Grabbing a banana from the fruit basket, I walk out onto the terrace, into the heat, and sit down on one of the two loungers.
Two loungers and only one of me.
I glare at the empty lounger, like it’s somehow its fault that my life went to shit in the span of a few seconds.
A few seconds … walking in and seeing something no person ever wants to see … was all it took for my life and future dreams to dissolve into pieces before me.
Honestly, I’d toss that sun lounger into the ocean, but I don’t want to have to stump up the cash to replace it.
That, and the sea life doesn’t deserve to have its home invaded by my anger.
Still, I put my foot up against the side of the lounger and push it as far away from me as I can.
God, look at me. I should change my name to Eeyore. I’m like a sad fucking donkey.
I need to sort my shit out. Cheer the hell up.
But first, I need something to eat; otherwise, I’ll be a cheap date tonight.
Putting the bottle down on the floor beside the lounger, I peel open the banana.
It’s actually a hella big banana. Bigger than my ex’s dick—that’s for sure. Probably has more potential to fill me as well.
I snort a laugh.
Tim used to hate it when I snorted, so I used to try not to do it.
See, there is an upside to all this. I can snort a laugh without the prick complaining.
I snort again and then a couple more times, just for the hell of it. Then, I take a big bite of banana. Chew and swallow and then chase it down with some more champagne.
I might be alone and miserable. But I’m in paradise. In the most gorgeous bungalow, looking out over the water. I have an outside bath and alcohol, and that always helps dull the pain, making me feel less alone and sad.
I’m a happy drunk, always have been, so I’ll just keep drinking this champagne until I’m feeling happy.
Or as happy as I can.
I get my phone and open up the Music app, and then I select a song that never fails to lift my spirits and pump a bit of strength into me—Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter.” I hit play, and then I put the champagne bottle to my lips and take another drink.
two
West
I notice her the moment she walks in the bar. She’s hard to miss for a few reasons. One, she’s clearly drunk and trying to act like she’s sober. It shows in the rigidness of her walk. Two, she’s wearing a hell of a lot of clothes for this kind of heat. Even at night, it’s hot as balls here, and this chick is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt, like we’re in for a cold flash. And three, which probably should have been the first thing I listed … she’s hot as fuck. She reminds me a little of Selena Gomez. Long, dark, wavy hair. She’s tiny, but compared to me, a lot of women are. At a distance, I’d say she’s five-three, max. For a short chick, she has surprisingly longish legs that would fit nicely around my waist. I have a mental flash of her pressed against a wall with me up against her, my cock buried deep inside her, those legs of hers tightly hugging my hips.
My dick twitches. I bat the image aside. Every woman on this island is either married or has a boyfriend, and attached women are not my thing. Neither are drunk ones.
Taking a sip of my cold beer, I watch her navigate her way toward the bar, where I’m perched on a stool. It’s cute, seeing her try to walk in a straight line. She’s already stumbled twice—over thin air.
Reaching the bar a few feet away from me, she leans her stomach against it, and I get a side shot of her chest. She has decent-sized tits.
“Bartender.” She slaps her hand down on the bar top. “Drink me.” She’s English.
There are quite a few Brits on the island. As an American, I’m a rarity here. The flight here from the States is an absolute fucker, so it’s not the first vacation destination on our list, which is exactly why I chose to come here.
And if I didn’t already know that the little Brit over there was drunk, I’d know from that little word fuckup and the slight slur to her voice.
I share an amused look with the bartender, who is already making a drink at my end of the bar for the couple seated outside.
Yes, I’ve been that bored. Even though this was the perfect place to come for some privacy and quiet time, I didn’t take into account the lack of shit to actually do here.
Well, I say I’m bored. But I’m not now that the gorgeous little drunk Brit showed up.
“Pretty sure he’s supposed to serve you, not drink you.” I put my bottle to my lips and tip it back.
The bluest eyes I have ever seen look my way.
I feel this strange tightening sensation in my chest. Weird.
She turns her upper body toward me, places her elbow on the bar, and goes to rest her chin on it but misses. I hide a laugh behind my bottle.
“I meant,” she enunciates the word, “drink me, as in give me a drink. You know, like beer me.”
“Maybe next time, go with beer me. It would’ve sounded way better.”
“But I don’t want beer. That’s why I said drink me. Duh.”
She rolls her eyes, and I can’t stop the laughter that time.
“You’re American.”
I lower my bottle to the bar. “And you’re English.”
“Yep. That’s me. English and all alone. Like that chick who sings that song in that film. You know who I mean?” She snaps her fingers at me.
“I literally have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“You do! It’s … crap. What’s her name? That film from years ago …” She keeps on snapping her fingers at me. “She had shit luck with men … like me … Bridget Jones!”
“Never heard of her.”
“Ugh. You men have no clue.” She gives me a disapproving look. “In the film, she’s drunk and home alone, and she sings ‘All By Myself.’ Which is like me. Except I’m not at home. But I’m drunk and alone. Also, she ends up with that hot guy at the end, and that’s definitely not me. No hot guy waiting for me.”
Okay, so there’s no guy, and she is here alone. Which is a bonus for me. She’s fucking gorgeous, and I would definitely like to get to know her better. Okay, I want to fuck her. When she’s sober, of course.
I decide to ask her. Not to fuck. Not just yet anyway. But for confirmation that there is actually no guy. “So, you’re here alone then?”
“Yep. Alone, alone, alone,” she sings.
The bartender finishes up making the drinks for the couple and puts them on a tray and down at the other end of the bar for the waitstaff to take it over to them.
He comes over to my new drunk friend. “Sorry about your wait. What can I get you to drink?”
“Do you make cocktails?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ohh, goodie.” She claps her hands together. “I’ll have a Long Island iced tea. That has a lot of alcohol in it, right?”
“Sure does. Gin, vodka, tequila, rum, and triple sec.”
“Perfect. And go light on the mixer. Please and thank you,” she adds as he turns away to start making her drink. “I hate it when people don’t use manners,” she says to me.