Barefoot Beach Box Set

Chapter 8: His Pet

Chapter 8: His Pet

Ging wasn’t a horrible friend, or at least he didn’t purposely try to be one, which we were both aware of. To my surprise, he and his lover didn’t tote my ass home from the hospital. Part of me believed Ging didn’t even realize that Brayden was the one who had called 911 and had me rushed to the hospital the previous day because Ging had been far too drunk. Although Ging never really tried to be a douche bag, he certainly came across as one that day when he never picked me up at the hospital to take me home for my brief recovery.

I was discharged from the hospital the next day, just as Nurse Ramon had mentioned that I possibly would. It was Brayden who came to my rescue at the hospital like a knight in shining armor. Unannounced, he showed up at my room, kissed me on my forehead again, and said, “Why are you still here?”

I told him that Ging had forgotten about me. “You’ll save me, right?”

“Now and always,” he said. “I rather like hanging with you.”

My belongings were gathered, I signed a release form that Nurse Ramon placed in front of me, and Brayden escorted me to his Mercedes, which was parked in front of the hospital. In truth, I was feeling just fine. The temple-rocking headache had vanished, my stomach was fine, and I was full of energy.

Brayden noticed that I was feeling much better and asked, “It’s almost noon. Do you want to stop for a bite to eat?”

“Honestly, I just want to get home. A bath calls for me.”

“I can help you with that, if you want.”

I laughed, sounding ridiculous.

Then he laughed.

“I’d take you up on your offer, but I know you’re kidding,” I said.

“Who said I was kidding?” he asked, taking his view off Route 67 and taking in my good looks.

“Right,” I said, laughed a little more, and ignored him for the rest of the ride back to my bungalow.

The day was stunning with a light wind, low humidity, and not a cloud in the sky. The temperature was holding steady at eighty-seven and I rather enjoyed the sun’s golden rays.

Honestly, I thought of my body colliding with Brayden’s for the first time: chests clinging together, fingers entwining, lips blending, c***s rubbing against each other, and—

I could fall for him, I knew. And if he had asked to spend the night at my bungalow, long into the morning, I wouldn’t have objected to his offer. Instead, I would welcome him into my life with open arms, share many kisses to his flesh, and possibly keep him as a boyfriend, but only if our chemistry mixed the way I believed it could.

Such an idea was simple, though. I was pretty sure the stud had twenty guys chasing after him since he was well-balanced, good looking, and wealthy. Didn’t every man have a flaw, though? Brayden couldn’t have been above that, could he? What was his downfall, his blemish, and when did he plan on sharing it with me?

What I contrived within my mind was rather elementary: Brayden York was a player, never wanted to settle down with a man, and enjoyed an unlimited amount of one-night stands. That was his flaw, downfall, or blemish, I surmised. How couldn’t it be since he was so nice to look at, had a charming personality, and seemed like the sweetest guy on the planet?

Minutes later I was dropped off at bungalow two. “I don’t know how to thank you for this, Brayden,” I said while climbing out of his silver bullet.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. Guys like you have certain powers over men like me.”

I didn’t exactly know what he meant by that, ignored him again, and found my way across the copper-color brick patio, up to my front door. Once there, I turned around, waved goodbye to him, and watched him drive away, leaving me behind.

* * * *

I admit now, a handful of years later, that I wanted him to spend the rest of the day with me, naked and locked in my arms. A needy part of me wished that he would start being my lover that afternoon, meshed against my bare skin, coupled men sheltered by the bungalow’s privacy, and without any cares or concerns of the world outside.

Nothing of the sort transpired, of course. Instead, he claimed he had meetings to attend for the remainder of the day, but promised to check in with me later to see how my post-fainting condition was.

In the interim, I took to my edits, realized they were giving me a headache, and stopped such ludicrous bedlam. I took a very short nap (not in the sun) and decided to watch a queer movie called August, which I found quite dull in places, but yet enjoyable and stimulating at the same time.

As promised, Brayden returned to my side. It was quite sometime after dark and he smelled of rum. I had imagined he had stopped somewhere for a strong drink with a handsome male friend, perhaps a client of his, and enjoyed a few strong beverages and back room bar kissing. Of course, I was in no position to judge his character of such foul behavior, which I didn’t. Rather, I was somewhat jealous of him. He'd been out, sharing drinks with handsome strangers, no doubt. Who knew what he'd been up to? And with whom?

He faked being sober and didn’t realize that he had mispronounced some of his words: feeling came out as “felling,” comfortable was heard as “comportable,” and he verbally butchered resting, which inadvertently sputtered out of his lips as “wrestling.” Some men would have found his behavior ludicrous, but I rather enjoyed his boyish nature, drunkenness, and that he was a gentleman that night. Most men would have attempted to take advantage of my flesh when they were in Brayden’s condition, but he didn’t. Instead, he gently kissed my forehead again, rubbed a smooth thumb pad along my left cheek, pulled away from me, and vanished from my side, just as he had that afternoon, coming and going in my life as he pleased, as if I were a pet he was caring for, sitting for a friend.