Chapter 1
REAL
I never realized how loud the ocean was until this moment. Strange considering I’ve been to beaches on every continent, I’ve vacationed on numerous coasts, I’ve stood knee-deep in the frigid waters of the Atlantic taking photographs of the skyline, and I’ve snorkeled in the Great Barrier Reef. I’m no stranger to the ocean, but this is the first time I’ve managed to shut out all the chatter in my head and justlistento it.
It’s surprisingly peaceful, actually. It’s a completely different type of white noise than the bustle of the city. The whooshing of the waves in my ears makes me feel strangely exhilarated and utterly infinitesimal all at once.
Goddamn, when did I get to be so maudlin? Probably around the time I walked in on my boyfriend balls deep in our upstairs neighbor. The bitch of it is, I would’ve been perfectly happy to have an open relationship. He just never bothered to ask. Or maybe fucking Victor bareback on the new sofa I had just dropped four grand on was his wayof telling me he wanted out. Fuck knows I’ve never been great with subtle signals, so maybe that was for the best.
I close my eyes, bracing my hands against the slick railing of the ferry, the sun beating down on the back of my neck and making me wish I’d taken a second to apply some sunscreen before leaving the airport. In my defense, I ran through freezing rain to catch a cab in New York this morning, so I hadn’t mentally made the switch to beach weather just yet.
A wave crashes against the side of the boat, misting me with warm, salty ocean water. When was the last time I took a vacation? Not a working vacation, where I spent the entire time glued to my camera and my laptop, but a proper break. The fact that I truly can’t remember speaks volumes. But this week is going to be different. I left my camera and laptop back home in my apartment…okay, my best friend Robbie came by this morning andmademe leave them. He said it was a condition of this vacation he so generously gifted me with after getting tired of watching me mope over yet another breakup.
How many does Jake make in the past couple of years? A dozen? More? It’s hard to keep track. After a while, they all start to blur together: men I genuinely could have cared about if given half a chance, men whose last names I had to write down to keep from forgetting them, men who dumped me for being a workaholic, and men who thoughtphotographers made a hell of a lot more money…
Sometimes I wonder why I continue to bother. Fuck knows my stupid heart is still stuck on the one that got away all those years ago.
I chuckle at myself. Robbie would be rolling his eyes so hard at me right now if he were here.
“You’re on your way to Gay Orgy Island, and you’re about to start reminiscing about the boy who wouldn’t kiss you when you were sixteen?”
Touché, imaginary Robbie.
He’s right. I need this vacation worse than a hand job needs lube.
Yup, nothing but tropical drinks, sunbathing, and hopefully plenty of sweaty, filthy, casual sex this week. If I don’t have to douche an entire sandcastle worth of sand from my ass when I get home, then this trip will have been an utter failure.
Okay, so the brochure didn’t actually list orgies among the many amenities of the island only a one-hour ferry ride off the coast of South Carolina, but it’s a gay resort, and if you’re going to try to tell me that doesn’t equal wild amounts of sex, then you’re a downright liar.
“First time to Hand Job Island?” A voice pulls me out of my quiet meditation about orgies and guys I should’ve forgotten about years ago.
I open my eyes and find a bear of a man, allbroad shoulders, tattoos, and a septum piercing that looks hotter than it has any right to.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, wondering if I fell overboard or hit my head at some point because men who look like this don’t usually approach me and talk about hand jobs so randomly. Either that or I’mreallygoing to like Palm Island.
“PalmIsland…” He holds up a hand, palm out, and wiggles his fingers, a cheeky grin on his face. “Locals call it Hand Job Island.”
I snort. “Ah. That’s clever. You’re a local then, or is it just your favorite vacation spot ever?” Now that I’m less caught off-guard, I turn on my best flirtatious smile.
“Local,” he answers, offering me his hand to shake this time. “Boston. I own The Sand Bar. You should swing by during your stay. I promise to show you a good time.” He winks.
Yup, totally called it. It’s Gay Orgy Island. Or, apparently,Hand Job Island. I can totally work with that.
FLYNN
Of all the gin joints in all the world…or more accurately, of all the ferries to gay islands…Real Wilson, the one who got away.
Don’t ask me how I know it’s him. I saw theside of his face for half a second, and I’ve had a good long while to stare at his back, but I know. I know it all the way to my core. Gun to my head, I would bet my life it’s him without even a peek at the other side of his face.
In the last fifteen years, I’ve replayed that night over in my mind so many times I can hardly remember how it actually ended. I’ve re-written it so many times. We were sixteen, and my parents had just dropped a bomb on me. My dad got a job on the other side of the country, and we were moving in a matter of days. I screamed and raged and punched a hole in my bedroom wall. Suffice to say, I didn’t take it well.
I spent days moping after that, pretending like it wasn’t happening while Real pestered me endlessly, trying to find out what had crawled up my ass and died. I should have told him sooner—I wished afterward that I had—but I wanted to act like it wasn’t happening for as long as possible.
I should have done a million things differently.
And now here he is, standing ten feet away from me, looking better than I ever imagined and flirting with some burly mountain of a man. Is it his boyfriend or someone he just met on the boat?
Fuck it. I’ve been thinking of him for fifteen years, dreaming of a second chance to get it right, and I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s here with PrinceHarry, I’m going in.
