Playing the Field: Served

Playing the Field: Served! By J.M. Snyder It’s a little after nine o’clock Friday evening and the seaside bar known the Oasis is just beginning to rock. A restaurant with outside seating, the Oasis sits on a pier off Wildwood’s boardwalk, overlooking the Atlantic. Tonight twenty-five year old Colby Johnson sits on a hard stool at one end of the bar, nursing a cold draft and watching the moonlight flicker off the waves in the distance. Halogen lights hold back the night like a blanket suspended above the bar’s patio, but beyond the short steps that lead down to the shore, the ocean mutters, dark and restless. Despite the crowd that’s begun to trickle into the O, Colby stares out past the lights and feels the tension in his shoulders drain away. He just stopped in for a drink after his shift—he works on the boardwalk, at a pitching booth just off Morey’s Pier, where he beguiles tourists with his winning smile. One dollar buys three multi-colored hackee sacks, those little footbags filled with tiny plastic pellets, and the object of the game is to pitch at least one of them into the wide neck of a fishbowl. It’s harder than it looks—most nights Colby has to deal with any number of irate gamblers who swear they can pitch like Nolan Ryan, though they can’t seem to land a little sack into a bowl at ten yards. They overthrow and blame him (like it’s his fault). They say the game is rigged (it’s not). They b***h and moan until he threatens to call the cops, which he had to do tonight. Some big hard-ass wanted to fight, but Colby doesn’t get paid enough to argue. It’s a summer job to him, and a stupid game to boot. And it was only a dollar. Jesus. Colby shakes his head as he swigs down his beer. You’d think I robbed that jerk blind the way he carried on. But it’s over. With a deep breath, Colby lets the memory go. It is summer—Wildwood is a tourist town full of transients this time of the year, and Colby knows he’ll never see the fellow again. True, he agrees, his thoughts bitter. Only tomorrow it’ll be someone else, just as tough, looking to impress a girl and getting pissy with me when he ain’t all that. Well, at least he’s off work tomorrow, but he won’t be relaxing. He’s entered the Wildwood Beach Volleyball Tournament, which starts at eight A.M. sharp So why’s he here at the O, downing another brew? He needs to get some sleep, prepare himself for the game, get in the zone… Another full mug appears on the bar before him as if by magic. He looks up and sees his cousin Megan, her cropped sandy hair a tumble of curls above her heart-shaped face. Dropping her chin, she peers at him over the top of her small, rectangular eyeglasses and says, “You better be on your game tomorrow, Col. I’m not playing alone out there.” “I’ve got your back.” Colby gives her a wink that makes her laugh. It’s a bright sound, infectious, drawing from him the first genuine smile of the night. “This’ll be my last, I promise. Don’t you stay out too late, either.” “I’m at work,” she reminds him as she wipes away a ring of condensation from the bar. Then her gaze flickers past his shoulder and her grin dissolves. “Uh-oh. Bimbo at two o’clock.” Before Colby can turn to see who she means, a warm hand touches his shoulder. The next thing he knows, a busty blonde is sliding onto the barstool next to his, her smile dazzling. Colby gets a good look at those bright, white teeth and the nimbus of bleached blonde hair haloed above them, then soft breasts press against his arm. With a breathy sigh, the woman purrs, “Buy a girl a drink?” Colby motions to Megan, who already has a fruity margarita in hand. She sets it on the bar a little too forcefully, sloshing it a bit. This time, she doesn’t bother wiping the mess away. Instead, she busies herself with straightening the glasses behind the bar, obviously waiting to hear what she knows is coming. Even if she isn’t facing him, Colby knows she’s struggling not to grin. This isn’t the first woman to approach him at the O. As the newcomer sips at the margarita, Colby tells her, “Drink up, sweetie. It’s the only one you’re likely to get from me. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but…” He spreads his arm out, gently nudging her back with his elbow. Then he gives her his own stellar smile, the one that draws the tourists to his booth night after night. “I’m gay.” Behind the bar, Megan snickers. Satisfied, she flounces away, heading for a customer who signals for a refill. Unperturbed, the woman beside Colby shrugs. “Oh, I know, honey. I called it from across the room.” Now Colby looks at her. The smile has been toned down, replaced with something a little more humane. High cheekbones, pert nose, warm eyes that seem to sparkle with a secret of their own. The blonde hair is just windblown, not teased, its color from the sun, not a bottle. A white puca shell choker accentuates the hollow of her throat. Now that she isn’t shoving her boobs into him, she leans back against the bar, savoring her drink, her eyes assessing him. He doesn’t get it. “Then why…?” Her gaze shifts and she nods out into the crowd. “See the blond dude over there?” she asks, pointing with the stirrer from her drink. “Big guy, broad shoulders, tight white tee? Up against the railing?” Colby turns, intrigued. This is Wildwood in early August—just about everyone fits that description. But as he looks around, he knows exactly who she means. The guy is Colby’s age, maybe a year or two younger, and leans on the railing like he sees something out in the darkness that interests him much more than the usual O crowd. As Colby watches, the guy turns and flashes him the same sexy smile he last saw on the woman beside him a moment ago. On her, it was pretty, but on him? Hot damn. “My brother, Van.” The woman sticks out a hand for Colby to shake, which he does without comment. “I’m Vallery. We’re twins. And can I just say he’s had his eye