Chapter 2: It Started With a Smile

The next morning, Whitaker woke to the sound of wet tires hissing on sand and the metallic squawk of distant gulls. The air hung thick in the bungalow, heavy with sweat and last night’s rum. Rebecca had already claimed the shower. Whitaker heard her singing an off-key pop song. Her voice rose above the steam. He smiled as the memory of her mouth, her hand, her everything, washed over him in an instant.

By the time he found swim trunks and a shirt. Rebecca reappeared, towel-wrapped and still damp, hair slicked flat and face shining. She dropped the towel and shimmied into a one-piece swimsuit, a wrap, and put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She looked like a magazine ad for escape.

“You hungry?” she asked.

Whitaker shook his head.

“Maybe later.”

She grinned.

“Beach. We can be the first to put dibs on the good chairs.”

They made for the water. The path from the bungalows cut through a palm-shaded area and dropped them onto a crescent of white sand that curved for half a mile. Already, guests had started their day. So many white bodies splayed under umbrellas, kids hurling each other into the shallows, the muscled staff staking out their territory with coolers and towel carts. The sea glared turquoise and flat, a perfect cartoon of the Caribbean.

The white women fawning over the black male staff or guests. White men gazing at the black women with fearful respect.

Rebecca pulled Whitaker’s hand, steering him past the first row of chairs.

“We’re not amateurs,” she said. “Front row or nothing.”

They found an empty patch halfway to the lifeguard stand. Rebecca set up shop in the sun, letting her skin glow. Whitaker stuck to the shade, eyes half-shut, content to listen to the rise and fall of water and voices. He’d never been good at relaxing. On the island, that seemed like a personal failing.

The staff made laps up and down the beach. Offering drinks, sunscreen, and gossip from the nearby islands. They wore matching polos, all of which showed off their arms and chests. Whitaker realized that Rebecca gazed at them. Not always, but often enough. She didn’t try to hide it. Sometimes she didn’t even bother with sunglasses.

One staffer stood out. Taller than the rest, with arms like ropes and skin so dark it shone blue in the sun. His name tag read XAVIER. He moved in a way that drew eyes, even from people who pretended not to notice. Xavier laughed easy, talked fast, and called every man “boss” and every woman “miss.”

When he smiled, it took up his whole face.

Xavier handled a cart loaded with snorkeling gear. He stopped every few chairs, chatting up the guests, demonstrating masks and fins. When he reached Rebecca and Whitaker, he knelt on the sand, set his hands on his knees, and flashed an easy smile.

“Good morning, Miss,” he said. His voice was deep, almost lazy, but every word hit its mark.

“Morning.” Rebecca lifted her sunglasses.

“First time here?” Xavier asked.

“How’d you guess?”

He shrugged.

“Local whites are darker and don’t wear so much sunscreen.” He grinned and gawked at Whitaker. “You want to snorkel, Boss?”

“Maybe later. We just got up.” Whitaker wanted to keep his face neutral.

Xavier winked.

“No rush. Water’s always here. Let me know if you want a tour. There’s a reef, not too far. I know the best spots.” He turned back to Rebecca. “And you, Miss Lady, anything you want to see?”

“We might take you up on the tour later.” Rebecca bit her lip for a second.

“Any time,” Xavier said. He stood in one smooth motion, all coiled muscle, and moved on. “Anytime, anything you want, holler out, Xavier, and I’ll be there, Johnny on the spot.”

Rebecca watched him go. She didn’t look away until he had stopped at the next set of chairs, where two white girls in bikinis hung on his every word.

Whitaker saw her staring at Xavier. It was hard to describe the feeling it gave him. Not jealousy. Something sharp, hot, akin to biting a chili pepper. And it wasn’t anger. Something else, some darkness and yearning to see or be. A desire to be more than he was.

“He’s got a fan club,” Whitaker said.

“What, am I not allowed to look?” Rebecca snapped her gaze back and grinned.

“Didn’t say that.”

She stretched, letting her wrap fall away. The suit she wore had a plunging neckline and a fully exposed back, leaving little to the imagination. She lay back on the chair, head tilted to the sun, lips parted. The look on her face was somewhere between hunger and boredom.

Whitaker tried not to stare, failed, and gave up.

The morning slid by in fits and starts. Every so often, Xavier returned. Sometimes, he would drop off fresh towels, and at other times, he flirted with Rebecca. He always found a reason to linger. Once, he brought Rebecca a glass of pineapple juice with a wedge of fruit balanced on the rim. Another time, he knelt beside her chair to rub aloe onto her shoulders, slow and deliberate, like a sculptor smoothing clay. She laughed at his jokes and asked questions about the island. About his life, about the best way to see the reef.

Xavier never glanced at Whitaker, not really. When he did, it was with the polite disinterest of a waiter at a business lunch. Whitaker strained to be bothered, but couldn’t. He liked being invisible, watching the show from outside the spotlight.

By noon, the sun hit its stride. The beach filled with pasty white bodies. All of them seemingly ached with desires for the black men and women who served them, or lounged with them. One white woman or another left with a black guest or resort employee. At times, the husband followed behind, sheepish, a trained pet trailing after its masters. If they returned, the women appeared worn out, and the men were whiter than before. And the blacks were no longer servants but conquering heroes.

But their attendant paid little attention to the others. He’d zoned in on the Whitney couple staking a claim. Rebecca’s skin glistened with sweat and oil, and Whitaker saw the way Xavier’s eyes tracked her every move. When she adjusted her top, Xavier adjusted his stance. When she crossed her legs, he mirrored the motion, a hair slower, as if savoring it. And Rebecca’s eyes stared at the enormous bulge in Xavier’s shorts.

The pressure built, low and urgent, a coiled wire under Whitaker’s ribs. He knew Rebecca desired Xavier. Whitaker wanted Xavier to use her, too.

Around midday, Xavier showed up with a pair of frozen drinks and a folded towel. He offered the first to Rebecca and set the second in front of Whitaker. When he leaned in, his arm brushed Rebecca’s shoulder a second longer than necessary.

“Anything else you need, Miss?” Xavier asked.

“I think we’re good.” Rebecca shook her head, eyes bright.

“Call if you change your mind.” Xavier straightened and smiled at both of them.

He walked away, but this time, he turned back at the last second and caught Rebecca’s gaze. She held it, unblinking.

Whitaker exhaled with a shaky sigh. His chest tightened. His pulse jumped in his throat.

“Wow,” Rebecca said in a soft mutter.

Whitaker nodded. He studied Xavier, working the beachgoers. Scrutinizing his hands, his arms, the long slope of his back, those powerful muscles, and they moved. A black god among puny white men.