Follow (Social Media #1) Page 2

  “Oh my God, Bebe, some random hot dude just caught me composing a tweet! I think he read it!”

  “Hmm,” she says with a wide smile. “Did he frown or laugh?”

  “I’m not sure, he was walking away before I knew he saw it.” I hold the phone up and she nabs it out of my hand.

  “Let me see.” Her laugh turns into a squeal as she reads it. “Bare pussy, tongue, and clit all in the same tweet.” She laughs again. “Girl, no man will frown at that.”

  “One key lime martini for the lady,” Dewain the bartender says as he sets the drink down in front of me with a conspiratorial wink. “This one really is the best, the man does not lie, so this is the one I choose for you.” And then he picks up the ten-dollar bill key lime shorts guy left and walks off to help a couple who just arrived.

  “What’s that all about?” Bebe asks.

  “That bossy tweet-stalker wanted me to try this drink but I shot him down.” I take a sip of the drink and minty freshness invades my mouth. I swallow and it’s the perfect combination of comforting and cool. “It’s good, I guess,” I reluctantly admit. The bartender hears me and sends off another wink in my direction.

  “Well, Steve and I are going parasailing today, wanna come?”

  I scoff. “Are you crazy? I will be here at the bar if you need me.”

  “You can’t stay at the bar all day. At least go out and beach-bum so one of those cute cabana boys can come serve you.”

  I promise her I will as she trots off to a waiting Steve. They can defy the laws of gravity at their own peril, I have a good book and tonight’s tweet contest to get ready for. I hate that I don’t get to judge the winner tonight but I was ousted in the name of vacay. Bebe thinks I have a hard time letting work go. But that’s ridic. Everyone knows judging a dirty tweet contest is not work.

  I have a good chuckle with myself and sip on my drink. It is delicious and when I’m done I order another. I watch Dewain add the ingredients and shake it up like a pro. I notice the bar is almost empty now that I’m not so self-absorbed in dirty tweeting.

  “Where are all the people?” I call over to Dewain as he adds a slice of lime to my martini. “Why’s it so empty?”

  “Private party this weekend,” he answers as he puts my drink down in front of me. “The entire west end of the resort has been rented out for it.”

  “Wow,” I say as I take the first sip. Yum. “That’s pretty fancy. Must be moneybags, huh?” I reach into my purse to pull out some cash, but Dewain puts a hand over mine.

  “It’s paid for. Mr. Buttinski left an open tab for you.” Dewain gives me another one of those winks and I flash him back some suspicion.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well,” Dewain says, throwing up his hands in an I-surrender gesture. “He wants to make a good impression, maybe?”

  “Hmmm, I dunno. Did you see his face? Was he cute? I only saw his backside and while that was very nice, I’m a face girl first.” I shrug when he wags his finger at me. So I’m shallow? Sue me.

  “I think many women think he’s cute.” And then Dewain laughs. “I’m not gay but I think he’s cute.”

  I gulp the rest of my drink down. These damn things really are good. “I think I’m gonna head to the beach. Thanks for the drink. And if you see key lime shorts, tell him I said thanks!”

  I scoot off my barstool and make for the door and it only takes me a few steps to remember that I forgot the thing that goes on the top of every packing list. Underwear. I’ve got my bathing bottoms on today, but I figure I should pick up a few pairs as I stroll by a lingerie store.

  “Good afternoon!” the sales lady calls out in a sing-songy voice from across the shop. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’m good!” I call back. That’s something I would never get used to if I was rich. I’m not rich and since my job as an event planner doesn’t pay much before I got my new promotion, and pays only two grand more a year with that, I’m not even close to worrying about this. But having people bend over because you’re about to spend money makes me uncomfortable.

  I peruse the rack of fancy underwear, check the price tag, and then promptly move over to another rack that says sale. I don’t know who spends hundreds of dollars on underwear, but it’s not me. I flip through everything, getting more and more desperate as the garments fly by. Nothing under fifty dollars? They call that a sale?

