Promise Not To Fall

by Shey Stahl

  “It’s just that Wesley wants to be alone for tonight.” She gives me her little scrunched nose again, dancing around her words. “First day here and all.”

  Rolling my eyes, I reach inside my suitcase for the black heels that match the sundress I’m wearing. “Whatever. Ditch me.”

  “I promise!” she yelps, clapping her hands together. “I have a complete spa day planned for us tomorrow.” She knows me well. Too well. I’ll do anything for a spa day and a massage. “They have—” She pauses for effect, like normal. “—an elemis frangipani body nourish wrap.”

  See, that I can do. And I let her off the hook.

  Part of me knew that when I got to the Bahamas, I’d be on my own. Nothing against Rylee, but it didn’t matter how many times she promised me this wouldn’t happen, it was inevitable. It isn’t her fault. The trip is for them, and I just happen to be along for the ride.

  Rylee and I are completely opposite from each other. Friends for years, but you would think, given our personalities, that we don’t ever get along. She’s exactly the type of person who drives me mad. I would have probably set fire to her had she not been like family to me. She kisses my cheek before leaving. “Love you. Stay out of trouble.”

  I laugh, straightening out the wrinkles in my dress. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Good point.”

  1½ parts Stoli® Vanil vodka

  1½ parts Cruzan® Coconut Rum

  ¾ part Coco Lopez® cream of coconut

  ½ part grenadine

  ½ part blue Curaçao

  Mix first three ingredients in a mixing glass

  Shake and strain into a martini glass

  Sink grenadine and float Curaçao on top.

  Everywhere you go on Paradise Island, whether it’s the hotel lobby or the streets, the beats of island rhythms take hold of you. The music, the people—everywhere I look, there are people dancing and enjoying themselves. It’s a different type of music, not reggae, but more like trumpets and drums with a scrapping sound.

  That needs to be me too. I need to be dancing and enjoying myself. And I plan on it. And so, as Rylee and Wesley settle into their room, I decide I’m going to have a good time.

  It’s around five that evening, my buzz from earlier has completely worn off and I need a drink. And by drink, I mean ten. I make the executive decision to spend my first night in paradise getting totally shit-faced.

  Because of the humidity, I can’t do shit with my hair, so I toss it up in a messy bun, grab my sunglasses, and go with it.

  Before I walk outside, I know I need sunscreen. The sun is close to setting, and I have a nice golden skin tone, but skin care is important to me. So I lather myself up.

  I’m literally wearing SPF 900. They don’t actually make it, by the way. But if they did, you’d better believe I would wear it.

  Inside the hotel is a few different bars and restaurants to choose from, and though I plan to explore them eventually, tonight I’m looking for something a little less touristy.

  My plan leads me farther up the beach. The moment the warm, sparkly white sand touches my toes, the shoes are gone. The sand. The fucking toe-wiggling sand there. It’s like heaven. So warm, so soft, it’s like walking on satin.

  The sun glows, reflecting off the turquoise waters, casting a light over the sand, making it look like white diamonds beneath my feet.

  As I walk around, a woman catches my attention. Or at least her blender and her small beachside hut does.

  “You want a drink, pretty lady?” the woman with an afro the size of Manhattan asks me. At least she’s friendlier than the maid and isn’t trying to sell me drugs.

  “Fuck yeah, I want a drink.” I push my sunglasses up to look at her without the darkness. “Serve that shit up, gurl.” Look at me getting friendly.

  While she makes the drink, I bob my head to whatever catchy tune is playing through her boom box.

  I pay $18 for that drink. Might as well have bent over and let her shove that blender up my butt, because she fucked my ignorant American ass. But good goddamn, is that drink delicious. It’s half piña colada and half banana daiquiri. It’s like a tropical banana coconut heaven with a straw.

  I suck it down in no time, and by the time I’m another mile up the beach, I’m feeling amazing. Sweating like a motherfucker, but not a care in the world. Okay, I won’t go that far, but you get my point.

