Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (16 page)

“I found it,” he gloats, smirking.

“Where?” I question, knowing that we turned this entire place upside down looking for it.

“Hanging off the balcony,” he answers, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

“The balcony. Right. That was a good time,” I laugh, grabbing my shoe from him.

After our first round of fun, we heard laughter outside, so Dre went out on the balcony to see what was going on. A few people were having fun in the pool below. Clothes were flying; alcohol was flowing. Dre called me out to enjoy the view. Grabbing a blanket and wrapping myself in it, but still only wearing my heels, I walked out onto the balcony. Things in the pool got pretty heated up—as we watched in awe and arousal. Once security stopped what was going on down in the pool, nobody could stop what started on the chaise lounge chair on the honeymoon suite’s balcony. Good times. Great times. Indescribable, losing-my-shoe times.

“Wanna have lunch?” Dre asks, staring at me expectantly.

“With you? Like you and I—together?” I ask stupidly.

“Well, maybe, but if you’d rather sit at separate tables, that’d be cool too,” Dre jokes, shaking his head at me. “Of course with me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet Syd for lunch today,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously.

I can’t do it. I can’t be carefree and “C’est la vie.” It’s not me. I need answers. Taking a deep breath, “Alright, what’s going on?” I blurt. “Shouldn’t you be trying to duck out of here, getting away as soon as possible? What gives, Dre?”

Walking toward me, he says, “When are ya gonna get this? I’m interested Kathryn—very interested. If I leave right now, then I won’t be able to talk to you … to look at you … to do this—”

Dre grabs me and kisses me, taking my breath away. He runs his hand down my back, pulling me harder against him. The kiss deepens as his tongue dances with mine hungrily.

Feeling the tingle and want on my lips after he backs away, I trace my finger along my lip, grinning. “Rory really should stash some extra toothbrushes in this place.”

Laughing, Dre comes closer again and says, “Oh really? Really Pebbles? Take that,” and breathes into my face. Oddly his breath isn’t bad at all—not minty and fresh—but manly and hot. I push him away from me. Dre grabs my wrists in his hands and wraps his arms, along with my own, around me, trapping me against his body. “And take this,” he says, kissing my neck, nibbling on my ear, and heating me up all over again.

“If you’re offering,” I whisper, “then, I’m taking.”

Lying in his arms, I say, “Aren’t they going to need this room at some point?”

“Eventually,” he jokes, “whenever we’re through with it.”

“If—we’re ever through with it,” I correct.

“Precisely,” Dre grins at me, absently tracing circles on my back with his fingers.

“Seriously though, I’m supposed to meet Sydney for lunch in an hour. I gotta get home, do something with this just-showered, slept-on, and screwed hair, and change clothes, before I meet her.” I say, getting up and looking for my clothes again.

“I wanna meet the infamous Syd,” Dre admits. Holy crap! He wants to meet Sydney? I didn’t see that coming. “Why don’t we just tell her to meet us at the beach. Rory’ll have the kitchen make us some sandwiches. We can eat on the beach,” he plans. “Didn’t you say she was hot?”

“Very. Remember? Blake Lively?” I say, wondering what he’s up to. “I’m not into a three-way with Syd. Been there, done that. She’s totally selfish—won’t do that again.” Dre’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops. “Kidding Dre, totally kidding. About the three-way. Syd is selfish though. I’d get completely left out.”

“Fuck that—I mean, ‘screw that,’ I be saying ‘Sydney who’ if you were there,” he jokes.

“Try saying that
after
you see her,” I explain. “But for real though, why do you care if she’s hot?”

“If Rory finds out we’re meeting your friend, then he’s gonna want to come,” Dre states, shrugging his shoulders.

“Fine by me, you set up your end; I’ll get ready and handle Syd,” I relent. “She’s an eater, better make her two sandwiches.”

After convincing me to tell Sydney to just meet us at the beach, Dre and I shower again and get ready in the bathroom together. Dre ran down to the front desk, requesting a crap load of toiletries. Rory hooked him up with more necessities than I’d ever need in a hotel room.

Looking presentable enough for a double-date afternoon lunch, I say, “Okay Dre, I do have to go home and change. I can’t possibly wear that red dress to a picnic on the beach.” He frowns, looking pensively at me. “Unless you think Rory’s got a stash of women’s clothes in his closet,” I joke.

“Actually, yeah, come on,” he says, his eyes lighting up with excitement and mischief.

“You will?” he asks, staring at me incredulously.

“Heck yeah!” I announce emphatically. “It’s like playing dress up in my grandma’s attic, but with cooler and more interesting finds. Like what the heck would someone bring this on vacation for?” I ask, holding up a life-sized cardboard cut out of Calvin and Hobbes from the comic strip.

“Weird sexual fetish,” he figures, shrugging.

“Can you get your mind off of sex for one minute, while I look for something to wear?” I ask.

“Not with you parading around in a top hat and men’s knickers, I can’t,” he says, laughing. “Now that’s a strange fetish. Seriously though, we can go to your apartment … or shopping … or something.”

“Nope, you brought it up. We’re doing this—so start looking,” I command.