  And then I spy some men’s tighty-whities in a basket on a shelf. I grab a pair and check the price. Fifteen dollars.

  OK. Still ridiculous, but they are a size small, so they will have to do. I take them to the register and sign my name and room number on the charge slip as the sales lady folds my single pair of cheap men’s underwear and places them in a bag with real satin ribbon for handles.

  I make a quick escape and head across the breezeway that leads to the private bungalows and I’m just looking up to see why it’s so quiet when I see key lime shorts talking to a security person. The security guy looks over lime shorts’ shoulder at me and I stop walking for a second.

  Did I do something wrong? I’m staring at them when Mr. Buttinski walks off again.

  Whatever. I have no idea what they are talking about, but I’m gonna go drop my stuff off and hit the beach so I can get back to work on my tweets. My flipflops smack my heels loudly in the stillness as I walk past the security guy, and I’m half expecting him to say something to me, but he just turns away and walks off.

  Our bungalow is deep in the bungalow village as I like to call it. There are about twenty of them in a common area on this part of the resort and they have cute little winding paths surrounded by the most fragrant flowers and wispy palm trees. It almost takes my breath away. And the birds. Don’t even get me started on the birds.

  When I get to our room I drop my stuff off and shimmy out of my shorts so I can exchange them for a gauzy white wrap. I study myself in the mirror. This is my favorite bathing suit. It’s peach so it makes my skin look a little more golden than it really is. I tie my hair up in a ponytail, grab my beach bag and stuff my tablet in there along with my phone, and then pull my shades down over my eyes and head out.

  Just as I’m twisting the door handle I look down at my feet and stop in my tracks. An envelope has been slipped under the door.

  Was that there when I came in?

  I bend down and pick it up. The thick pink paper is clearly of the handmade variety and the fancy script writing on the front leaves no mystery as to what it is.

  An invitation.

  Chapter Five

  #TheInvisibleGod

  I STARE at the envelope and read.

  Apologies, is what the actual word on the front is. Not You’re invited. But it’s written in a You’re invited script, so it’s easy to assume.

  I take the card out and read the same fancy lettering:

  All facility pools and beaches are closed for a private function. Sorry for the inconvenience. Please accept a full-access pass to the lazy river for the day.

  Hmmm. The lazy river is not something that came in our package. Our free trip included the Spa Experience, so we have access to the Wellness Center and that’s about it.

  Which is bullshit. If you’re on a honeymoon then you want to do the fun stuff before you fuck each other’s brains out. Not let other people pound on you and stick you in a steam room.

  I stuff the invitation in my bag and leave the bungalow. The lazy river is all the way on the other side of the village, so I take every winding path imaginable and by the time I finally make it over there I’m ready for another martini.

  There is no one at the entrance except some kid with a resort polo shirt on. “We’re closed,” he says in his friendly fuck-you voice.

  “I have a full-access pass for the day,” I say as I hand him my invitation. “Someone just slipped it under my door a few minutes ago, so—”

  His eyes get big as he stares at the paper in my hand.

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” he says as
he swings the entrance gate open for me. “Yes, you are an invited guest. Please, come this way.”

  The place is empty. Like not a single other person here. Just me and the lazy river. How weird is it to have an entire river to yourself on an island that should be bustling with people but is somehow strangely vacant?

  Weird.

  The lazy river guy sets me up with a floating cabana. I’m not kidding. It comes with a cooler and a boarding platform. All inflatable. “Is this really necessary?” I ask him as he fills the cooler with ice and a variety of drinks. “I only need one for a single person. This… thing looks like it’s built for a party.”

  He points to the invitation I’m still clutching in my hand. “The cabana raft comes with that invitation. VIP.” He winks at me the same way that Dewain did back at the bar.

  Hmmm. “Who’s rented the resort anyway? Where did this invitation come from?”

  He smiles at me and waves me towards the cabana. “You get in and I’ll give you a push out into the current. Holler if you need anything.”

