Tropical heat, p.1
Tropical Heat, page 1
Tropical Heat
TB Markinson
Contents
A Note about Tropical Heat
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Thank you for reading Tropical Heat
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 T. B. Markinson
Published by T. B. Markinson
Edited by Kelly Hashway
This book is copyrighted and licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Note about Tropical Heat
Hey there,
I’m thrilled to give you this free short story. This was originally published in a limited release lesfic box set during the summer of 2020.
One of my favorite aspects of being an author is sharing my stories, and it’s a bonus when I can give you one for free.
Thanks for signing up for my newsletter.
I hope you enjoy Tropical Heat.
TB Markinson
Chapter One
Jamie
* * *
The bar in the high-end resort at the base of Pico Bonito National Park was busy for a Monday afternoon. Way busier than I had expected when planning this stay for the first day of summer. Who in their right mind, without a damn good reason, came to Honduras in June, knowing the temperatures would be hovering around the triple digits? Only you, Jamie. I rolled my eyes at myself.
The one good part about this time of year was the rainfall in the summer was drastically lower than during the winter months, when the area received a foot of rain or more within a thirty-day period.
I sat in one of the wicker chairs at the end of the covered bar off to the side of the pool, strategically placing my umbrella and sun hat on the only seat to my left to avoid unwanted attention. Not that I didn’t like attention, but I didn’t want just anyone to take notice. Picky, yes. Seeking, perhaps, but I really wasn’t willing to admit that, even to myself. Contrarian and confused—most definitely.
Feeling attractive might help soothe my pain. That didn’t necessarily mean I’d act on being noticed. Could I, though, for the first time in five years? The trip had been planned months ago, and my wife was supposed to be present. But my workaholic spouse had chosen her company after I’d drawn a line in the proverbial sand. I would have thought moving into separate bedrooms would scream, “Get your act together or else!” Clearly, our marriage didn’t mean as much to her as it did to me. No two ways about it. That fucking hurt.
“What can I get you?” A man with a charming Aussie accent, dressed in a tropical shirt, shook a silver cocktail shaker with the passion of a mixologist who took pride in his drinks.
“Good question. I’m feeling like I need something different. Strong but pretty. Got a suggestion?”
He thought for a moment, his eyes wandering to places I didn’t appreciate. Did his ogling irk me simply because he was a man? Was I becoming that lesbian? The down with the patriarchy type? Or was it the smarminess oozing from his pores? He seemed the type of man who preferred to be surrounded by beautiful women in bikinis without expending an iota of energy to dig beneath the surface. From his wandering eye and cocksure stance, I assessed he believed all women were the same aside from their packaging.
“What’s your take on rye whiskey?” he asked.
“Top shelf or don’t bother.”
“A woman with opinions.” He winked while his eyes flicked downward momentarily once again to take in the plunging neckline of my sundress, which clung to the wetness of the front of my swimsuit after I’d done a pitiful number of laps in the pool simply so I could say I exercised and wasn’t letting the collapse of my marriage destroy me.
His unwanted roving eye further inflamed my feminist side. I couldn’t help that the covering accentuated my curves because my bikini top was drenched. Wearing a bikini and revealing sundress had been my choice, dammit, and that didn’t mean I was on the menu for everyone. Especially not for the other sex. Why were men so obvious? Did they actually think it was a compliment? I swiveled in my chair, effectively blocking the view of the bartender, crossing my legs and causing one of my flip-flops to dangle from a foot. Let Crocodile Dundee look as long as I didn’t have to witness it firsthand. Seemed like the perfect compromise.
An older man with a much-younger woman on his arm not-so-slyly ran his eyes up my smooth leg, which had been waxed at an ungodly hour before catching my connecting flight from Boston to Miami. The woman gave her husband, or sugar daddy, some serious side-eye, and he tucked his head into his collar. From the man’s backing down under the woman’s glare, I was willing to bet they were married and the woman would use the experience to her advantage. Judging by the amount of jewelry on the woman, she got a lot of apologies in the form of sparkling gems.
“Here you go, beautiful.”
I turned around to see the bright red drink in a bell-shaped glass with a lemon-twist garnish that was a work of art. “I love Manhattans.”
“It’s the only drink for a sophisticated sheila like you,” the bartender said with a conceited grin.
Did Crocodile Dundee really just call me a sheila? Did Aussie men still use slang like that? Had the 2020s not arrived in this part of the world? Or was that why this bartender from Down Under was hiding out in a resort that proudly proclaimed it was off the grid, for the most part, for those who wanted a complete detox from tech to relax? It wasn’t like they shook down guests to see if they’d purchased a local SIM card.
