Barefoot Beach

Chapter 1: A Straight Guy “I will admit nothing to you, Ging, even if you’re my best friend. You have to understand this. I promised not to say anything about Brayden York, and won’t.” Ging Hu and I were drinking again, doing shots of tequila on a Saturday night in late May. We sat on his back patio in nothing more than our swimming trunks because of the ninety-plus degrees and no wind, which made it stifling. The night along Barefoot Beach and the Gulf was stunning though because of its starry sky, brilliant moon, and the occasional falling star that zoomed over the ocean’s navy blue and arched horizon. Western Florida was unbearably hot at times, we agreed, but about as beautiful as any postcard in nearby gift shops. “I want to know everything,” Ging said, downing another shot. He was on his seventh one and was quite happy, always the silly and interrogative drinker. Two more and he would have passed out, unable to hold his liquor down like a sailor. Ging didn't travel the seven seas, though. Instead, he was a Vietnamese beefcake who taught yoga at his prized business called Ging Hu & You Yoga. “No can do,” I said, downing my fifth shot, and feeling it go straight to my head within a split second. Regrettably, I had to stop drinking with my male pal, but I really didn’t want to, because I was enjoying his company. A drive on my Honda TRX450R ATV down Barefoot Beach to my bungalow was in order, and tapping off my indulgence of tequila was necessary. Honestly, I could have spent half the night talking to my handsome Asian-American friend because I had known him since grade school, and we lived next door to each other for more than half our lives, and because I simply favored his companionship. He knew my business, and I knew his, just as friends relate, but I wasn’t about to share a single bit of information with him regarding Brayden York. My lips were sealed on that topic, and Ging wasn’t about to pry them open and extract information and details from me. “I’ve seen shirtless pictures of him on the Internet,” he said, teasing me. “I’m sure you haven’t because it took me hours to find them. But they are there, no less.” “In time I will see Brayden with his shirt off. Give me another week and I’ll have the stud out of his running shorts and in my face, if you know what I mean.” He laughed at me because he understood exactly what I was talking about. Or maybe he was laughing because of what I said, or because of the number of tequila shots he downed during our evening together. Not that it mattered, anyway. Ging was a good companion, and my best friend for life. Never had he betrayed me, lied to me, or stolen from me. The man was honest, trusting, and had my back, no matter what. “I’ll share one tiny bit of information with you that happened over lunch with Brayden today,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, and loving girl talk with my girl pal. “Spill it, Ian. Don’t hold back. Leave no details spared.” He sat on the edge of his seat with his empty shot glass, wide-eyed in the semi-darkness. His obnoxious grin practically begged me to share some juicy details with him about my afternoon date with the real estate agent. “He’s allergic to ginger.” “Ginger?” Ging said. “No one’s allergic to ginger.” “Brayden is. He breaks out in hives.” “I don’t believe you. You’re bullshitting me. And even if you’re not, that’s a lame detail. I want some spice. Give me something else. What you just told me shouldn’t count.” Speaking of spice, Ging’s bald bronco of a husband exited the bungalow, entered our twosome on the patio, brushed a hand down and over his naked and beefy chest in the shadows, and asked, “What are you two drama queens up to this evening?” I watched Nick Batton find his pack of cigarettes next to me. He removed one from the pack, retrieved his lighter, and illuminated the cancer stick. Within seconds he inhaled, exhaled, and went for a second hit, standing just a few feet away from me. “Ian says that his new lover boy is allergic to ginger. I think he’s full of bullshit.” Nick laughed at our play, enjoying his cigarette. The guy stood at six-four and shadowed me. He was barefoot like Ging and me, and wore nothing more than a pair of shorts, which clung to his massive thighs and outlined his titanic crotch. “I’m staying out of this one, girls. You can spend all night fighting it out. I’m turning in with a book to read.” Nick walked over to his Vietnamese lover and pressed a kiss to my friend’s lips. Following the quick kiss he pulled away from Ging and said, “Goodnight, babe. Love you. And don’t stay up half the night like the two of you sometimes do.” Ging told Nick that he also loved him, and then Nick was gone with his cigarette, vanishing from the patio and leaving me alone with Ging again. I watched Ging pour another shot for himself, which he downed like an alcoholic, but wasn't. Thereafter, he rubbed the back of his left hand across his mouth. His dark eyes connected to my cocoa-brown ones and he said, “Back to Brayden. I still want to hear something juicy about him. Spill it, Ian. Don’t hold back. No funny games about ginger again, okay?” In truth, there was very little to divulge about the real estate agent because of my lack of knowledge regarding the man. Ging already knew the guy was drop dead gorgeous and looked irresistible with his waves of blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. Ging also knew that Brayden was twenty-seven, lived in bungalow twenty-two on Barefoot Drive along the beach, and drove a silver, bullet-shaped Mercedes, which was classy in my opinion. Other details were limited and unavailable about Brayden, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t soon find them out. To fulfill my friend’s interest, unable to spill a string of details about Brayden, I simply stated, “We merely had lunch together. It was nothing spectacular. How can salads and iced water be romantic? Besides, I don’t even think the guy is queer. He probably has a wife and seven kids stashed away in Louisiana or Georgia. I don’t want to bark up the wrong man-tree and make an ass out of myself.” “God knows you’re good at that,” Ging said, which was probably true since I didn’t have much luck with queer men. Truth was he wasn’t kidding at all. How many times had I chased after a straight guy and gotten burned, learning of their heterosexual lifestyles, secret girlfriends, and sometimes a slew of children? Too many times to count. Ging knew I had some pretty bad luck regarding men and I tended to accidentally fall in the trap of dating thieves, players, liars, or numerous straight guys. I was his entertainment on too many occasions; the dramatics of dating that he didn’t have in his life since he was taken by the adorable and hulking Nick Batton, his husband of six years, his lover, his soul mate—the same kind of guy I wanted in my own life but just hadn’t discovered as of yet. “I’m going home, friend,” I told Ging, drunk and tired, and ready to turn in for the night. He watched me rise from my seat, blow him a kiss, and make my exit to the ATV that was parked in the sand some twenty feet away from the brick patio. “Be careful, darling. Don’t hit any lifeguards with that thing,” he said, joking. “I’ll try my best!” I said over my right shoulder, waved goodbye, started the ATV, and drove the six hundred feet to my own bungalow, number three, which was a twin to Ging’s and Nick’s—a sister abode that I had fallen in love with moons ago, and wasn’t about to sell anytime soon, even if the pretty boy Brayden York wanted to buy the property out from under me, like all the other bungalows on Barefoot Drive and Beach.