Barefoot Beach Box Set

Chapter 2: Uneasy Sleep

Chapter 2: Uneasy Sleep

I couldn’t sleep, although I should have slept like a cub from the tequila I had shared with Ging on his patio. Instead, I stared at the ceiling and watched an intrusive lizard—gray, small, and one of millions in Florida—scurry from one corner of the room to the other, zigzagging wildly as if it too were semi-blitzed. My mind shifted to my late lunch with Brayden at the Petticoat Bar, one of Barefoot Beach’s prized hubs for microbrewery beers, good food, and queer entertainment on the weekends, which usually consisted of drag queen competitions, Lady Gaga sing-a-longs, and wet chest competitions for chiseled beefcakes. Two of my friends owned the place, Marley Simon and Dax Burtle, and the cute couple were very successful regarding their business, welcoming queers from nearby and afar.

It was Brayden who had contacted me out of the blue that late morning, calling my office at Turtle Bay Publishing (TBP). Vivian, my secretary of four years, had passed him through to me, which was not uncommon behavior for her. Brayden’s voice was deep and sexy as hell. “Mr. Shawford, this is Brayden York. I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. Maybe we did meet at one point in our pasts. Many authors, their pesky agents, and their public relations grunts had contacted me during my years at the small publishing house on numerous occasions. To lose a name within the folds of my memory was not unusual. Perhaps Brayden York was a new agent to one of our published authors, calling to introduce himself. Or maybe he just happened to be a vintage writer who wanted to publish a limited edition of his two hundred-page novella: a special collector’s item with gold-gilded edges, numbered by the author, and hand-signed, which my small press specialized in making. Some authors or their agents contacted me for such possibilities, of course, which I always spoke to, and kindly.

“How may I help you, Mr. York?”

Our discussion was brief and to the point. He spoke about my residence, bungalow three, on Barefoot Drive and Beach without mentioning the creation of a short and wordy tome that he had wanted a limited distribution of for his cherished fans. I had quickly learned that Brayden York was a real estate agent who had purchased bungalows along the coast, remodeled the abodes into precious gems and posh palaces for the wealthy, and sold the properties for extremely high prices, earning his living, which Ging had said was in the millions according to his Internet findings. My bungalow just happened to be on Brayden’s list of interesting prizes, which he assumed he could make a small fortune from in just a few months’ time and very little work.

“The property isn’t for sale, Brayden.” I purposely called him by his first name, making him realize the abrupt honesty I was attempting to impose on him.

“I’m sure everyone has a price, Mr. Shawford. People and their properties can be bought. Trust me when I say this. I’ve been in business for the last few years and I’m an expert in that field.”

He sounded arrogant and to the point, which didn’t faze me in the slightest, particularly his pressuring tactic and insistence. Instead, I said, “I’m not everyone, Mr. York, which I presume you understand.”

“Can we discuss this in further detail over lunch at Mostel’s Beach Bistro, Mr. Shawford? I have some very interesting statistics of rehab and resell to show you. I’m sure you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

I wasn’t into pony shows, especially ones regarding the sale of my property when I wanted to keep it as an asset. Frankly, I was shaking my head when he mentioned having lunch with me, but what slipped out of my mouth was the complete opposite message I wanted to share with him, “I think I can make some time for you.”

Repugnancy for myself was recognized because of my ludicrous agreement to dine with the stranger. But his voice was deeply sexy and he seemed polite, which sort of hypnotized me a touch and possibly prompted me to take him up on his offer. What exactly was I thinking in saying yes? Of course I had a thousand things to accomplish at TBP, but none on the list of many to-dos kept me strapped to the office chair under my ass. Instead, on my way out of the office I said to Vivian, “I’m having a quick lunch. Call me if an emergency arises.”

* * * *

Perhaps I melted when first seeing Brayden York because his eyes were a magnificent and tantalizing blue that I found captivating, and his arms were tube-structured with impressive triceps. And yes, I did in fact enjoy my flesh slipping against his strong flesh in a masculine handshake. Shame on me for admitting such menial likings, but Brayden was not an average man by any means. In truth, he seemed more like a God; one who was immortal, dangerous, and yielded much power, particularly over weaklings like me.

Not once did I faint during our lunch, although I could have because of the overwhelming heat and his good looks. After sharing a beer with him I realized how mega-sexy the man was. His charm was effervescent and he was smart and witty. Of course compliments flooded out of his beautiful lips regarding the tight pants I wore, my expensive looking haircut, and other attributes—proof that he knew his game and well, I surmised rather quickly after meeting him.

I wasn’t a fool, though, and didn’t fall for his wicked little sport. Brayden was out to obtain my property from under me to add to his millions of net value. I did hope he realized he wasn’t going to lay a finger on my stretch of land.

Twenty minutes into our salads, he said, “You’re a very hard man to break. At points during this conversation I don’t even think you’ve been listening to me. If I didn’t know you better, Ian, I would say your defense is at a high level.”

I regretted saying something: “You’re eyes are intoxicating, Brayden. Stop looking at me with such allure.”

“Thank you for the compliment. A lot of women tell me that.”

I wanted to tell him that women were the last thing I thought about, but kept my sexuality a blur for him, even if I mentioned his handsome eyes. Instead, I merely closed out the meeting with, “I should be getting back to the office.”

“So soon?” He sounded alarmed and somewhat disappointed at my announcement. “You should stay and have another beer with me. We can discuss the history of your bungalow and other things.”

I wondered what “other things” he wanted to talk about, but didn’t ask. Work on my desk had accumulated in piles and called for my attention; work which I had to return to, and promptly. “Until next time, Mr. York,” I said, dropped money on the table for my salad and beverages, and then held out my right hand for him to shake.

He stood, pressed his hand over mine, shook it in a brisk way, and said, “The sooner the better, book publisher. I do enjoy your company.”

Again, his statement baffled me, but I showed no sign of confusion. Rather, I waved goodbye in a generous and polite manner, exited the bar, and returned to TBP for an afternoon of hard labor.

* * * *

I was not sure when exactly I fell asleep that night. Eventually, though, my eyes closed and I drifted into a poetic and blue-glazed dream that consisted of swimming in the Gulf. It was Brayden in the folded dream, bare-bottomed and concealed by warm ocean water. Our naked bodies meshed in the most homoerotic manner, twisting together in the waves. Our mouths touched, but just for the briefest amount of time. And at one point in the dream, a heated flicker of sorts was shared between us—he rolled one of his palms down and over my brown and hairy chest, toyed with my navel and the eight-inch erection between my legs. He gave the c**k a gentle squeeze, and the Gulf started to fill with a white cloud, which burst out of my c**k. The white cloud consumed his strapping torso in full, but for only a short period of time, and then he fell under the water’s turbulent surface, ready to continue our connection of bliss.