by Gage Grayson
I put my hands up in surrender. Fuck, here we go again.
“I wasn’t trying to break the rules, Macy. I was giving you a demonstration, what you asked for.”
“You know what? Fuck it. You’re on a whole different page and you know it. There’s only one thing you’re all about, and you’re full of fucking shit about everything else.”
For fuck’s sake, I’ll just go and be honest. I’m probably going to lose this fight anyway.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t feel that spark, or whatever it is. It felt good.”
She looks like she’s going to explode.
Pacing back and forth, she runs her hands through her hair. “The ground rules have been set, and you agreed to them. You said you would comply. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t think that just because I let my guard down for a second, it means I want you to fuck me.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s not what I thought at all! It was just a fucking kiss!”
“A fucking kiss that shouldn’t have happened. How can I trust you not to take advantage? How can I enjoy myself if you keep forgetting the ground rules?”
I can’t believe she’s fucking saying this. Accusing me yet again of crossing the line.
“Don’t you dare accuse me of that! It was one goddamn kiss. You, no—we were having a fucking blast. Enjoying ourselves and maybe one rule was broken. It’s not a big deal, calm down.”
“Excuse me? Calm down? It’s not a big deal? Fuck you, Aaron!” She turns on her heel and leaves the room, slamming the door shut on her way out.
19
Macy
That damn man knows exactly how to piss me off. It’s amazing how quickly he became an expert in it. You’d think he’d get annoyed, frustrated with the fact that I’m constantly yelling at him.
And then he has the audacity to fucking kiss me under false fucking pretenses! I can’t believe I didn’t see through it earlier.
Fucking asshole!
The sound of people talking, drinks clattering, and luggage moving grows louder, forcing my head up. I look around to see where I am and notice that I’m now standing in the middle of the lobby. Shit!
I’ve been completely distracted by that prick, by all the fucking bullshit happening, that I’m losing the faculty for basic fucking things like noticing my surroundings.
The lobby is crowded with arriving and departing vacationers. Couples, families, and students on spring break littering every inch of the magnificent space.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bunch of jersey-wearing bros, all doing their best to project an air of cocky confidence, approach a group of sorority girls who are waiting in line to check in.
Ugh, why do men have to be such pigs? Why do they always have to think with their dicks? Especially my pretend husband.
I get the attraction, he’s fucking hot. Swoon-worthy. And he’s on his way to being a mogul in the film industry.
For me, having him in my arm is like winning an Oscar or having my film shown at Sundance. It’s top level shit.
But he ruins it. Every damn time. He takes it too far with his attitude, his smug expressions, his over-the-top ego. Those occasional flashes of self-deprecating humor and genuine wit don’t last long enough.
Looking around, I find a place to sit. I maneuver my way to one of the cloth couches off to the side of the main lobby. Away from the chaos.
It happens to be a perfect spot to watch people innocuously.
Being a New Yorker, people watching has become one of my favorite pastimes. It’s always entertaining.
It also helps with my creativity. Many of the people I’ve observed in Washington Square Park have inspired characters, or entire screenplays. For better or worse.
Hopefully, this time it’ll be a useful calming mechanism. Distracting me from the Aaron Michaelson and his delicious mouth.
Fuck.
The influence he has over me is what scares me the most.
My ability to control my feelings is part of who I am. It’s helped me this far, keeping me motivated to go to school and pursuing my dream.
I did it all by myself, with no distractions as I didn’t have time for them, nor for feelings, and I never wanted or needed someone to hold my hand.
But he unnerves me, shaking me to my core. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and it pisses me the fuck off. Who gives him the right to just waltz into my life, like the fucking Greek god that he is, and mess it all up?
Sitting here, I notice the ridiculous number of couples walking around, some gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes while others affectionately holding each other’s hands.
It makes me sick, and instead of calming me down, it does the exact opposite.
Maybe I should take a walk? Breathe in the fresh air, soak in the last few minutes of sun, and if all goes according to plan, forget about that fucking asshole.
Settling on the walk, I get up and begin to follow the main pathway, letting it lead me around the resort.
I sigh, hoping to release some of the tension.
I try to immerse myself in the moment and my surroundings, frustrated that I’ve wasted so much time and energy on that asshole. I could’ve been out here, exploring how I want and when I want. And most importantly, without him.
I touch my lips, feeling the lingering effects of his touch. I shudder at the thought.
Why did he have to kiss me? It messed up the balance of what was turning out to be a very promising vacation.
His touch, the kiss, sparked sensations in me that make me want to void the rules, contradicting everything I’d said.
He knows how to screw with my mind, and my body.
And I’m aware that the tension between us is palpable, thick and delicious.
Honestly, it’s fucking tempting. I’ve never wanted something so badly. It’s infuriating to me. But I can’t let him distract me. I won’t give in to him.
Fuck. Why am I still thinking about him? I’m supposed to be forgetting, walking him off, leaving him behind and ignoring him for good. Yet here I am, consumed by him. Obsessed with what he’s doing to me.
