Barefoot Storm

Chapter 4: Day 4, Pallid Pleasure

Chapter 4: Day 4, Pallid Pleasure

Barbara and I have afternoon drinks at Mena’s Grill, a fabulous little place along the Gulf Coast where the best Mai Tais are served under beach umbrellas on the sand.

Carlos, an adorable Cuban waiter with dimples, serves us with the broadest smile. Barbara keeps feeding him dollar bills, having every intention of taking the guy back to her place and seducing him with some naughty indulgence.

I, on the other hand, have a more sincere interest, and ask Barbara—before she becomes drunk, of course—about the lifeguard. “What do you know about Trent Long?”

She rattles off a list of details, “He’s twenty-three years old, an amateur photographer, and attended Miami University for two years. I know that he’s the son of Renaldo Long, who just happens to be the owner of three newspapers in Florida. And Long’s mother, Betsy Fay, died from breast cancer when he was seventeen. The big detail is that he was engaged to Jessica Mullen last year.”

“Engaged?” I ask, sparked with interest.

Barbara nods her head. “For a year. It was supposed to be a spectacular wedding last May, because Trent’s father was footing the bill, and that man is extravagant. Something foul and rather despicable happened, though. Trent backed out of the engagement and dumped Jessica before her special wedding day. It was the end of their fairy tale. Jessica moved to Dallas and Trent is still lifeguarding.”

“How long has he been a lifeguard?”

“Since he was in high school. The guy has made a career out of it. He teaches, too, which earns him some money.”

“What does he teach?”

“Everything to do with lifeguarding, I guess. Water stuff. Swimming. Whale riding. How to save lives. Who knows? I certainly don’t.” She takes a hefty sip of her Mai Tai, sets it back on the table, and asks, “Why all the questions about this lifeguard, anyway?”

I tell her about running into Trent at the market. I say, “It felt like we clicked.”

“Clicked? What are you talking about, Storm?”

I confess about reaching out and placing a hand on the lifeguard’s hip, and keeping it there. “He didn’t pull away, Barbara, which baffles me.”

She provides a hearty laugh, tilts her head back, and says, “Trust me, Trent Long is strange. Don’t get involved with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shakes her head and waves a warning finger at me. “Trent is dangerous, tawdry, and not for you. Find a man similar to the ones I enjoy.”

My friend likes Latino or Italian men who happen to be aggressive lovers. Any man with dark skin is a prize to her, someone she will surely have an interest in, longing for their affection and endless attention. She probably feels the lifeguard is far too pallid for my pleasure, even with his golden suntan.

“You mean a straight man?”

She reaches across the table and pats my hand. Her concerned stare locks with my eyes and she informs, “Storm, you can do so much better than a lifeguard. That man is beneath you. You’re a millionaire. A man of high society. You shouldn’t settle on a no-named blond on a beach who makes your c**k bounce. Set your standards high, friend. Seek out someone with your same zeal and let the lifeguard be, even if you think you clicked with him.”

I chalk her monologue up as good advice, share a toast with her, and say, “To the men we will find, fall in love with, and live happily together with for the rest of our lives.”

“Cheers,” my special sidekick says, clinks her drink against mine, and shares an endearing smile with me from ear to ear.