Dre and I are rummaging through the lost and found at the hotel, searching for fun things to wear to lunch. Rory just guffawed and showed us the way when we asked about it. I think what’s the most fun about wearing strange costumes to lunch is what it’s going to do to Sydney. I can’t wait. She’s going to throttle me—or at least threaten to do so. Sydney would never do anything that would make her look badly in the eyes of a man, adult films notwithstanding.

I settle on God-awful yellow and brown paisley capris with a green t-shirt that says, “Golf: not that hole,
THAT
hole.” I’m still sporting last night’s underwear, because God knows I’m not wearing lost and found panties. (Yes, there are plenty of them to choose from in an old box, but no chance, no way, no how.) After using an aerosol disinfectant, I top the ensemble with a pink Polo baseball cap, pulling my hair through the loop in back. The capris and t-shirt will go in the trash when I get home, but the hat, I’m going to keep it. It’s way too cute to trash.

After Dre finds plaid shorts and a “wife-beater” tank, he says, “Ready to go gorgeous,” nodding at me like I’m a sexy piece of meat. It’s hysterical really. We look hideous. Syd is going to freak.

“Yeah, but seriously though, I do have to stop at the gift shop and pick up some cheap flip-flops. I can’t share shoes,” I confess. “I draw the line at feet.”

Nodding, Dre pulls me to him and says, “Every minute I spend with you, you’re sexier than the minute before.” He kisses my forehead, pausing while his lips linger on my head. “I can’t believe I found someone like you.”

I wish I could just relish how tender this moment is, but I just can’t or I’ll get sucked in and lose my senses. With someone like Dre, I can’t get attached and hold on too tight. I know his kind. I typically steer clear of his kind.

Killing the moment, I joke, “If I get lice from this hat, you’re shaving your head when I shave mine.”

“You don’t have to shave your head when you get lice,” he counters, laughing. “But yeah, we’ll shave our heads together anyway. It’ll be hot.”

I’m not going to lie; I’m confused as all get out. Dre’s acting like this is a real thing—not a one-time fling. Every place we’ve walked or gone today, he’s held my hand, or casually draped an arm around my shoulder. Even Rory seemed surprised by Dre’s open affection. When we met Rory in his office to walk to the beach, Rory eyed us suspiciously, honing in on our interlocked fingers and high-class, semi-stolen attire.

It’s all pretty surreal. I’m not so sure about this. Granted, Dre’s the most beautiful male specimen I’ve ever laid—eyes on. It just doesn’t make sense. According to the Charleston rumor mill, which is more active than the old paper mill, Dre is strictly “not into hooking up, hanging out, or fooling around” with women at this point in his life. Uh, yeah right! What does that make last night? What does that make me?

I want to be carefree and be able to just go-with-the-flow, but that isn’t me. I so want it to be though, because last night was pretty climatic, in every sense of the word. However, I’m on the verge of a “middle-school-Katie-freak out.” Those are not pretty. Not in the least. I’m going to need answers, and quickly. I’m also going to need to lower those flowing, blazing red flags flying over my head—at least lower them to half-mast. My God, they’re blinding. I almost can’t see how freaking spectacular Dre looks in the sunlight.

Dre’s freaking hot, but he’s not really my type if I’m being honest with myself. Like I said, I have a thing, a pretty strong thing, for the shy, quiet, ambitious intellectual. I love the studious, nerdy type. However, appearance, body type, devilishly sexy grins, and crazy amounts of confidence and sex appeal are all things that I appreciate, but never really value or covet, and certainly never drop my panties for. Until now. I just hope that now that I’ve experienced it first-hand … lips, tongue, and other things, that I can remember that I do in fact have a type, a strict type that I adhere to. But those hands, those lips, that tongue, and that … that … gift to women may change my mind very quickly. It may have already changed my mind.

Walking across the parking lot toward the walkway down to the beach, Rory, Dre, and I get many stares and double takes. I’m not sure if it’s the horrendous clothes we’re sporting or if it’s that I’m walking in between the hottest black man and most beautiful white man in all of South Carolina. Looking at Dre’s chest in his wife-beater and at Rory’s forearms make me believe that not one person within a gawking distance has noticed my cheesy t-shirt and repulsive, butt-cheek-squeezing capris. Nobody has yet to notice. Until she does.

“What the fuck? Did you go to goddamn hobos are us? What the hell are you wearing?” Sydney asks, grimacing at me. “I can’t even look at that shit,” she says, waving me off and looking away.

“What? This? Didn’t ya hear? Hobos are the new rage. Totally chic,” I say, spinning for effect.

“I wanna puke a little bit,” Syd says, before actually looking at Rory and Dre. (Remember? Syd can be a total bitch.) Then she finally focuses on the guys, losing sight of my lost-and-found outfit.

“And holy fuck, now I
don’t
wanna puke.” Sydney pulls her sunglasses down slightly, eyeing Dre and Rory, equally. What she’s doing to them with her eyes and mind could make anyone blush. Dre flashes her a crooked smile—the smile that most likely works on a vast portion of the female population.

Putting her sunglasses back into place, she coos, “Darling, if you would’ve told me we were lunching with gentlemen, I would’ve put on something a little more—more provocative.”

We laugh at Syd’s candor. Although she knew we were having a picnic lunch with Rory and Dre, Sydney’s wearing the smallest bikini I’ve ever seen that could actually call itself a bikini.