I’m not that kind of woman. I’ve never been a woman who obsesses over a man. And damn it, I won’t start now.
Reaching the beach, I try to come up with a better plan. This is obviously not working.
Maybe talking to someone will help get him and these feelings out of my system?
Pulling my phone from my clutch, I search my contacts, finding Cara.
Why didn’t I think about this before? She knows exactly how to calm me down and put me in my place.
She also put me in this mess. It might’ve been an innocent mistake, but still, she owes me. This is the least she can do.
Cara, your ex-fiancé’s best friend is an ass.
I’m certain she’s already aware of this fact. But as I’ve learned tonight, clarity is very important Apparently, some people can still be confused with clearly defined descriptions.
Ha! I’m assuming you’re talking about Aaron? I heard he’s there…with you. I am SO sorry.
She writes back almost immediately.
Settling myself on the stone wall that borders the beach and the resort, I pretzel my legs and assume my texting position.
The breeze feels fucking amazing. It blows my hair, creating an almost perfect Beyoncé-like effect. It’s refreshing and helps to cool my scorching skin.
Plus, the waves crashing on the shore offers a calming soundtrack.
Yep. He’s an arrogant prick who only thinks with his dick. Oh, and who is gladly willing, almost always, to show it off. I mean it’s impressive, but still! What the fuck is wrong with him?
My phone buzzes again.
He definitely isn’t afraid to flaunt what he’s got. There’s a long laundry list to prove that. He’s just like any other Hollywood playboy, with a silver spoon up his ass.
I actually laugh out loud at her last comment.
The image of a silver spoon being shoved up
Aaron’s ass is hilarious. I should replay that every time he pisses me off. It’ll save me from wasting energy on him.
Lol! Great imagery. Keep reminding me of that, or else I’ll find myself arrested for punching a man.
Cara replies almost immediately.
Please, don’t do that. He’s not worth it. Just keep reminding yourself…he’s not worth it.
Peeling my eyes from my phone, I sigh. Again.
I rub my temples, trying to release the built-up tension. She’s right, he isn’t worth this. He might have this impeccable ability to rile me up and get a reaction out of me. Oh, the many different, frustrating, and pleasurable reactions.
But he isn’t worth the time and frustration.
You’re right. He isn’t. I’ll just ignore him and start treating myself to this vacation. The way I originally planned.
I read Cara’s reply.
Do it, girl! Treat yourself!
Yes, that’s what I’ll do, treat myself!
I put my phone away and jump off the wall. I’m feeling a little better.
My anger has been slightly stifled, and my annoyance for Aaron is stable enough.
I start feeling my other needs gnawing at me as the tension begins melting away.
I’m fucking starving!
I didn’t finish my snack…thanks again, Aaron.
Well, I’m already out, I should probably grab some dinner. I want to avoid going back to the room for as long as possible. And it’ll be nice to eat something without him so close, staring at me. Making me feel warm, wet, and distractingly aware of every nerve in my body.
Who wants to think about their body when they’re eating? Not me.
Not too far down the path, lively music and the joyous laughter from a beachside restaurant draw me to it. Without even thinking, I make my way down, excited to enjoy a hot date with myself.
I sit at the bar and order my new regular, the Bold Greek. I desperately need this, not just for the alcohol, but to remind myself of how strong and bold I am like John so perfectly assumed.
The bartender passes it to me, and just like the first time, it tastes delicious. The warmth from the liquid immediately travels through my veins, and I relax.
Ah, it feels so good.
I order a salad and some crab cakes. I plan on taking my time. There’s no rush to get back. The longer I stay out, the more likely he’ll be asleep or out by the time I get back. Another argument will be averted, at least.
Once my food arrives, I devour it. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
I buy myself another hour or so by ordering a few more cocktails. And with a drink in hand, I watch the sunset.
It’s breathtaking.
Pink and red hues color the sky as the sun sinks into the horizon. The colors illuminate the scattered clouds, creating a dazzling, almost sparkly effect.
Finishing the last of my drink, I remind myself that I really am in paradise. And that I need to take advantage of that.
Returning to my room, I cautiously open the door nervous for what I might find on the other side.
The lights are off, and it’s eerily quiet. I don’t know if I like it.
I turn the lights on as I make my way to the master bedroom.
A sense of relief washes over me when I realize that Aaron’s not here. He would’ve at least said something by now if he was.
Though, to my surprise, a tinge of jealousy jabs at my chest when I briefly think about where he might be…probably fucking some naïve spring breaker.
Ugh, he is so predictable. Fucking ass.
If he can’t get with me, why not just go find another poor, undeserving woman to charm and fuck. Something a little less challenging and a lot more willing.
What’s more alarming, though, is that I fucking care! What the hell?
I try to shake off the odd, uncomfortable feeling, hating that I feel it at all, and start getting ready for bed.