  Obviously they have been told not to talk about the event, whatever it may be. Hint taken. I throw my bag into the floating house and crawl in after it. There’s a mesh sunshade that stretches out over my head and a peek hole that lets you see the water underneath.

  Lazy river guy pushes me out of the loading pool and the current floats me along at a nice relaxing clip.

  My eyes close automatically and my whole body relaxes back into the inflatable cushions. I relish the hot sun beating down on my body and take off my wrap so I’m just in my bikini and before I know, I’m drifting off…

  “You’re gonna burn,” a familiar husky voice whispers into my ear as the raft rocks to the side.

  I flail my arms in surprise and end up clutching onto a pair of muscular broad shoulders. “What the hell!”

  “Hold still,” the man laughs. “You’ll tip the raft and get all wet.”

  I push off him and scoot away, my heart racing from the shock of having a strange man so close to me. “What the hell do you think—”

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  And I mean God. As in the god that is… “Vaughn Asher?”

  His eyes crinkle a little at the corners when he smiles at me and the sunlight plays off his bright blue eyes and dark hair in a way that makes him look ethereal and brutish all at once. He hoists himself up onto the raft, dripping water all over, and then plops down next to me. His perfectly toned and tanned shoulders brush up against mine, making us cling together from the water. He flips a pair of sunglasses down over his eyes and stretches his arms out and clasps his hands behind his neck.

  And then I look down. Not at his… package, which I also see because it’s in my line of sight. But at his swim shorts. Which are a limey shade of green.

  “Oh my fucking God,” I say again. Only this time it’s out loud. “You’re the guy from the bar?”

  “That drink was perfect and you know it.”

  “The bar?”

  “I know, because you bought another one. Already got the tab. So don’t bother fighting me on this.”

  “And you read my—”

  “Tweet?” His smile is devilishly wicked. “In my defense, it was hard to miss.”

  My mind is racing as I watch his lips as he talks. I have no idea what he’s saying because I’m too preoccupied with mentally calculating how many filthy tweets I’ve written about him over the years. Hundreds? Thousands? It has to be in the thousands.

  “—name?”

  My attention snaps back to the movie-star god sitting so close to me my whole body is tingling. “What?”

  “I said, what’s your Twitter name? I know that tweet was to me, but I didn’t see it online, so you didn’t post it.”

  “Oh thank God!” I laugh with relief. “Whew, dodged a bullet there.” I pretend to swipe the sweat from my forehead and realize I’m really sweating. And so is he. Is it suddenly hot out? Or is my entire body blushing?

  “So what’s your handle?” he asks as he leans over the side of the raft to reach into the floating cooler. I study his back and have to physically restrain myself from touching him. I’ve studied every part of his body in every public picture ever released. I feel like I know that back intimately.

  My hand reaches out and my fingertips do a hover trace down the length of his spine. Jesus. I might not be able to control myself.

  He finds what he wants and suddenly leans back, colliding with my outstretched hand.

  “Were you trying to touch me?”

  “Yes,” I say automatically. “I mean, no!” Shit. “No! Of course not. No!”

  He leans all the way back again so that our shoulders are touching and then pops the cap off a beer and hands it to me. “I like that.”

  “What?”

  “Your automatic response was to tell the truth.” He flashes that movie-star smile again and I die a little inside from the cuteness of it. How old is he? Thirty-two, I remind myself. I know this. His birthday is two days after mine. But he looks boyishly young right now. Like he did back in his teens when he was doing Disney movies. He clinks his bottle to mine and takes a swig.

  I’m still in shock so I just hold my beer out in front of me like an idiot.

  “So what is it?”

  “What?” I manage.

  “Your Twitter handle?”

  I do a pfft complete with a raspberry that makes me come off like a two-year-old. “Sorry, I do not care who you are, that’s a name you’re never getting. I’ve said so many filthy things about you on Twitter…” I can only shake my head. “No. Never.”