on you since you came in?” As she finishes her drink, Vallery gets the scoop on Colby. Where he works, what he likes, where he went to school…she asks more questions than most online dating sites he’s tried. He offers her a second margarita but she shakes her head, pushing away from the bar. “Order a Sam Adams,” she says, slipping off the barstool. “That’s Van’s favorite. I’ll send him over.” Apparently, Colby has passed her test. He signals Megan for two beers and turns to watch Vallery weave through the crowd to her brother’s side. She touches Van’s back, then sidles up to him so he can hear her over the music and the noise. Whatever she says makes him look up and, from across the patio, his gaze meets Colby’s. Colby raises his mug and nods. As a slow smile eases across Van’s face, Colby’s whole body flushes with sudden lust. This evening suddenly got a lot more interesting. Two bottles clank onto the bar in front of Colby, who turns to find his cousin glaring at him. “You know we play tomorrow,” she says. Colby laughs. “I haven’t even met the guy yet, Meg. Chill out.” With one hand on her hip, she warns, “Well, I don’t plan on losing. I’ll cut off your booze if I have to.” “Megan!” Colby shakes his head, grinning. “I’ve been gearing up for this damn tournament all summer, same as you. Don’t threaten me. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.” Her gaze flickers over his shoulder and she scowls. “Yeah, but can you handle him?” This time when a warm hand claps him on the back, Colby’s expecting it. He turns and finds himself face to face with Vander Byron. “Don’t tell him I told you that,” Vallery warned earlier. “He hates his full name. Just call him Van.” “Hey,” Van says, one corner of his mouth rising in a sexy smirk. His gaze drops to take in Colby, a sweeping once-over that leaves Colby feeling giddy. This close, Van’s eyes are a pale color—green? grey?—so translucent, they seem to reflect the lights shining above the bar. His blond hair is trimmed short on the sides and back but left thick in the front, hanging in wavy bangs that fall to one side of his face. Every now and then he shakes his head to the left in a poor attempt at trying to push those bangs out of his eyes. Colby’s hand clenches around the bottle before him, his fingers numbing over the cold glass. His other hand rests on the pocket of his shorts where his keys bulge; his fist closes over the keys, holding tight as he stares into those washed-out eyes. He wants to brush that errant hair aside, tuck it behind Van’s ear, and he knows if he moves forward to do just that, nothing will stop him from leaning in closer until he falls right into the man beside him. His voice sounds breathy to his own ears as he sighs, “Hey yourself. Thirsty? I bought you a drink.” “Sam Adams,” Van says with a grin. “My favorite. How’d you know?” Van’s laugh is deeper than his sister’s. Colby feels it in his head, his chest, his d**k. It curls through him like warm milk, settling somewhere just above his groin, where a steady throb has begun to pulse in time with his heart. Van eases onto the barstool beside Colby and, for a brief moment, his hips thrust forward as he steps up, pushing his crotch against Colby. Something hard and uncompromising hides in the front of those cut-off jeans—it brushes over Colby’s hand that still holds his keys, and he relaxes just enough to trace the outline of Van’s budding erection with his knuckle. His barely-there touch makes Van’s smile brighten. “I’m Van.” “I know.” Colby takes a quick swig of his beer, embarrassed. “I mean—I’m sorry. I’m Colby, but I’m sure you already know that. Does your sister often screen guys for you?” “Nah, man.” Van dips his head down, hiding behind that wavy hair, but Colby sees the color pinking his cheeks and grins. So cute, this one. Same nose as his sister, same wide smile, same expressive eyes. Colby bends a little to peek up under those bangs and notices a dimple on Van’s left cheek. Yes, he decides. Damn cute. Van sees him looking and busies himself with his own bottle of beer to buy himself some time. “We have the same taste in men. I wasn’t the only one checking you out when you came in.” He brushes his bangs aside to meet Colby’s gaze, smoothing the waves of hair behind his ear, but the moment his hand is gone, they spring back. “In Philly there’s really no need to do a bait and switch like that, but you got to be careful here. She called it right away—she has wicked keen gaydar—but hey, her loss is my gain.” “Philly?” Colby frowns—he’s not one for tourists. “So you’re not from around here?” With a disarming grin, Van says, “Val lives in Wildwood Crest. She says you work on the boards. Are you just here for the season?” “I’m not a shubie, if that’s what you mean.” Colby uses the local term for tourist so Van knows he lives in Wildwood. Van slides forward on his stool, pressing his bare knees against Colby’s upper thigh. One rests on the fabric of his shorts but the other touches his skin and he feels giddy all over again. Boldly Colby lets his hand drop from the keys in his pocket down his thigh, to his knee, then over to Van’s knee. Pale hair stands up like peach fuzz beneath his palm. When Van doesn’t move away, Colby dares to rub a little higher, to the hem of Van’s cut-offs, then down again to settle on his knee. Oh, hell yes. He takes another swallow of ale. All the weariness he felt when he first wandered into the O off his shift is gone now, replaced with a humming desire that trills through him like electricity through wire. Leaning a little on Van’s knee, Colby props his other arm up on the bar and rests his chin in his hand, his eyes focused on the man beside him. “So,” he murmurs, accentuating his words with a squeeze on Van’s knee. “You visit your sister often?” Van winks, a gesture so quick, Colby almost thinks he imagined it. “I’m always looking for a good excuse to come down the shore.”