“Is that right?” Why was I engaging in this conversation? He clearly wanted my attention, and I wanted someone else’s, who’d stayed behind in Boston.
No, Jamie. You don’t want her attention anymore. You want someone who’ll chase after you, not say, “Sorry, but I can’t go to a place where I can’t check my email and social media on the hour, every hour.”
He leaned on his forearms, speaking with a hushed voice. “Have you seen the other guests? No one else is under fifty, alone, and can fit into that dress.” He ran his hands in the air, suggesting I was blessed with a curvaceous bod.
Usually, I despised guys like him. Arrogant. Horny. And thinking crudeness was a sincere form of flattery. On any other day, I would be giving him a piece of my mind, informing him that women were more than objects to be praised for certain qualities.
I didn’t want to be Righteous Jamie right then and there. That had only ended with heartache. I was on vacation all alone, and this was the time for me to be a woman who didn’t think of consequences. My intention for the next seven days was simple: have an unforgettable experience. So, hearing from Mr. Cocksure that I looked hot was a tick in the positive column. Unfortunately for Mr. Cocksure, I wasn’t reeling enough, despite sending a fuck you, we’re over text to my wife, to hop into bed with a dude, even one with a charming Aussie accent and brilliant smile.
The problem with holding out for a woman to have a fling with was I was staying at a couple’s resort. Sighing, I pulled out a paperback copy of The Thorn Birds and placed it on the bar.
The bartender squinted at the cover. “You aren’t seriously reading that, are you?”
“Yes. Do you have a problem with it?”
“It’s a book I associate with my grandmother, not anyone like you.”
“You have a lot of opinions about the female sex.” I flipped the pages of the book, secretly enjoying sparring with the Aussie. I’d always been a people person who chatted with anyone willing to engage. A trait my wife was appalled by, since ninety-percent of her social interactions occurred online.
He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m curious, that’s all. Why’d you choose it?”
“Because packing a book was a last-minute decision after my wife decided not to come on the trip, effectively ending our relationship, and I didn’t want to get bored. It was on my shelf by the door. And, it was a gift.”
“From?” He gripped the edge of the bar, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“A woman.”
“That much is given. Out with it.” He waved for me to spill my guts.
“Fine.” I ground my teeth. “From my grandmother. Years ago.”
Crocodile Dundee leaned on his arms. “Your wife dumped you—”
“I dumped her!” I slapped my palms together in a finito fashion. “I’m sick of her shit. Always late or cancelling at the last second. Do you want to know why she bailed on this trip?”
“I’m dying to know why anyone would ditch you.”
“I ditched her! You seem to be blocking out the important part.” Why did I keep stating I had been the one to end my marriage? It wasn’t something I was proud of, aside from declaring my happiness mattered.
“Again, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.” He bowed his head in apology. “It’s difficult to understand why anyone would ever do anyt
“You don’t even know me.” My tone wasn’t snappish, but even I was confused as to my intent. Would I ever feel normal again? Or would my emotions continue careening like an out-of-control roller coaster, with no brakes or tracks to keep me in check?
He snapped a dish towel. “You’re a hard woman to please.”
“Which is why I’ll probably be alone for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t think that way. I know its early days and your heart is smashed into bits, but life does get better. Look around you. It’s paradise. My advice: take your drink, claim one of the primo loungers in the shade, and read your granny book.”
I started to argue, but he pointed, and I followed his finger to spy the lush surroundings. “You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t be hiding here in a bar. I came here to relax, and I’m going to do just that.” I got to my feet, holding the drink in one hand and the book in the other. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Give me a wave when you need another. My goal is to make you happy. You deserve that. If you only get one thing out of this trip, make it that. You deserve happiness in any form.”
For the first time in years, I believed those words. Why did it take hearing it from a strange man in a foreign land for the sentiment to strike a chord?
“Are you training to be a life coach or something?” I asked.
“All bartenders, even in paradise, are life coaches.”
Chapter Two
Alex
* * *
Sweaty, tired, and beyond irritated, I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment. It seemed to take an indomitable amount of time for the plane to taxi to the terminal and then to have the door opened. How hard was it to wedge a block of wood under the tires to secure the plane? The three-hour delay in Miami had pushed me over the edge. Now, every wasted second magnified my anxiety. Every row emptied slowly, further aggravating me.
“Thanks for flying with us,” one of the exhausted flight attendants said as I disembarked.
“Have a good day,” I mumbled, knowing it wasn’t the woman’s fault that the last twenty-four hours had not gone according to plan. Unless the plan had been to derail every aspect of my life.
Following the other passengers to the passport check, I worked on counting to ten. Losing my temper while surrounded by surly-looking men with scary-ass rifles overseeing the chaos in the small airport more than likely would result with the worst possible outcome.
