Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
She’s funny. Irreverent. Confident.
Her dark green eyes snap my way for just a split second but I see it and it only feeds the rising beast inside me. In my head, I’m strapping her to the back of my bike and heading to my place, where no one would come looking and I could take my time exploring every inch of that little body with my tongue, before pumping every drop of my seed into her ripe little womb.
Fuck.
I shake my head, pressing my fingers into my eye sockets, wondering if I’ve been bit by some toxic fly and I’m hallucinating because my thoughts are crazed.
“Out of control? Just like us!” The redhead she hugged as soon as she walked over screams to the rest of their group, and a cheer goes up from the small crowd.
They all came down together a few hours ago and have been hittin’ up the bar hard ever since.
They’re idiots, most of them anyway. That’s nothing new here though. A little sunshine and booze, an adults-only resort and you have the perfect mixture for stupidity. I never understood getting hammered as a form of entertainment.
And what’s more, getting hammered and hooking up, then waking up the next morning with two kinds of hangovers. One from the alcohol and one from the ‘what the fuck did I do and who are you?’.
I spent too many years looking down the sight of a sniper rifle in hundred and twenty-degree heat to understand fun I guess. At least, that’s what my buddy Reed who owns this resort always tells me. He’s right in a way. There’s shit you see when you’re deployed and trying to survive. And trying to help your friends survive as well.
I’ve seen parents hold their kids out in front of them as shields. I’ve seen men throw their wives into the line of fire so they could run dead at us, strapped with enough C4 to put a crater the size of a bus in the dirt.
I’ve seen too much, I guess, to let me understand there is still fun to be had.
Only problem is, my renegade hard-on seems to have a different opinion of things all of a sudden.
I scan the pool and the deck, picking out a few patrons that will likely need to be escorted back to their rooms soon, but that doesn’t seem very important right now. I help out here on weekends mainly because Reed asked and I don’t have any fucking thing else to do, so bouncing a few dumb assholes in oversized swim trunks and backwards ball caps on Friday night is as much entertainment as I usually get.
Until now.
I can’t keep my fucking eyes off her. She’s making my temples pound as my heart knocks against my chest wall.
There’s no sense in it. No woman has ever had this effect on me.
I don’t need the job here. Not for the money. I’ve saved practically every nickel I’ve made my entire life, from the time I was seven and got my first paper route and ran a little gambling ring at recess in elementary school.
From there, I mowed lawns, babysat all the kids in the neighborhood no one else would, and took any odd job anyone would throw my way.
I’d do anything to not be home, to be truthful.
My parents were the poster couple for break up and make up. They were obsessed with each other and somewhere in that mix, I came along, but outside of making sure I had food and clothes and a roof over my head, there wasn’t much parenting that went on.
Fast forward to after I got out of the service, my best friend from high school, Reed, told me to come for a visit. Take some time. Breathe some air. He’d taken over some run-down little resort here on some island I’d never heard of and within a few years had turned it into a high-end destination hotel with a boutique vibe. Expanded it and was making huge bank. I didn’t feel like anywhere else was home, and moving back to Philly, where my parents were still in their endless cycle of dysfunction, was a big fucking no. So, I ended up buying a place way out on the other side of the island where tourists never visit and my neighbors are palm trees and a few monk parakeets now and then.
It's quiet outside of the ocean and the animal noises. No internet, no fucking TV, just me, my garage where I work on my bike and weld sculptures for some shops in town, and some pricey as fuck commissions I get thanks to Reed and his unauthorized website he set up for me.
Another fucking Jimmy Buffet song comes on and for once, I don’t want to punch the fucking wall. Instead, I work my way closer, her pull stronger than even a minute ago as a couple of her friends tug at her arms, trying to get her into the pool.