Chapter 5: Special Experiences

The fan above the bungalow snapped out a slow, useless tune. Whitaker sprawled across the bed in his swim trunks, arms and legs at hard angles, eyes glued to the crumbling plaster on the ceiling. Rebecca hovered by the door, one hand curled around a bottle of resort-brand coconut water. The other at her hip, thumb working a nervous tic. Sand still dotted the floor from their afternoon, tracked in with the towels and the memory of laughter, but neither cared.

Whitaker exhaled and sat up.

“I sounded like an idiot. He probably thinks we’re freaks.” He twisted the cap off his own water, took a gulp, and grimaced.

Rebecca didn’t answer. She watched him from behind the sunglasses, even indoors, her body still thrumming with energy the sun hadn’t burned off. She walked to the closet and opened it, studying the choices inside. Two dresses, a shirt stolen from Whitaker, and a beach wrap. She touched each one, fingers soft, settled on the thinnest, lightest thing she owned.

Whitaker let himself fall back, arms crossed over his face.

“Maybe we should cancel. Pretend we got food poisoning.”

“You’re overthinking again.” Rebecca’s voice was even, emotionless. It cut through his whine. The way a hot knife slices ice cream. She didn’t look at him. She tugged the sundress over her shoulders, smoothing it down over her hips. The fabric clung to every angle. The thin, translucent fabric did nothing to hide the sharp points of her nipples or the taut flat of her tummy.

Whitaker peeked between his arms and sat up more slowly.

“You going somewhere?”

Rebecca grabbed the cheap plastic hairbrush from the nightstand, pulled it through her hair, and stared at herself in the tiny mirror.

“I’m going to fix this,” she said. She wiped sweat from her brow and turned to face Whitaker. The smile on her lips was half real, half a challenge, and more than he could stand.

Whitaker gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white.

“Rebecca—”

She walked over and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Relax. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

He watched her go, the sway of her ass perfectly visible under the dress, listened to the door click shut.

Whitaker stayed on the bed, his mind replaying every second from the beach, from the bar, from the awkward attempt at seduction that morning. He imagined all the ways Xavier could shut them down. A polite refusal, gentle mockery, or worse, a blank stare. Whitaker rolled onto his stomach and groaned.

After a bit, he didn’t know how long he lay there before he heard the golf cart’s whine and the low, throaty hum of reggae off the patio. With that, he got up and paced the bungalow. He tried to read a few paragraphs from a paperback. But the words collapsed into nonsense. Pacing again, he tossed it away, washed his face, and stared into the cracked bathroom mirror. And counted the minutes.

Outside, the sun had shifted, casting everything in a bruised orange glow. He saw Rebecca’s shape, small and bright, as she crossed the path toward the bar, her hair loose and a little wild. He followed and spied on her.

Outside, the sun had shifted, casting everything in a bruised orange glow. He saw Rebecca’s shape, small and bright, as she crossed the path toward the bar, her hair loose and a little wild. He followed and spied on her. Rebecca slid onto a stool. Slowly crossed her legs.

Somehow, she appeared to Whitaker like an ad for summer and sin. Xavier was there, behind the counter, shirtless as always, gold chain glinting at his neck. The two spoke. At first, casual, closer, Rebecca leaning forward, Xavier smiling. Whitaker couldn’t hear them, but he saw the way Xavier’s hand settled on the bar right next to hers. How Rebecca touched his forearm lightly, the way her lips curled when she laughed.

Whitaker couldn’t tell if he felt relief or panic.

When he lost sight of them as a group of other guests crowded the bar, blocking his view. At that moment, Whitaker wanted to go outside and listen, but something in him rebelled. No, he didn’t want to be that fellow, the guy who hovered.

He waited, feet shifting, until Rebecca strode back along the path. She seemed different. Cheeks pink, smile sharp, eyes blazing with victory.

In a rush, Whitaker opened the door before she knocked.

“Well?” he said, voice thick and close to fearful.

Rebecca breezed past him and tossed her sunglasses on the counter.

“We’re on for nine. Cabana seven, down by the water.”

“That was fast.”

She laughed, the sound a little wicked.

“Not as fast as you think. Xavier said they offer ‘special experiences’ for guests who want something extra.” She mimicked Xavier’s deep voice: “‘We call it the Romantic Love-Making Master Class. For couples who want to explore the possibilities.’”

Whitaker’s throat went dry. He pictured Xavier saying it, the size of him, the calm confidence.

Rebecca dropped onto the bed, legs kicked out.

“He said to bring you. Said you needed hands-on instruction.”

Whitaker’s pulse throbbed in his temples. A heat hit his stomach. He tried to play it cool.

“Did he ... seem weird about it?”

“Not even close. Um, I think Xavier liked the idea.”

She leaned over, reached for him, hooked her fingers in his shorts, and dragged him down beside her. They lay there for a minute, listening to the fan, breathing in sync.

“You sure about this?” Whitaker asked, but his voice was barely a whisper.

Rebecca squeezed his hand.

“Are you?”

He nodded.

They lay together, not talking, just listening to the surf and the slow creep of time.

When the clock hit eight-thirty, Rebecca rolled off the bed and checked her hair. She didn’t bother with shoes. Whitaker pulled on a clean shirt and tried to relieve the panic in his chest.

They left the bungalow together, hand in hand, and walked down the dark path toward the water. The sand was cool, the night thick with jasmine and salt.

The cabana stood alone at the far edge of the resort. The area was set apart by a thicket of palms and the hush of wind off the sea. Unlike the slapdash huts that littered the property, this one was built for privacy. Walls of bamboo and faded driftwood, gauzy curtains breathing in and out with each warm gust. Light bled from inside, orange and alive, and the music of the bar faded to nothing the closer they got.

Xavier waited at the entrance. He wore linen pants and nothing else, his chest slicked with oil, every line and muscle throwing shadows up and down his ribcage. He smiled when he saw them, parted the curtain, and beckoned them inside.

Whitaker stepped in, spellbound. The space glowed: candles everywhere, set into glass jars, bottles of oil and lube on trays, the floor layered with pillows and thick, soft blankets. A table stood in the center, scattered with towels, glasses, and a single, sweating bottle of wine.

The air inside was humid and sweet, the smell of flowers riding above the salt and candle smoke.

Xavier waited for them to take it in. He didn’t speak until both of them had settled onto the cushions, close together but not touching.