Just smile and answer their questions, Alex, minus the chip on your shoulder.
“Why are you traveling?” the man barked.
“For pleasure.” Flash a fake, life is easy breezy smile. Whatever you do, don’t show your fear.
“For how long?” He examined my documentation.
“Six days.” Real answer: for however long it takes to come to terms with the collapse of my marriage.
The man held up my passport and then gave me a long stare, comparing it to my photo, his expression intimidating.
I continued with the forced relaxed smile, tamping down the desire to fill the seconds with useless babble. I’d never loved this part of foreign travel. Being at the mercy of a little person with way too much power.
Finally, he stamped my passport and handed it off with a dismissive air, already turning his attention to the next American wanting permission to enter his country—because he acted like it was his sole power to grant.
In the baggage area stood more men in brown uniforms with rifles.
Alex, you’re not in Kansas anymore.
I retrieved my checked bag and headed for the exit.
It was close to midnight, and I said a silent prayer that the driver I’d arranged at the last minute had waited. I had tried calling the service from Miami when the deluge started, but no one answered.
The humidity hit me the instant I stepped outside. Many of the people behind the metal barrier looked to be family members, waving their arms and crying. Some held signs with names. I scanned them, not seeing my name.
Wait.
One nervous-looking man held a piece of paper that read Alex Cabol. It was so close, making me wonder the odds that it wasn’t meant for me.
I approached the man, who was half a foot shorter than I was, and asked, “Are you here for Alex Cabot?”
He responded in Spanish and shook the paper as if that said it all.
Why hadn’t I brushed up on my high school Spanish?
I said my name slower, placing a hand on my chest. “Me, Alex.”
Again, he spoke in his native tongue with rapid speed, offering a shy but nervous smile, shuffling from one foot to the other.
What the hell? He had to be my driver. The crowd was drastically dwindling, and he was the only one holding a sign. If he wasn’t my driver, I’d figure it out later. But I had to keep going to my destination. Spending the night at the airport with armed men I couldn’t communicate with wasn’t an option.
“Sí, sí,” I finally said and motioned for him to lead the way to the car.
Mentally and physically exhausted, I wanted nothing more than to arrive at the resort, which was a two-hour drive, and fall into a bed.
In the back of a beat-up minivan, I feverishly read the overhead road signs, checking the names against my phone to see if we were heading in the right direction. To the best of my abilities and crappy Wi-Fi connection thanks to the SIM card I’d purchased, I was relatively sure I was in the right car.
Fighting to stay awake, I swiveled my head back and forth to gaze into the black void on each side of the vehicle. Was this karma, considering I’d been struggling to keep my wits about me since my wife had ended things? Would everything from this point forward be colorless, empty, and terrifying?
An hour into the drive, the man pulled off the road into what looked to be an abandoned gas station. He turned in the driver’s seat, spoke in rapid Spanish, and then got out of the car.
“What the fuck?” I leaned down to peer through the windshield.
The driver, looking skittish, ducked behind the building.
I glanced around nervously, wondering if I was about to be attacked or kidnapped. There was nothing but darkness.
The seconds ticked by with a thud in my temples.
The driver reappeared and climbed behind the wheel again, getting back onto the road. Had he needed a bathroom break? Had he said baño? Was that the word for bathroom? How had I been so foolish not to prepare better? If I did get trafficked, I only had myself to blame.
After another tense hour, he turned off the main road onto a gravel one. While the minivan bounced about, I held on to both of my bags, planting my feet to stay on the seat. Tree branches gouged the sides of the car, creating hideous sounds.
Up ahead was a tiny building and a barrier to the road. A large man approached the vehicle before it got too close. He shined a flashlight at the driver and then into the back right onto me, and I reacted by holding up a hand and turning away, blinking to regain my sight.
Holy fucking shit, Alex. What have you gotten yourself into?
The dude flipped around and raised the barrier, flicking his flashlight for the driver to go on. There was more jostling on the road until, finally, it pulled up in front of a white building, with a concrete staircase, shrouded in complete darkness.
A different man opened the door to the vehicle. Without saying a word, he took my bags and motioned for me to get out of the car.
Once out, the driver waved goodbye and spun his wheels, obviously in a hurry to get the hell out of Dodge.
With the heavier bag over his shoulder, and the other in his hand, the massive dude motioned for me to follow him, the only light coming from his flashlight. What choice did I have? I couldn’t make a break for it on foot in the middle of a jungle.
The gravel crunched under foot as I tried to make out my surroundings. The only thing I was absolutely sure of was I was trapped on all sides by dense vegetation. Alone with a silent man, huffing and puffing, leading me to…