Oh, fuck. We have that boat tour tomorrow. Damn it! Now I have to see him.
I guess I’ll wait for him. We do have it scheduled, and there has to be at least one of us who sticks to the agreed-upon plan.
But I’m keeping the promise I made to myself—I will take advantage of this paradise, with or without him.
20
Aaron
I haven’t been here in a good, long while. Seriously, how fucking long has it been?
If we’re talking about this hotel hallway at this particular tropical resort, then fucking never as far as I can recall.
I usually remember visiting places like this, which brings me back to the question.
How fucking long has it been since I’ve been in this place? Wandering down a hallway, concentrating just to have enough coordination to walk, nearly seeing fucking double.
Alone.
There’s been a few nights that were sort of like this for me in the past, like in college, when I realized I was so drunk that I should just go to fucking bed. But this was after socializing, talking to people, having a decent or maybe even a great time.
And those nights were years ago, not too many, but they still feel like another lifetime now.
In addition to this resort hotel fucking hallway, another place I’ve never been before—in a state of intoxication or otherwise—is the state of isolation I seem to have put myself in.
It was like some fucking movie imagery, shit that would seem almost too unrealistic or cliché to fly nowadays:
A single guy at a bar—single being solitary, and he sits like that, at the bar, by himself, drinking the same booze he can drink for cheaper somewhere less embarrassing. But that’s not what he chose to do. He chose to sit there alone, in public, with a piña colada, looking dour and eating the free fucking trail mix they’ve got at the bars here.
Okay, the story just became a bit more specific.
Another thing they don’t show in the movies is the way spring break in St. Maarten looks right now. The bars are fucking packed, at least at night.
And it’s not just college kids, either. There are people a few years older, maybe my age. A lot of women, single and ready for their own vacation flings. A few even approached me.
And what happened then?
I was fucking polite for a few minutes, then excused myself.
I just don’t fucking feel like it, and I’m not sure why.
And no, I did not see anyone I know—no staff members, no fellow guests, nobody.
Nothing but strangers.
As it’s getting into the early morning hours—there’s already goddamn sunshine coming through the hallway windows—a bit of my sober brain is reemerging along with the sun.
And it’s telling me to stop replaying the last few hours, to drink a couple more glasses of water, and go the fuck to sleep.
In a few short hours, I’m going to be piloting a speedboat on the Caribbean, and I’m going to be in much better company.
“Okay! I’m up! Just a second!”
I might still be asleep when I say those words, because as soon as I open my eyes, I realize I’m yelling at a harsh, electronic buzzing, going off steadily in two second bursts.
For the sake of my ears and my fucking sanity, I quickly identify it as coming from the wall phone closest to the suite door. With some clumsiness, I hobble to it quickly to get the noise out of the suite and hopefully out of my life for good.
The buzzing stops when I pick up the receiver, which puts me in such a good mood. I decide to see who it could possibly fucking be calling this suite, which is associated with at least four different people at this point.
“Hello?” My voice is still more than half-asleep.
Like, maybe twenty-five percent awake, at most.
“Good morning, Mr. Michaelson!”
“Who is this?”
“This is Rhonda from the front desk, taking care of your wakeup call personally.”
“I didn’t order...do you know who it was who ordered the call?”
“Are
you having a bit of a joke, Mr. Michaelson? We do appreciate that here at…”
“Rhonda, I’m not joking. I just want to make sure the person who ordered the call actually gets it.”
“You said I could call you Aaron, is that still okay?”
Uh…
“Absolutely, Rhonda. When did I tell you that, again?”
“It was earlier this morning, Aaron. You told me all about your boat tour today—and your wife, of course. She sounds like a real special lady.”
Fuck. The last thing I remember was walking back through the hallway.
I must’ve been drunker than I thought—which is pretty much part and parcel of being fucking drunk.
“You bet. Before I let you go, Rhonda, help me out by reminding me how to get to the boat tour?”
“On foot, you walk past the private cabanas and keep going, it’s just a straight line for about twenty minutes until you reach the departure pier. Or, you simply get the shuttle that departs in ninety minutes exactly.”
“That’s plenty of time. Thanks for helping me, Rhonda.”
“Enjoy your tour and your lifetime of marital bliss, Aaron.”
Ignoring the last comment, I hang up, find a moderately tight-fitting and informative swimsuit, and stride to the bathroom in a great mood, looking forward to a beautiful, relaxing day with Macy.
I start off whistling in the shower, then humming, then singing some nonsensical yet emotive opera.
This continues while I shave, and hear Macy walking around outside. A few minutes later, I open the door to find her in her own very flattering swimsuit choice.
“I’m hungry,” is the first thing she says to me.
Perfect.
“We’ve still got forty-five minutes until the shuttle leaves for the boat tour. And, we could eat at that outdoor bar.”
With her arms crossed, Macy nods agreeably to what is shaping up to be an amazing day.
There are no second chances at first impressions, but the chance to spend some more time with Macy at that bar seems close enough.