  As I glance around, I notice people lying out in lounge chairs, bathing in the sun. They’re relaxing and enjoying what the sand and the water have to offer.

  I’m getting hungry and my drink is gone, so that leaves only one option—find a place to eat and get my drunk on.

  In the distance, there’s a small bar right on the beach, and I have a feeling it’s the place for me. It’s larger than any of the other ones I’ve seen on the beach, and it appears to serve food too. Vintage signs, ones that give you a feel for the fifties look in modern times, clutter the entrance of the bar called The Sand Pit. Tiny white lights are strung up, barely visible now, but come sundown, I know they’ll light the path I’m pretty sure some have probably crawled.

  As I step up to the deck, I see bright yellow paint lining the bar, and its turquoise walls are covered with more vintage beer and beach signs. The place looks to be a small family-owned bar, as opposed to the ones closer to the hotels, which are franchised.

  I’m in luck because I’m searching for anything but your standard resort life. I want a real Bahama experience with bartenders and tropical music, and enough drinks that I too will know what it’s like to crawl out of this bar. And the floor looks clean too, so that’s a bonus.

  On the deck, I put my heels back on and walk toward the bar.

  Painted white wooden tables and matching chairs occupy an open deck with colorful umbrellas. They look inviting, but I don’t want to sit at a table alone, so I take a seat on one of the dark metal stools at the bar.

  There’s a man standing with his back to me, making a drink. As I glance around at the patrons, it seems empty compared to the hotel. My kind of place.

  The man at the bar turns, catching my gaze, and smiles immediately. It’s the kind of smile I want to bottle and take home with me, so refreshing, inviting, sweet, and tempting. You don’t get smiles like this back home. You get smiles that say, “stay the fuck out of my way and we’re cool,” or the creepy ones where you know they’re undressing you.

  This smile isn’t any of those. It’s warm, just like the sun shining in his eyes through the open walls. It’s soft, like the sand between my toes. The clear blue of his eyes matches the ocean, taking me by surprise in comparison to his sun-kissed skin.

  Then he speaks, and I want to slide my panties off and hand them over the bar to him. Might as well. “Hey, City Girl, what’s your pleasure?” Without looking at me, he slides a menu my way. I think to myself, Cool, I have a nickname already. And then I think about his smile and my thoughts are dirty. You. Me. Naked. That’s what my pleasure is, Island Boy.

  With my dirty thoughts and sweating hands, I open the menu, looking through the few pages at the drinks with fancy names and at least five different types of alcohol in each one. I’m usually good at deciding right away what I want. I don’t have patience for people who can’t make up their mind. But fuck if this menu isn’t confusing.

  I sneak a glance up at Island Boy. He stares at me, and I’m not sure what to say. Right then, as he smiles at me, I know one thing. I’ve found him. I’ve found the one who is going to give these next eleven days in paradise exactly what I’m looking for.

  “So… what’s your drink, honey?”

  Ha. Honey? Who is this dude? I sigh. “I don’t have one,” I say, sounding unsure.

  He nods, breaking our eye contact, and reaches for the menu in my hand. “Well, then, I’ll have to surprise you, huh?”

  If by surprise you mean fucking me on this bar, sure. Let’s do it.

  “Yeah, surprise me.” Pushing my sunglasses back up on my h
ead, I have a better view of him now, and I’m not the least bit disappointed by what I see. He appears to be American, but I don’t know for sure. He’s wearing a dark blue band T-shirt that meets worn gray cargo shorts. His black hair is messy in the front, shaved closer on the sides and perfect for grabbing a hold of. He totally has the Island Boy thing down.

  Oh, yes, take me home is my first thought.

  Calm down. He’s probably taken is my next.

  He’d better have a good name, one that doesn’t start with the letter “J” is my third thought.

  Island Boy starts grabbing bottles from under the bar and sets a rock glass filled with ice down in front of me.

  I’m intrigued by his manly hands and so tempted to reach up and pull his hair. “What are you making?”

  His sky blue eyes grab mine, and he winks. “It’s called black magic.” He speaks in a casual way, like we’re old friends. I enjoy that.

