Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

him off while El Viejo consulted the DJ on some shit. El Viejo liked to pretend he didn't know we fucked around on the job. We made it as easy as possible for him to stay ignorant.
    Mr. Goatee followed Alex back, and for the next several pours I got to listen to the fucker's porn star grunts and curses. Yeah slut. Take my meat. Take it all.
    Shit like that always makes me snicker, but I bet Alex got off on it. Go Alex.
    I took my turn. The usual shtick, and I'm not knocking it. This one a blond twink—Brit by his accent. He liked 'em tall, and baby I got tall down, and yeah, with a matching dick, I satisfy good enough that way. Took him out back, hoisted him around my hips, back up against the wall—same wall that was at my own back the night before. Shoved my long snake high up his ass, had him happy and squirting thick onto my belly before the next song wound down. Think I was his second of the night. Maybe third. Slut. Kind of hot, you ask me.
    Activity slowed around three. At four we kicked the last of the drunks out. Flat-out exhausted, Alex and I rounded up the last of the glasses and bottles while Reyes wiped tables down. Sent a last load through the washer and we were done for the night. Alex changed back into clothes that wouldn't get him jumped and I slipped out the back, waving good night to El Viejo's strong-arm.
    Let down, truth was. Though I often was. It's the crash after the rush, when in the gray pre-dawn, all the bright lights and song dimmed, the world just feels sort of hollow. Tonight worse than usual. No surprise, there. We'd been busy, and I was sticky with sweat and sugar and I ached.
    I took a deep breath and hitched up my bag. Three blocks to bed.
    "Erik." Aer-eek.
    I jerked my head up to see a dark figure leaning against the neighboring wall. Arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other. As if he'd been waiting. His smile was easy on the eyes, just easy all around, the kind that you automatically return. "Tomás. What are you doing here?"
    "It's mañana, no?" He fell in beside me. "Do I look so untrustworthy that I would stand you up?"
    I stole him a glance. He did, in fact. Swarthy, broad. Too damn good-looking not to be up to no good.
    He laughed as though he'd read my thoughts. "I wanted a little more than ten minutes. You think I would have gotten that tonight from you there? I saw how busy you were." He touched my shoulder. Just quick, light fingers, a brush. I stopped, faced him. He said, "You live close?"
    "Who are you?"
    "Ah." He tucked his head. Traced a line in the dirt with the edge of his boot. "I'm coming on too strong." Then he straightened to say, "I am Tomás. I came into town a few days ago. On vacation—from down south. My family is there. I was at the resort where you work. You were on the water. Then when I saw you working there on Wednesday, I hatched up the very stupid idea to pay you to teach me." He smiled, looking off towards the beach this time. His hair was damp and curling tight and he looked like a vision. "Will you be very surprised if I tell you I have no burning desire to learn windsurfing?"
    I snorted a laugh. "No. No surprise. You look more like rugby." Rugby in a loose linen shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Shell white, and jeans worn so light and soft and thin I could see the hard line of his quads.
    "When I learned about Chulo's, I took a chance you might go there." He shrugged. "I find you attractive."
    "Even when I fall off boards?"
    "Especially then. You came up laughing."
    "And bleeding."
    "Yes. And laughing. See?"
    We were quiet for a moment. Me, because I was trying to figure him out. He might be built like a tough, but his air was refined. Polite to a fault and cultured. What he saw in a college dropout tending bar was beyond me.
    Dipshit . I gave myself a mental shake. He saw a nice ass. A long body. A college boy. Duh.
    "I am safe, I assure you. I'll do nothing you don't want. You prefer my hotel room, perhaps? It's small."
    "No." I rarely took men to my room, but what the fuck. It'd been a while since I'd had a comfortable roll in a bed. "My place is good."
    ****
    Good enough, anyway. I live at the resort. As part of my pay, I get a one-bedroom apartment at the far end of the grounds, a modest breakfast and lunch, and deep discounts on dinner. The place is small and in constant disrepair, but there's a tiny air conditioner in the bedroom and a kitchenette, and it does me pretty well. I've even fixed it up some to