Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

wedge of pineapple into it. I got a new bottle of Drambuie from the top shelf and handed it to him with a wink. I was used to doing the reaches.
    And me? Hell, I was just getting into my groove. I loved this, the speed, the noise, the shit coming at me from all directions. Kept me moving, kept me ticking. Kept me alive. I liked watching the dancers. The crazy ones, the slow ones. Liked watching the sluts, the shy boys holding hands, the local boys cruising for rich daddies. Liked to think that among all the hookups I'd seen go down, there must've been at least a couple that bloomed into something real and permanent and good.
    A breeze whipped through. Smell of sun, smell of sand. I saw a patron from the corner of my eye, waiting to be served. I popped the cap off a Bohemia and slid it onto Reyes's next tray.
    My hands were getting sticky, so I dunked them in the washbasin—probably a health code violation north of the border—and grabbed a new towel. I whipped around, drying my hands, and to the man waiting, said, "Que tomas, vato?"
    It was my friend from the resort. And Christ. His eyes were even more captivating up close.
    ****
    He ordered a beer. No brand, just "una cerveza." I slid him a Dos Equis, said, "this one's on me." My hands shook a little, which was batshit crazy, because hookups come easy to me, and yeah, this guy was hot, but he wasn't like, a god or anything. Just garden-variety guh. Hard jaw, strong nose. Eyes lighter than his coloring seemed to warrant, framed by dark lashes and brows. Thirties maybe—mere threads of crow's feet at his eyes.
    I knew he was into me; maybe that was what unnerved me. Knew it from the way he held my eye, the way his fingers purposefully grazed mine as he took the beer. He hadn't wanted lessons. Not in surfing, anyway. Jesus.
    I mean. Shit. Yeah, not like guys never got into me, just not like this—watching me, asking for me when they hadn't even seen I'd put out. More like, I express interest, they say, fuck yeah. That's the kind of attractive I am. You know? But this guy was hitting me up behind the bar, when I was clearly busy as all get-out and there were dozens of horny men on the dance floor, damned fine ones, any build, any complexion or kink you wanted, all dressed to kill, showing their moves. Ready.
    So why the fuck was he homing in on me? Christ, that sounds pitiful. It's not. Just—
    Reyes broke my trance by hollering an order in my ear, sending me to the back rack for the bourbon. Spent the next hour, a little more, mixing drinks, pouring wine, sending glasses through the washer. Señor short-dark-and-fuckable moved off to the side, where he leaned against a post, ostensibly watching the dance floor as he...didn't drink. Just held the beer like a prop.
    "He's into you," Alex said during a lull.
    Around midnight, things slowed down. Always did, somewhere in there. The calm before the storm. El Viejo came behind the bar and nodded to me. "Vete." Break time—fifteen minutes, or until I heard someone holler at me to get my ass back behind the bar. I grabbed a bottled water from the ice bath and headed to the back. Pit-stopped at the urinal, washed my hands like a good employee, and slipped out the back door into fresh air. Thank fuck. Took a deep breath.
    Yeah. Feels good, expending all that energy, going crazy, being noisy; but as much as anything, it feels so good when you stop. That rush of cool and clean and quiet, how stark the difference. I leaned my head back against the wall. Thought how I should maybe take up smoking.
    "Erik, yes?"
    My eyes popped open to see the dark fuckmenow man. "Yes." He said my name weird. Aer-eek. Vowels flying high. His accent didn't sound quite Mexican to me. South America? "You know my name."
    A shrug. "Easy enough to ask." His voice was deep, but gentle. Almost musical. "Your compadre at the bar. He told me I could find you here." His English came easy—not ESL. But then so did his Spanish. He rolled an 'r' like a pro.
    "I see." I drummed my fingertips against my thigh. Nervous habit. So Alex knew the guy was out here. Knew why.
    "Tomás." He stepped closer, right into my personal space. "My name is Tomás Morgan." An English surname. Interesting.
    "Tomás," I repeated, with that particular twist of accent he gave it. And then stupidly, "Encantado," which was, in essence, me saying, "Pleased to meet you," to a back-alley fuck. God. Have I mentioned my propensity towards idiocy?
    But he laughed. Eyes dancing. Said, "You