I wasn’t planning on calling Malena Winterset the morning after officially meeting her. That’s not my style, especially after how much I’ve been thinking about her, but I have to. She’s the only person who plans parties in Bronze Bay. Her contact list will be exactly what I need when it comes to selecting a location formy mom’s birthday. I dial the number displayed on my laptop screen, beneath a dated, fuzzy photo of Malena. She looks like a kid.
She picks up on the third ring, breathing heavily. “Hello, Malena here, can I help you?”
I swallow hard. Cool. Calm. Collected. My heart hammers away after she’s spoken one word of her standard greeting. “Word on the street is you’re the woman I need to talk to. I need to plan a party,” I say.
She breathes heavily a couple more times before saying, “Yes. That’s me. What can I do for you?”
She has no clue who I am. “Are you busy right now?” It sounds like she’s wrestling an anaconda by the way her pants ricochet through the receiver. “I can call back.”And maybe you’ll recognize my voice, my wounded pride sneers.
“Uh, no. Sorry. Hold on for one second, please.”
“Sure,” I return.
I hear her in the background talking to someone, her voice soothing. The kind of tone that would calm a young child. I’d tune it out if I could, because it’s too personal, but I press the phone to my ear even further to hear her clearer. My hearing isn’t what it used to be after years of blasts, gunfire, and explosions. Mostly I don’t notice it, but when I do, it’s frustrating. Malena says, “Sit right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not yet.” It’s all I can make out in between a mumbling, one-sided conversation.
There is a scratchy noise on her end of the receiver. “I’m sorry. This is so unprofessional of me. What can I help you with, sir?”
Sir. I’m a sir. Ouch. I decide against telling her who I am and give her the details. “I need a location on the water to host a birthday party. I’m sure we’ll need food and tables and stuff too, but right now I just would like to see options for locations.” Igive her the date of the party, and she asks a few other pertinent questions, and then after taking down my phone number and email address, we hang up. She’ll have to reach out again. I make a promise to myself that I won’t contact her again until she gets back to me about locations for the party, and not a moment sooner. Even if I have a full afternoon with fuck-all planned and a raging hard-on when I think about the shape of her ass.
I dial up Sutter and ask if he wants to meet me at the beach. He’s always down for beers and the beach on our days off. After he agrees to meet me there in an hour, I offer to pick up beer and supplies if he brings the company. Not the specific company I want, but that’s the only way he’ll agree to show up.
Hanging up, I pocket both of my cell phones and grab a cooler from the bottom shelf in my pantry. I toss in a bag of almonds, because even if it’s a day off of work and the gym, we aren’t eating shit. Staying in high-performance form requires sacrifice on our off days, too. Beer doesn’t count. That’s like water.
Mr. Olsen isn’t around when the wave of humidity overtakes me as I step outside. His door is closed, and his chair is back up close to his door, where he drags it every night before he goes in for the night. I make a mental note to pick up a bag of dried figs while I’m at the store. He loves them more than anything. He told me they’re one of the only things he loves that he can still eat without vomiting. Getting old and sick looks like my worst nightmare. As my friendship with my sickly neighbor grew, I became acutely aware of how I don’t want to end up. If I don’t go out with a blaze of gunfire raining above my head, I don’t want to die lonely, withering away each day with nothing more than a sunset to look forward to every evening.
My moped winces as I sit down and turn the ignition. There’s a compartment in the back for my cooler and a clamp that items can be strapped to. When I moved here, I sold everything I’dworked for my entire life—a fancy sports car, a bachelor pad decorated to the nines, and most of its contents. As a single man without any dependents, my disposable income is something most will only ever dream of. Every five years or so they offer hefty reenlistment bonuses. Those go into an account that sits and makes me richer with interest. I’m fortunate in that money is something I’ll never have to worry about.
I can live in a tiny apartment and drive a scooter fitting a college kid just as easily as living in a penthouse with a garage-kept C6. It makes little difference to me as long as I have my career—my reason for living and breathing.
The tiny engine that sounds like a go-kart splutters as I turn into the dusty parking lot of the general store. I park right by the front door and slide my helmet onto the seat. This is the kind of store that has everything. The Bronze Bay General Store is a drugstore, department store, grocery store, and gas station all wrapped up in a whitewashed façade.
Waving to the cashier, I veer left to the refrigerated section of the store. Beer and sandwiches first. There are little black baskets on the corner of an aisle, and I pick one up just as an employee arrives with a stack of them so high they’re covering her face. “Let me help you with those,” I say, taking the stack from the bottom, placing mine on the top.
“Thank you,” she says.
As quickly as lightning striking a brand-new television in the state of Florida, my dick hardens.Her voice.Setting the baskets down, I turn my face to her. “Malena?”
Her eyebrows rise in confusion. “You,” she says, swallowing hard. “What are you doing here?”
Smiling, I stand and subtly jiggle my leg to readjust. “Buying groceries,” I say, eyeing her apron. “I’d ask what you’re doing here, but something tells me you’re working.”
Malena shakes her head. “Yes. Working.”
“You didn’t tell me you worked here,” I say, trying to recall seeing her here before. This is one of the few places I frequent on a regular basis. The general store and the diner.
Her face turns down as shame washes over her features. “Yeah, I pick up shifts from time to time to make things easier at home.” Her answer makes me uncomfortable even though she’s merely speaking the truth.
Party planning in a small town must not be lucrative. I instantly want to help her in whatever way I can. I’ll make it my mission. Her big brown eyes fringed with thick lashes slide up to meet mine. Her face is beautiful. She’s wearing less makeup today than she was last night. Surprisingly, she’s more appealing this way. “I, ah,” I stutter, hiking my thumb over my shoulder. “Beer and sandwiches,” I manage, like an idiotic Neanderthal.
She blushes. “I’m sure you know where to find those,” she replies without missing a beat. “But let me know if you need help finding anything else,” she supplies, a sunny smile taking the place of the deep frown. She turns to leave, her tight ass encased in a pair of black pants.
Closing my eyes, I silently let a string of curse words flit through my mind.
My face heats. “Malena,” I call.
She stops in her tracks and turns her face to the side. “Yeah?”
“When are we getting lunch?” So much for waiting for her to get back to me about the locations. So much for a lot of things. Apparently, her face and ass dictate I make rash decisions, something I am not used to doing. “You were busy today. What about tomorrow? It’s Sunday. Are you off?”