  “What’s in it, Island Boy?”

  He smiles, probably because I called him Island Boy. “Vodka.” Holding the bottle of vodka up high, he pours about an ounce and a half over the ice in the glass. He holds another bottle up, tipping his head toward it. “Kahlua.” He then adds a generous amount of Kahlua until the glass is nearly full, all the while watching my reaction. I’m concerned he’s not following a recipe, and it kind of freaks me out that he’s winging it. Certainly not something I’d do. Island Boy reaches below the bar and retrieves two slices of lemon. “And lemon.”

  His hands are so appealing to me. Long, strong fingers, clean fingernails, and immediately I imagine him squeezing my nipples when he takes the edges of the lemon between his thumb and index finger and gives it a squeeze.

  Not only is the heat getting to me, now he is. Holy shit. I need to breathe.

  I take a couple deep breaths. Him fucking me on this very bar certainly isn’t far from my mind. In fact, the thought is there and isn’t about to leave anytime soon. Especially when he slides his “black magic” my way after giving two straws a swirl around the glass.

  He touched the straw that’s about to go in my mouth. Yes!

  If this is a sign of how the night is going to go, well then, it’s looking good for me.

  Island Boy’s smile deepens into laughter when he watches me take a slow drink. “Enjoy, City Girl.”

  Oh, I am.

  2 parts Old Overholt ® rye

  1 part simple syrup

  1 ½ parts fresh orange juice

  ¼ part fresh lime juice

  6 fresh raspberries

  2 dashes orange bitters

  Directions: Place raspberries in a mixing glass. Add remaining ingredients and ice. Shake and then loosely strain into a Collins glass. Garnish with an orange peel.

  “You like?” Island Boy asks, coming around the side of the bar. I just finished the drink and slid it across the bar.

  “Very much so.” I look behind the bar at the wall scattered with more of those vintage signs, only the ones behind the bar are beer signs. “What should I try next?”

  He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Sweet or sour?”

  “Sweet?”

  He nods, bends forward, and reaches for another couple of bottles under the bar and starts mixing up another drink. This one has a few more steps to it and has him mixing in multiple cups, shaking and then pouring it into a martini glass with a garnished lime peel on the side.

  “Enjoy.” He tosses a paper coaster on the bar and then idly sets the drink down.

  I’m thankful he’s using a coaster this time. Last time he didn’t, and the ice had gotten drops of water on the bar. I had to use a napkin to soak them up for my own sanity. I eye the martini glass, lifting it from the bar. “What’s this one called?”

  “Frost bite.” He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes like the first one did. Instead, he’s more focused on the restaurant portion of the bar, his eyes darting from table to table.

  Another bartender passes by, moving around Island Boy to the other side of the bar, where a couple is sitting with a basket of food.

  My stomach growls. “You serve food here too?”

  “Yeah.” He nods and shuffles another menu my way. “Fish and chips are good.”

  Mulling over the menu, I watch my surroundings out of the corner of my eye and notice the girls surrounding the bar at the other end from where I sit. It seems they’re enjoying the view as well.

  Damn. Competition.

  Out of the two bartenders, I know exactly which one is everyone’s favorite in the candy store. The one serving my drinks.

  He comes back over, his attention on the other bartender, and then back to me. “Nash, can you cash them out?” he says, finally returning his beautiful island eyes to mine. “Ya want some food too?”

  “Since you say they’re good”—I hand him the menu, not making eye contact—“I’ll have the fish and chips.”

  Taking the menu, he nods and disappears around the corner to what I assume is the kitchen.

  As I sit here, drinking, I begin to unwind and feel like I’m on vacation for once. Most of the time when I take a vacation, it’s not for me and I’m on edge the entire time. My time is spent taking care of others, and on the slim chance I have a free moment, I never allow myself to get drunk in fear I won’t pay close enough attention to detail.

  Taking another sip of my drink, I decide to just finish it because that means he might return. Swirling the tiny straws around in the ice, I let out a small burp and cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Real ladylike, Kendall.

