by HJ Bellus
Iris walks right up to me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, reaching up on her tiptoes to peck my cheek then makes her way to my lips. It’s quick, but makes me sick to my stomach nonetheless. Iris is on a mission making her way to me. I didn’t get far enough from Raylan and her friends, making it easier to overhear them.
“It could be his grandma.”
“Nobody’s grandma kisses their grandson like that.”
“Possibly…”
The words trailing off make me feel like a first class bastard.
Four
Raylan
“If you dare…” Brenna is up in my face with her silicone tits pressing against mine. “Let that sexy as hell man ruin your sexcation I will pussy punch you in public and not feel bad about it.”
Josi adds to Brenna’s warning. It’s what she always does. “And I’ll record it then immediately upload it to YouTube. I will share it on every single social media outlet including Pinterest.”
She uses Pinterest like it’s a damn virus that will end my life. I can’t help but laugh. These girls found me at my lowest, fresh from college and lost in a new world. They were there during agonizing months when I was petrified about losing my job due to budget cuts.
“It will be the pussy shot heard about around the world.”
“Enough.” I take a step back, making sure my flat as hell flip-flop doesn’t catch on anything. “It was nothing. He’s a flirt. That’s all, and it looks like he’s here with his family.”
I look back to the flock of old women flanking him as they head to their rooms.
I tip back the drink in my hand even though it’s empty. It’s not the sweet nectar I’m after. It’s his taste, but like hell I’ll ever tell my girls this little nugget of information. After all, I’m not dead. Any woman young or old with a libido would be taken by Memphis.
I don’t know if that’s a nickname or not, but that’s what his grandma, aunt, or possibly mom called him. I have been a big fan of the ginger nation, but Memphis is a game changer. A smile so wide and framed by perfect lips hold the promise of the downright dirty things they can do. The scruff covering his jawline is as mesmerizing as his broad chest. And that package! Holy sex me down now, Batman.
Licking the last taste of his from the rim of the glass, I set it down and clap my hands together. “Girls, we have two hours to get ready for dinner. And our hair appointments are in twenty. Let’s roll, bitches.”
Brenna and Josi roll their eyes in unison followed by gagging sounds. I peer back up to see Memphis is nowhere to be seen. I wipe my brow pissed at myself for caring.
“Just can’t help it can you, Ray-Ray?” Josi asks, looping her arm in mine. Brenna does the same on the other side. They are the only two people on planet Earth allowed to use that nickname. They’ve earned it, taking me into their circle and putting life back into me years ago.
“What?” I play dumb.
“You know what, you pickle smoker.” Brenna squeezes my arm.
I’m not going to ask what in the hell a pickle smoker is. I’m pretty sure I have a damn good idea already, and the sad fact is there has been no pickle smoking for nearly a year. I never have time. I am busy organizing my life, reaching my goals, and in the last three months, praying my job didn’t get cut.
“It’s the analyst in you. You can’t help being overbearing and detail orientated, but this is your sexcation. Time to celebrate not losing your job at BrandRoot Energy Solutions.”
The girls continue their pep talk all the way to the salon. I ignore all the sideways glances we receive by onlookers. You grow a thick skin when rolling with these two clowns. It’s either their looks or the words flying out of their mouths that shock the world.
“Those bags of dicks made your life a living hell leaving you in limbo for months. Now it's time to live it up.”
“In a bag of dicks,” Josi adds.
They howl in laughter at their stupid joke, making me smile and feel relaxed. It’s a foreign feeling. I’ve dedicated over six years to BrandRoot Energy Solutions, only to have the threat of my job being cut. Stressing over the unknown was miserable and froze me with fear, putting my real love on the back burner. My secret writing career. Not even my two best friends know about it.