  “Like the one this morning? Is your pussy really bare?”

  My mouth opens and stays that way for several seconds.

  “Would you like to know what my invisible tongue can do to it?” he asks.

  I’m throbbing.

  “Or would you rather try out the visible one?”

  I throw my head back and laugh. I can’t help it. And then before I can collect myself he jumps off the raft and starts walking towards shore. “Think about it, Grace,” he says, looking back over his shoulder as he gets to the concrete edge of the river and lifts himself out of the water. Every muscle in his back and arms is defined and rock hard as he stands up on the walkway and turns back to me, dripping wet. I glance down at his key lime shorts and see his bulge and then glance up quickly to find him smiling again. “Because that’s an offer. I’d be happy to play the part of soft tropical breeze caressing your bare pussy.”

  And then he walks off, his feet slapping in the puddle of water his body is creating.

  My mouth is still open and even though I’m still on the raft, he’s not the only one sopping wet.

  Chapter Six

  #GodIHopeHeLikesThatShit

  HOW did he know my name?

  This question runs through my mind all the way back to the bungalow. I saw him in the bar and outside of the lingerie shop.

  Is he stalking me?

  Grace, you have lost your freaking mind! He’s a movie star! He doesn’t stalk nobodies, nobodies stalk him!

  I shake my head and laugh as I push the key card into the reader on the door. It flashes green and I push it open. The air-conditioning makes me sigh as I kick off my flip flops and fall back onto the bed.

  I met Vaughn Asher.

  I scream and kick my feet. I met Vaughn Asher!

  Oh my God, I’m having a fangirl moment. I get my phone out and text Bebe.

  You are never gonna believe who I just met.

  I add some hearts and flowers and then press send as I wait for her reply so we can play the guessing game.

  He was every bit as much the Prince Charming in person as he is in the movies and magazines. Better even, because you never know how many of those pictures are retouched and how many of those interviews are fake. I barely got a look at his abs, but they were just as delicious as his back. And even though he was sorta dirty-talking to me, in his defense, I started it with the tw
eet. He is…

  Lickable. Definitely fairy tale material.

  I giggle and look down at my phone screen. “Where are you, Bebe?” I say to the empty room. They should be done parasailing by now. How long could something like that last? I need to tell her everything. I need to get her to tweet things to the Dirty Heaven list for me just in case he’s watching for his name. He cannot find out who I am on Twitter. No.

  I blush just thinking about it. Jesus, the things I’ve tweeted about him over the years. I would never be able to look him in the face. I tweeted about things I’d like to do to his face—hehe, I have to stop and take in a quick breath at that. The man’s got a nice chin. I tweeted about how I imagine his cock looks. Another chuckle escapes. Thick and hard. And I should know, I saw it through his wet shorts.

  Oh God. Whew.

  The room phone rings and pulls me out of my erotic dreaming. I roll over on the bed, reach for it, and put it to my ear. “Bueno, Señorita Kinsella speaking.”

  “Miss Kinsella,” a male voice says from the other end. “I have a message from Miss Chambers.”

  “Oh, Bebe! Where is she?”

  “She is spending the night on Water Island and will be back tomorrow. She sends her apologies.”

  “Hmmm.” That’s disappointing. “OK, thank you.” I hang up the phone and roll back over on the bed. I’m really not clingy, but this is a little much. I mean, we’re on our honeymoon!

  A soft knock pulls me out of my rant and I sit up and look over at the door just in time to see an envelope slide through.

  I jump up, run over, and fling it open—I scan the pathway in front of our bungalow, but it’s twisty and thick with tropical foliage, so of course there’s no one in sight. I close the door and pick up the thick paper. This time the envelope says nothing, so I just take out the card.

  Meet me. 9:00 Sunset Cove Beach.

  Mr. B

  What?

  Mr. B? Mr. Buttinski? I gasp and clasp my hand over my mouth in shock. Is this note from Vaughn Asher? It has to be, that’s what I called him at the bar.