There’s nothing that goes better with a soak in the hot tub than a Jameson on the rocks. Which is exactly what I’m having, even though I just finished up my beer at the bar.
Jordan’s nursing a white Russian. Slowly, thank God. Amazingly, he was able to sober up in the time it took us to finish checking into our suite and change into swim trunks and get down here.
But it doesn’t look like Jordan will stay sobered up for very long. He’s always been a lightweight.
With all the bathing beauties coming in and out of showers, saunas and steam rooms, and in various states of “undress” he looks happier that a pig in shit. He’s going to keep drinking along with every beautiful figure he “devours.”
I turn away from him briefly, nudging my brother. “Pretty beautiful view, hey, bro?” My excitement softens immediately. One look, and it’s clear Paul’s out of it. By his posture, it looks like he’s feeling confident and content, but he doesn’t seem to be really looking at anybody. Not appreciating all the semi-naked eye candy, which was the point of him being here.
For a moment, I contemplate getting his attention. Then I remember how futile that is. How he’s probably just going to end up being pissed off again, so I just let him continue with whatever mental masturbation he’s doing. Whatever it is, it must go great with draft beer.
“So, this is where all the goddesses go, eh, Alex?” Jordan’s tracking a particularly busty woman. She’s wearing a leopard-inspired swimsuit, and believe it or not, she actually has some leopard ears on a headband to go with it. “And the ones with freaky tastes, too.” He whispers, making a growling sound like a wildcat and a matching hand gesture. “I’d like to tame her kitty. I bet that hair’s wild down there.”
I stretch, trying not to picture what he’s just put in my head. Leopard-Girl with a bush so thick you end up eating half of it.
“If you like digging for treasure that much, then be my guest,” I say, and run my tongue over the roof of my mouth, feeling phantom curls of hair already stuck on me. “Not for me. She’s gotta be clean-shaven.” I roll my shoulders and sink down toward a jet of water. It’s almost too weak to massage anything but if I had any one of these women in here — like that beanstalk over there with bluish-black hair and a frilly polka dot bikini — pressed up against the jet, it’d be enough to get her off.
Beneath the frothy surface, I’d slid my huge dick into her swollen folds, and I’d pinch her nipples between my fingers. They’d be extra sensitive because of the hairpins I would’ve clamped on them the night before.
“She wouldn’t be a woman then though,” Jordan surmises, bringing me back out of my pseudo-fantasy. The clinking and the cracking of a bottle cap seal follows. He’s finished his white Russian and has traded it out for a beer. One from the six-pack I insisted Paul bring for a bit more fun.
I take a hefty swig of my whiskey, pulling the amber liquid through my teeth. “Look,” I say, suddenly very serious about smooth, shiny pussies, “if I wanted a beard” — I gesture below my chin,— “I’d date a man, and while I like to use a swing set from time to time, I don’t swing that way.”
Jordan shrugs. “And if I wanted to date a little girl, I’d be in jail,” he says, keeping most of that under his breath.
I growl, hating that he always dares to go there, just because I don’t want a face full of bush, or extra fiber in my diet. “Oh, that’s rich.” I gesture towards him. “This from the guy who shaves his body hair more than any girl I’ve ever dated. Legs, underarms or otherwise.” He has absolutely no hair anywhere on him. Not on his chest, underarms, and probably not under his board shorts either.
“Hey. What can I say? The housewives I serve like a soft body pillow to go with their herb,” he says.
I roll my eyes at him and his growing business practices. Some are handled legally behind a dispensary counter. Others in the back doors and bedroom windows of a secretive, private elite.
“Whatever. As long as you make the money, I got nothing to say.” Especially when you contributed the equivalent of the golden goose egg to our little “fund,” I think, savoring the last few drops of my chilled drink. I close my eyes, enjoying the malted, slightly-perfumed notes in this whiskey.
But my ability to savor anything — the rest of my drink, or my relaxing time in the hot tub — comes to and end with a splash and a curse from Paul.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he says, finishing off his beer like he’s sharpening a knife. “You really enjoy killing everything I’m starting to enjoy, don’t you?” Before I can get a grasp on what’s going on, my brother storms out of the hot tub saying, “I’m done here. Classy, this place with classy clientele.”