I’ve busted my ass to create a cushion career. I’ve broken the cycle on every level. I zipped right past sixteen and pregnant, dropping out of high school, and serving jail time like my parents. Funny thing is society, nor the universe, gives a shit if you work your ass off making more of yourself. You get kicked around like everyone else. Hell, I was expecting at least a gold star and a pat on the back and an atta’ girl. But that hasn’t happened yet. I’ve learned it never will, so I keep my head down with my sensible and practical thoughts.
Everything happens in a flash at the salon. Josi and Brenna and their natural overbearing selves instruct the stylist on how to do my makeup and hair. I sit here high on today’s events and still a bit drunk, not giving two shits what the stylist is doing. She could throw me back into the 80’s and I’d be happy.
Life is good. Memphis, oh Memphis, was the cherry on top. Our cheers to being friends with such promise of more still warms me from head to toe. Two damn weeks to explore that avenue.
“I should be on a corner, not entering a dining hall.” I try to clutch at a piece of fabric, but this bitch is so tight it’s impossible.
“I told you that your boring ass sundresses, capris, and bland tanks are hasta la vista this vacay.” Brenna slams back another Sangria. She’s been tossing them back since we left the salon. The drink is meant to be sipped and enjoyed. Brenna never follows the rules of life.
“You look beautiful,” Josi whispers in my ear.
“It feels like I’m in a Halloween costume. I don’t wear this stuff. Eyeliner is as far as makeup goes.”
“You’d rather wear your grandma dress pants and button blouse you wear to work every day?” Brenna asks, stopping us at the entrance of the expansive room.
“No, but this is a bit much.”
I’ll never admit to them that I feel beautiful, a bit like a fancied up Barbie doll, yet glowing and gorgeous. I fight away the thought of it being a Halloween costume and follow my girls into the room. We find our designated table. The food is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. A full course meal then dessert.
“Time to dance those calories off,” Josi declares, hopping to her feet.
There’s a dance floor off to the side and like everything else it’s elegant in design. Rich, dark wood with elaborate sculptures are bordering it. The men in are dapper suits and some of these dresses put mine to shame. I order another Lick Her Right even though I sipped on a Sangria during dinner. Call it cruel and unusual punishment. The sweet taste dances over my palette, but something is missing. Memphis. His taste.
“Okay, your mission for tonight. Let loose, have fun, and ask a guy to dance. Rub them titties all up in his business,” Brenna instructs at the edge of the dance floor.
I down the drink, knowing I’ll need some liquid courage for this. Then I gulp down two more. I feel light on my feet and ready to take full advantage of the cruise life. This will be a sexcation for the record books. Through my foggy brain, I know it’s big talk to pep up myself.
Before I have the chance to ask a tall, dark, handsome man I’ve been eyeing across the room to dance, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Whirling around, I am ready to scold Brenna or Josi for interrupting my concentrated train of thought, breaking down the courage I had built up inside to go for the kill. But I come face-to-face with a man who mirrors the other one I was aiming for.
Jesus, do they clone these hot Latinos for the enjoyment of the passengers? I’m staring, jaw dropped, and unable to process a word. Dark hair messily styled, piercing deep ocean eyes, and olive skin are so alluring I could drown in it. His jawline is the foundation of his gorgeous face, making my insides squirm.
“Hola, Hermosa.” His dimples light up each side of his fac
e and my legs quake.
I’m starting to think Josi and Brenna slipped some pill in my drinks, causing the sexiest men alive to attract to me. This shit does not happen in real life. Let me repeat this simple fact. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. Period.
“¿Quieres bailar?” He dips his head toward the dance floor, bringing his face closer to mine.
I open my mouth to respond, but not a word comes out. My exposed skin sizzles. It feels like all the eyes in the room are watching this interaction. I know they’re not, but I can’t help shake the feeling someone is boring holes into my backside. I peer over my shoulder, but the room is too crowded to zero in on anything.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” I sputter out.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome clears his throat with a deep rumble. “Hello, beautiful. Would you like to dance?”
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. Not the sexiest move.
“Just sounds sexier in Spanish and less corny.” He shrugs.
