Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

at me to give him a hand with cleaning out the equipment shed. Lettie waved me away, so I kicked off my shoes, pulled my Ondas y Sol tank over my head and off, and went. Glad to. Sun, sand, hard work and a sweat.
    "Dan called in sick," Flaco said. Flaco's a Swede. Bet that caught you by surprise. Big, buff and blonde, not flaco at all, with an accent to make you fall on your knees. Sometimes I think Latino nicks are made to confuse more than enlighten. Anyway. Dan 'sick' meant hung-over. Again. Which, hell. I was glad to hear it. Nothing against Dan, but I'd be happy to take his job once Ceci'd had enough.
    We'd been at it twenty minutes or so, hauling shit out—mostly stuff in disrepair, a couple of big-ass beginner boards, a crate of mildewed PFD's, a crippled lounger. I was struggling with a snarl of rope when Flaco said, "Hang on. Customer," and loped over to the rental counter.
    I pulled the rope free. It looked clean and in one piece, so I looped it around my right hand and elbow as I began the job of disentangling it from itself.
    "He doesn't teach, no."
    Flaco's voice was deep and it carried. Real sexy, you ask me, but the man's straight. Sure, I sucked his dick one night at a staff party, because you don't turn down an opportunity like that one, and I guess he thought the same. But it never led to anything—hell, that'd been clear at the time. Flaco's not so much queer as simply open to trying new shit on a whim. Hangup-free, that's Flaco.
    "Just me and Ceci here today."
    I looked over my shoulder, curious about the conversation. And got an eyeful. Damn. The customer's voice was—not soft, exactly, just not resonant, and I couldn't hear but the occasional word over the breeze. His gaze slid to mine, then back to Flaco, and a thrill coursed through my limbs. He'd asked for me . Why the fuck was he asking for me?
    I'd had a good day on the water yesterday evening. Maybe he'd seen me then. Or maybe it was simply—
    Oh yeah.
    I could get into that, too. Don't need to be teaching you to suck you off, sweetheart . He was drop-dead gorgeous. Or at least, totally my type. Dusky skin and lighter eyes, dark hair curling around his neck. Not so tall—maybe five-eight—but built powerful. Fucking amazing legs—squat but strong, corded with pure muscle, furred lightly with hair. Nice package, too, bulging from his Speedos. Fuck me.
    "Erik!" Lettie popped her head around the corner. "Party of six."
    I checked my watch. After two. Fuckers. "All right. I'll rinse off out here. Get their drink order?"
    The party was six men. Ayep—nice of Lettie to call for me. Middle aged, maybe, looked like finance types. Maybe Mike did their taxes while I served them blood-orange tequinis and strutted. They tipped well—damn well—but that may have had something to do with the way white track pants frame my ass.
    You think I don't know?
    Or maybe it was the way I waggled my eyebrows when Bruiser and Blondie offered to do me from each end. Or the fact that I let Carrot-top grope me on his way to the bathroom. Gave him a nice throaty groan for his trouble. Who knows—if he saw me around later, maybe he'd get more. Will spread for tips. Hell yeah. Win-win.
    Randy motherfuckers.
    They left a little before five. Carrot-top lingered, introduced himself as Jack (uh-huh), and asked when my shift ended. "Nine," I said.
    Hell yeah, I lied, but no way was I giving him my whole evening when a couple hours would get us off fine. I agreed to meet him by the pool.
    I bussed their table, pocketed three American twenties (flirting with rich queers pays well), and that was it. Even the lady writer had left. Lettie told me to fuck off for the rest of the day, so I did. A few good hours of daylight left, so I grabbed my board and headed out to catch me some ocean and adrenaline.
    The wind was good. Steady and brisk. I'm no pro at this—hell, I'm an Oklahoma boy—and I need good conditions to play. Beginner lessons, I'd said, remember? Ceci and Flaco're still teaching me the impressive moves.
    Well, you need to understand that I'm a show-off. Even when I've got jack-shit to parade. Remember the class clown back in fifth grade? Yeah. That was me. Making people snort Kool-Aid out their nose is as good as making them admire you.
    Most the time. Funny thing about Mike. When he laughed at me, it was never so good. Should've told me something right there, you think?
    So I'd been out on the water a half hour or so. Getting the muscles warmed up, feeling