchen on Sunday over a tin of Spam. She and Dad hadn’t been going out and they were arguing more than normal but I’d not thought much of it.’ He pauses again to swallow. This is much more personal than I thought it would be.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me this. I shouldn’t have pushed you,’ I say softly.

  ‘Things started to get quite bad. My dad was laid off and they had to start selling things. My mum sold a ring that my grandma gave her before she died.’ His voice breaks and I have an overwhelming urge to dart across the room and wrap him in my arms.

  He stands up, walks around a bit and then sits back down. ‘Anyway, long story short, I went out drinking because I couldn’t bear to be at home and see my parents depressed all the time. They’d stopped opening the post because the letters were so red. My brother was away in the army so it was just me and I didn’t know how to help them. It hurt to see them like that. I hung out with people who were only interested in getting drunk or high. Those people knew other people who were into bigger things. I never took drugs or anything like that, but I knew who these other people were. They were car thieves, burglars and drug dealers. I knew they needed help hiding the money they made and I came up with a bit of a plan that would help us all.

  ‘It was just a stupid suggestion over drinks on a car park one night, but they listened. I suggested a second-hand market stall. You could quite feasibly turn over a decent amount of cash in a short space of time and there was no real need to log stock and sales. Someone could buy a second-hand jacket for a few hundred quid, and it could be logged as a “vintage jacket” sale. It didn’t matter if it was nicked or from Primark and had been picked up at the charity shop for two pounds. They asked me to do it and offered to pay me a decent amount of cash. It felt good to be able to help my family out. My mum questioned the money but I told her I’d got a job working late shifts for double time in a warehouse. They were made up, bragging about me, their wonderful son, to anyone who’d listen.’

  Jay looks up but he still can’t bring his eyes to meet mine. He stares at the wall before going back to his beer can.

  The tension inside me melts away. I must admit, despite it being a terrible crime, I’m relieved it’s for something non-violent and that his motives came from such a good place.

  He sips his drink and draws a breath. ‘And then we got caught. One of the car thieves gave everyone up when he was arrested. No doubt hoping for a more lenient sentence. Me being naïve, I thought I’d probably get a fine and a ticking-off. I hadn’t harmed anyone directly or stolen anything. But it turned out that the money I’d laundered was quite a lot and my involvement was quite a lot too. There were clear victims of the whole operation, and as a result, the judge gave me the most he could. I was sentenced to four years.’

  He throws his head back and drains the last of his beer. It’s clear a weight has been lifted.

  ‘My mum and dad were so upset. They’re good, working-class people with a lot of pride. I’d hurt and embarrassed them and everyone in the community knew what I’d done. The trial was a lot for them – my mum’s face when I caught her eye in court still haunts me to this day.’ His voice falters. ‘It was too much for my dad. The stress brought on a massive heart attack and he didn’t even make it to the hospital.’

  His mouth turns downwards and he sobs. ‘I killed my dad.’

  ‘Oh, Jay.’ I want to offer comfort and say of course he didn’t but what do I know. What an awful burden to carry around. He wipes his eyes and continues to stare at the bottle.

  ‘I got out after three years. My mum slammed the door in my face when I went to see her, my brother wouldn’t talk to me and neither would anyone from the town we lived in.’

  My stomach churns. I’m not sure if it’s knowing about what Jay did that makes me feel queasy, or the realisation I didn’t really know him at all.

  ‘You made a mistake.’

  ‘Killing your father isn’t a mistake.’

  There is no reply to that. Instead, I let the words hang in the air.

  ‘How long ago did you get out?’

  ‘It was over fifteen years ago now.’

  I don’t know why but that makes me feel a little better, perhaps because I know the crime he committed is so far back in his past I can be sure he’s not that person anymore. ‘If you couldn’t go home, what have you done for all this time?’

  ‘On the inside, I read most days, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was working out – my skill set was limited. When I was released, I took on the kind of jobs where a background check wasn’t necessary. Needless to say, I didn’t become a banker.’

  He smiles and even though he’s trying to make light of it all now, his shoulders are hunched and he can barely look me in the eye. I know he’s ashamed.

  ‘I was a labourer, a gardener, and did other things like that. I had a few girlfriends in the early days but when I told them I’d been inside that was always it – the nice sort of girls I went for couldn’t see past something like that. I didn’t want to hide it from anyone but I didn’t want to burden someone with something like that either, so I stopped dating. Aside from a couple of drunken one-night stands, I haven’t been with anyone since.’

  ‘Oh, Jay,’ is all I can manage. It’s a lot to process but my instincts are usually right and, money-laundering aside, the last part of his story shows he’s got some integrity.

  ‘Is that what your tattoo is all about?’ I remember how cagey he was when I asked about it last time.

  He nods. ‘It’s stupid but I wanted something to symbolise moving on. It’s a Lyndon B. Johnson quote that really spoke to me at the time. It says: Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or lose.’

  Jay turns his arm so I can see the tiny script running down his inner bicep.

  ‘I guess I thought it would give me the strength to overcome everything I screwed up and be a better person moving forwards.’

  I sense it didn’t, but I like the sentiment. ‘I reall
y like the meaning behind it.’

  ‘Well …’ He grasps his bicep with his opposite hand, covering the tattoo. ‘I’d appreciate it if we kept all this between me and you for now.’

  I nod. ‘Of course. I appreciate you telling me, and it won’t go any further. As far as I’m concerned, it’s in the past. You made a mistake, paid the price and you’ve learnt a lesson. There’s no need to tell anyone else, even though I doubt the guys would judge you if you ever did tell them. We’ve all done things we regret.’

  He stands up and takes his beer can to the bin then looks at me, shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Thanks for not hating me.’

  I look at him, so vulnerable, and my insides turn to liquid. Instinctively, I walk over to hug him. His skin is warm and smooth. When I pull away, I look him in his chocolate-opal eyes but he looks away.

  ‘I couldn’t ever hate you.’ The thought of anyone hating this beautiful man is inconceivable. Every aspect of him is perfect bar one blot on his record. ‘You’re a good person, Jay. You listen; you care about people. You’re there for me.’ I step around him, forcing him to look at me. This time he holds my gaze, and before I know it, he leans in and places his lips on mine. They’re warm and soft and his kiss is gentle yet firm enough to show he means it. My chest explodes with electricity as my body gives in to him like we’re each made of magnetised matter. But, this is wrong on too many levels. So wrong. I pull away.

  ‘Jay,’ I whisper, terrified.

  His eyes are heavy with sadness and he steps back. ‘I … I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’

  I place the palm of my hand on his smooth chest and look up at him. He has about eight inches on me and I feel small, almost childlike. ‘I like you, Jay, but this is wrong. I’m your boss and I can’t be involved like that with any of my guys – it’s not professional. It’s not right. Besides that, I’m seeing Alonso and you’re my friend.’