My hand around the drink trembles with nerves. My mouth keeps opening, but nothing comes out. He takes the drink from me, setting it on a table near us, holding his hand out to me.
“Your name?” I stutter out.
For the love of dog bones, real smooth, real smooth, Raylan. And why in the hell am I thinking about dog bones when this man sculpted from perfection is pulling me into his chest? I figured I was getting tipsy before on alcohol, but when a sweet, woodsy masculine scent hits me, I’m wasted.
“Roberto.” He rolls his ‘r’, making my knees go weak.
This has to be a dream. The best dream ever I admit to myself.
“And yours?” His palm goes to the small of my back while he clutches the other in a dancing position, inching us onto the dance floor.
“Raylan.” I take a spin at rolling the ‘r’ but sound like a cat being neutered.
A barely there chuckle escapes his perfect bowtie lips then he dips his down to the crook of my neck. He sniffs. He’s sniffing my Goddamn hair. Holy shit, my legs quiver, my insides grow tight, and damn can I orgasm from a sniff? All signs pointing to hell yes.
“Raylan, it’s an honor,” he purrs into my ear. His Spanish accent is thick and heavy.
The slow song playing comes to an end being replaced with “Bailamos” by Enrique. Both of his hands drop down to my waist. He begins swaying back and forth. I can’t dance. Hell, I can barely walk on a regular day. I feel like Shakira ready for the performance of my lifetime.
Dear Baby Jesus, please let my inner Raylan come out to play. May my feet float and hips be on point. I promise to never eat grapes while grocery shopping ever again.
“Tonight we dance.” He winks, singing it right along with Enrique. “Mujer, Hermosa.”
He begins moving us in a way it wouldn’t matter if I had legs underneath. Roberto is in control, coaxing my hips to move with his. And yes, it’s like we’re having sex clothed on a dance floor in an overcrowded room. I’ve never felt so alive.
This man is the deluxe package from his looks, scent, voice, the way he rolls those ‘r’s, and moves. This sexcation has officially kicked off. And I don’t trip or stumble once. Roberto is also magical.
We dance like this through two more songs, or hell, it could be five. This man could be straight from one of my romance novels I’ve been trying to write. I didn’t think men like this existed in real life. Not that I’ve ever asked the expert, Brenna, because my dream of being a full-time author is my secret.
It’s with regret I tap him on his shoulder. He leans down, allowing me to whisper in his ear. I really, really want to lick his lip, but my kidney is donkey kicking my bladder.
“I need to use the restroom. Too many Lick Her Right…”
Roberto jerks up. The noise in the room is so loud I’m guessing he misheard me, thinking I asked him to go to the bathroom and eat me out. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I grab the back of his head, lacing my fingers in his thick hair, pulling him right back down. I do lick his ear this time, but it’s more out of desperation and fear of pissing myself.
“I have to pee. I’ll be back.”
His chuckles vibrate into my chest. Fuck, my bladder, that dumb bitch.
“See you around, Raylan.” He kisses both cheeks, knocking me off my feet with that accent.
I squeak out. “Okay.”
Then I turn and bolt. My feet are tangling over one another like a newborn calf. What the hell? I was Madonna on the dance floor in the arms of Roberto, but now when my life depends on it, I can’t put one foot in front of the other. Yes, my life depends on it. If I piss my dress in a formal dining hall surrounded by beautiful people I’d die.
My bladder never quits pulsing, only coming faster and harder. The sign to the bathroom comes in view. It’s so close, but so damn far away. No, no, no. I bust into the restroom and into a stall, barely getting my ass cheeks on the seat before Niagara rains hell down.
“Thank you,” I whisper to myself.
A chorus of chattering women burst into the bathroom not concerned about their conversation being private.
“Iris better share him. You know I love her, but I spent good money to be here with him, too, you know, Margaret.”