  Thankfully, nobody heard me.

  Island Boy is shaking his head at something as he approaches. “Look at you. Drinking someone away, are we?” He grins, and it makes my stomach flip-flop in my belly.

  The other bartender—who I am now referring to as “Surfer Boy” due to his blond hair, blue eyes, and stereotypical surfer looks—joins us. Anyway, he stands beside Island Boy, nudging his shoulder. “I bet his name is, like, Brock or Brody… or somethin’ like that.”

  “Excuse me?” I recoil, glaring at the two of them. “Who are you talking about?”

  They exchange amused looks.

  “The guy you’re drinking away,” Island Boy replies, a touch of a Bahamian accent laced in his words. Damn. So hot. “His name is probably Brody, huh?”

  “His name is not Brody,” I say, shaking my finger at him as warmth settles in my face. I’m buzzed for sure.

  Surfer Boy walks away, laughing, back to the other end of the bar, where two more middle-aged women have taken a seat. “What can I do ya for, ladies?”

  Watching the interaction between them, Island Boy shakes his head and then turns back to me, his arms crossing over his chest as he raises an eyebrow and offers me that boyish smile once again. Ah, yes, there you are tummy tickles. “So who are you drinking away tonight?”

  “If you must know, an empty heart, thanks to the short stop for the Diamondbacks,” I finally tell him.

  A hearty laugh escapes his lips, and he raises his glass he has under the bar filled halfway with dark liquor. “To me, then.”

  Confused, I watch as he downs the drink in one shot, grimacing at the burn. “Why you?”

  Winking, he watches me with an intensity I hadn’t thought possible for him, making me slightly uncomfortable. Running his hands through his dark hair, he leans forward slightly. He smells like dryer sheets, and I want to rub myself against his static-free body. “Because I’m the lucky son of a bitch who gets to fill the empty heart.”

  By “fill,” I know exactly what Island Boy has in mind.

  Oh, yeah, baby. Keep serving these drinks, and we’re heading that way.

  My fish and chips are ready by then. A large basket of fresh fish and french fries is placed in front of me by an older man who resembles Island Boy a little bit. Same eyes. You can’t miss that combination of black hair, sky blue eyes, and dark skin.

  “What’s your name?” I ask Island Boy, wanting to know which name I mi
ght be screaming later.

  His eyes met mine. I notice a little more about him every time he looks at me. He has strong features that draw me in, like his jawline, the scruff, and his cute nose. I know, I said cute, but it totally is. He’d make cute kids for sure.

  “Jake.”

  Of all the fucking luck to have. I’d sworn off “J” names. I can’t breathe in that moment, and I have no idea what to say. I want to punch myself for even walking in this damn bar. Why couldn’t his name be more exotic?

  “Fuck off.” I turn away from this Jake character. Fuck his cute nose and hair I want to pull.

  Why can’t his name be something like Enrique or something more island like? I’d even settle for something American. Just not with the letter “J.” It’d be doomed from the start, right?

  My throat goes dry at the thought.

  “Excuse me?” Jake stares at me as if I’ve just slapped him. I guess I did with my words, if you stop to think about it. I told him to fuck off.

  “Nothing.” My shoulders slump forward.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kendall,” I mumble, laying my head down on the bar.

  Jake extends his perfect hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Kendall.”

  Sitting up, I reach for his hand. When my hand touches his warm skin, shivers run up my arm at the contact. For a moment, I’m lost in his touch.

  Some think that only happens in the movies. A tingling touch. In fact, it does happen. Certain people have a way of eliciting reactions in others simply with tactile encounters. This Jake dude, he’s one of them.

  And then I think, Jake is usually short for something. Maybe his name starts with a D, or something else. “What’s your real name?”

  He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Real name?”

  “Is Jake short for something?”

  A laugh emits from deep within his chest, throaty and fucking sexy. “No. Just Jake.”

  “Can I call you Jay?”

  He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why?”

  I shrug, feeling like I have lost my mind. “I don’t know.”