Paul wraps a towel around himself and makes a beeline for the door before I can see more than a blur of women. Grabbing clumsily to the side of the hot tub, I jump out after him.
“Paul, where are you going, bro?” He doesn’t answer of course. “What happened, man?”
But it’s Jordan, not him, who answers me. He springs out of the hot tub, turning his eyes in the direction of the apocalypse. I follow his gaze. It’s Darla, and she’s practically sucking the face off some poor bastard looking like California’s poster boy.
Fuck me. I haul in a breath. Of course she would fucking show up. Jordan hangs onto me like a drunk chick in swim trunks. She’s like a nun at a strip club. She has to ruin everyone’s fun. Jordan wobbles, sloppily trying to keep his balance. “Oh shit,” he whispers, as I drag him with me out the doors of the spa/swimming area and follow Paul’s retreating form. “Fucking hell, that’s Darla.” Jordan laughs a little, but again he’s the only one laughing. “It’s Darla, Alex! She’s here with us, dude.”
“I’m not blind.” I keep walking, hoping to cut Paul off before he shuts the door.
Luckily, we’re there just as he swipes his way into the room.
“Great. Just fucking great,” he says, throwing himself on an overstuffed leather couch. The biggest piece of furniture in the room. “Just what I needed.”
Tell me about it, I think, watching him sink deeper into the cushy leather. This is the last thing I need — we need — after everything we did to get him here. To set all this up.
“Nice fucking surprise! On Christmas and my birthday, too!”
After shutting the door I quickly move to sit down next to him. If I want him in good enough spirits to enjoy everything else I have in store for him, I’ve got to do some damage control
“Forget about her, bro.” I try to keep my tone light. Supportive, even when he growls. “I’m serious, bro,” I continue, “so she’s here. So what?” I lay a hand on his moist back, ignoring the chills I’m feeling on mine. “The point of being here is to move on. To forget about her. What better way to show her she means nothing to you than to ignore all of that…” I struggle with the correct words to use.
After struggling for a few awkward moments, I decide to be blunt about it. “She’s way too skinny.” I communicate this by holding up my pointer finger. When he doesn’t seem to get the message, I decide on more bluntness. “You can do better than that cheating bitch..”
“For sure!” Jordan chimes in, awkwardly hovering between sitting down, and checking out some of the other gadgets in the room. He pauses, the words awkward and sloppy in his mouth. “Is it just me, or does your ex look skinnier than she did when she was with you?” He burps, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was more than that in his mouth. “I’m surprised the guy she’s with can get off to all that bone showing.” He snickers. “But then again, a boner’s a boner, right?” Weakly, he pantomimes like he’s the boyfriend fucking Paul’s ex, laughing until he’s out of breath.
My brother and I ignore him. “She is skinnier, and it makes me sick to see it,” Paul finally says. But it’s more to himself.
“Hey,” Jordan says, when he realizes no one but him finds any of this funny. “I was just trying to make light of it, man. Just trying to get your mind off it.”
“Whatever.” My brother folds his hands. Walls himself up. “She can do what she wants. I’m here to do what I want.” He goes silent for a moment, and in that moment, I’m not sure what he’s thinking. About his ex, or about something else. “I need a girl with meat on her. Some substance, you know? Not fat, but so I’m grabbing something more than skin and bones.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, giving him a playful shove. He’s had enough Darla for a lifetime. “Don’t worry. We’ll find the perfect one for you.”
“Yeah, man.” Jordan finally takes a seat on the other side of Paul, but only after turning on the TV and the gaming system he picked out this room specifically for. “All you have to do is hang out by the restaurant or buffet or whatever and see which snow bunny enjoys a few good bites of steak, and you’ll have your lady.”
He’s got two controllers. One for himself and one for my brother. “No big deal.”
I watch Jordan as he deftly gets himself past the startup menus, and into a game. If gaming consoles could be women, he wouldn’t be single. “Sorry, Alex. You’ll have to wait for your turn to play me. Heartbroken bachelors first.”
“I think I’ll live,” I say, getting up and exploring the mini fridge. I find what I want: a can of orange cream soda. “Whatever’ll keep me from hearing any more of your half-baked romance advice.”
We share a laugh, before my brother and Jordan become too competitive for any intelligent conversation. Which is fine by me. It gives me time to fantasize. And to run through the plan in my head one more time before tomorrow night.