“Sophia, you know I’ll always have your back and trust me, you won’t ever worry about dick again, so if she doesn’t share follow my lead. Too many hot pieces of ass here to put all my dice in one cup.”
“I’m not into chowing box like you.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I cringe at the conversation. I’m desperate to get back to Roberto. I straighten out my dress before exiting the stall, mentally preparing myself to come face-to-face with a pair of young and dumb sorority girls vacationing on daddy’s dime. My jaw drops when I see two women who could be someone’s grandma. I shake my head, snap my mouth shut, and march to the sink.
“I’m dying to ride his cock again, Margaret.”
Stare ahead, Raylan. Pretend you’re deaf. Stare straight ahead, dammit.
“Talk to Iris. Maybe you horny mommas can take shifts until one of you break his dick off.”
“Margaret, you’re too much.”
The two women share a hug, and Margaret doesn’t try to conceal her lady boner for Sophia. Sophia is clueless, basking in the comfort of her friend. Good lord, I force myself to face the mirror and focus on washing my hands. Maybe I should sing the alphabet to distract myself? Oh, screw that, this is too entertaining and excellent book research.
Damn, I can’t help it and peek over to the women and then straight back to the mirror. One of them looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen her. The moral of the story is if these old grandmas can be sewing all of their sex oats and then some there’s no excuse for me.
With a new found confidence, I waltz right back into the dining room with my head held high and my feet cooperating. Josi and Brenna are shaking their tits and ass out on the dance floor and no sight of Roberto. Disappointment settles in until I spot another group of cloned studs.
Ride that cock, ride that cock, Raylan. I repeat the mantra from one of the old ladies in the bathroom. I give the room another scan, people watching for a few moments. Several groups of men are casually scattered about, having no clue a predator is stalking them. Which will be my prey tonight? I roll my eyes. I’m dumb, but if the grandmas can do it, so can I. I tap my chin, deciding who to approach. This is a chuck everything in the fuck-it bucket and live with no fear or consequences type of move. I narrow it down to a group of ravishing men dressed impeccably in dapper suits. I’m desperate for round two with another Latino sex God. Roberto classifies as a Latino sex God because if he moves like that on the dance floor I can’t imagine what he would do between the sheets. I scan the area a final time before I make a commitment. Jesus, it’s a dance and light conversation not a six-year loan on a new car.
Him. My breathing stalls for a tick. I’m unable to look away. All thoughts of the men vanish into fine dust. I can’t see his f
ace because he’s running the pad of his finger along the rim of a clear tumbler. I know it’s Jack and Coke. The scent of Jack lingered off him earlier. He can’t see me from where I’m standing even if he lifted his head, so I stare, soaking him in. The memory of his husky, smooth voice and the way he made me come to life with his nearness brings out my slutty side. I squeeze my thighs together.
“Ride that dick, Raylan,” I whisper to myself.
It might be the granny gang’s mantra I’m repeating, but in my head it doesn’t shake out to the actual action. Asking him to dance and enjoying the night is the equivalent to riding his dick. I mean I wouldn’t be opposed by any means. I take a step toward him, fiddling with my fingers against the skintight dress.
I freeze when a hand comes down on his forearm right below his rolled dress sleeve. My vision darts up to his face. He’s bored yet staring at the woman’s face whose hand is on him. She is the complete opposite of Memphis from age to looking like she wants to devour him. There’s something off about the scene, but I’m not sure what it is. He almost appears to be melancholy. He forces a smile, but it’s hollow. Nothing like the flirty, full of life one he gifted me with. The longer I watch, it’s clear he’s completely shut down with her. None of it makes sense.
The woman turns her head toward me, glancing at something to my left. It’s the woman from the deck. His grandma? Is she consoling him?
Something is off. The woman’s fire red nail runs up and down his forearm while her other hand flicks away her ebony black hair as she whispers in his ear. Holy shit! Was that her tongue? Yep, that is most definitely her tongue licking the shell of his ear. Not his grandma.