“I'm Fifi,” she says, her voice bright, like the sun itself cracking open. “You from around here?” she asks.
Her teeth are bright white, her smile wide. She's petite and curvy. And fuck, I like her hips. I want to wrap my arms around them and drag her close. Lift her up to my waist. Let her sit down on my cock, her feet wrapped around me.
I want to pull her to the edge of the pool, then I want to take her farther than that. I want to take her to the end of the goddamn earth and then let's see what will happen.
I'll tell you what will happen, it'll be a fucking orgasmic miracle.
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.
“No,” I tell her. “I'm not. I'm from Los Angeles.”
Her eyes lift. “Really? So am I. I go to UCLA, or I went to UCLA.”
“Why the shift?” I ask. “You're no longer a student or you graduated?”
“I quit,” she says. “It's liberating. I actually just told my father. I thought he would be mad, but I think he was actually proud.”
“Yeah?” I find myself smiling despite myself. I'm a hard motherfucker. I’ve got blood on my hands in ways that would frighten this sweetheart. But somehow, when I'm next to her, I want to smile. How has that happened in less than a minute? In less than the length of a conversation?
I want to open up and give her everything. And I’m scared that she might swim away before I get the goddamn chance.
“Proud of you because you're doing what you want?” I ask.
She nods. “Pretty much. My mom was a seamstress and I’ve always wanted to be like her, but I found myself getting a finance degree at college.” She shakes her head. “It's nothing that I wanted.”
“And what do you want?” I ask.
She scrunches up her nose and fuck, she's cute. Her cheeks have dimples. Of course they do. “I want to make clothes. Actually, I already make clothes and sell them online. It's kind of going well.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s awesome. Did you make that swimsuit?” My eyes linger on her tits. Fuck, they're perfect. Big and round. Really big. The kind of tits that I could press my cock between. The kind of tits that would do good to be fucked.
Damn, this is trouble, where my head is, where my cock is headed. It's like it's taking over. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe that's the right thing.
“Yeah,” she says with pride. “I did make this. Do you like it?” She licks her lips and I know she knows what I'm thinking.
“Yeah, it’s really fucking cute,” I tell her. I want to reach out and trace the letters on her tits. And then, just like that, I am. It's like I can't hold back. “Be my temptation,” I read as my fingers trace the pink letters. “You could get in trouble with words like that on your tits,” I tell her.
She smirks. “Maybe that's the point.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “You like trouble?”
Her eyes catch on something in the distance. Someone. She looks over at someone who's waving to her from inside a cabana.
For a split second, I get scared. Does she have a boyfriend? A man in her life? Because that won't do. She belongs to me now. Even if she doesn't know it yet.
“That's Lucia,” Fifi explains. “She's my best friend. “Hey,” Fifi calls out. “Come in the water.”
The woman shakes her head. She's long and lean. A guy like Tommy would want her. But not me. My eyes? They're only for Fifi.
Instead of joining us, Fifi’s friend Lucia walks toward the bar. “Does your friend want something to drink?” the woman calls out.
Fifi looks at me. “You want to stick around for a drink?”
“With you? Yeah, I’ll have a beer.”
She smiles. “Lucky me.”
“No.” I laugh. “Lucky fuckin’ me.”
Fifi swims over to the edge of the pool and tells Lucia the order.
When she swims back to me, she says, “So, you didn't answer. What are you in town for?”
“Work,” I say quickly.
“What kind of work do you do?” she presses.
I run a hand over my jaw, wishing the beer were here already. I swear I could drink half in one pull. Anything to avoid this question, this answer. That's why you can't date when you do what I do, because relationships don't exactly work. Women don't like it when they find out you kill for a living.
"I'm a bodyguard," I tell her, thinking that's the easiest way to get around the truth.
"That's interesting," she says. "Who do you protect?"
"That falls under client confidentiality."
She nods. "Okay, that makes sense. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble. Is it dangerous?" she asks.
"Kind of," I say, "but there's worse things than doing something that's dangerous."
"Like what?"
"Like missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime."