Our Pasts Will Be Our Secrets

I have had more than my share of shitty luck. I mean, my mom sold me into sex slavery when I was barely a teenager, I was practically raped that same year, and then there's my current caught-in-the-ring-of-prostitution thing. I'd say that makes me about the unluckiest person in my whole home city.

Maybe in all of the state.

But I’m an optimist, sort of. I have (basically) no STDs, I can actually trust a few girls in my line of work, and this vacation is pretty sweet. Even considering those shining spots in the this grimy life, I seriously didn't see this huge lucky break coming: After thinking and thinking about how I would get Dea to let me leave our cozy gas station for a straight week, plus travel days, Dea got sick. I’m talking convulsing-on-the-ground, crying-out-in-pain sick. Right now she's probably throwing up her illegal weight loss pills and carb-free breakfast in a Wendy's bathroom. Whether it's the flu or a bad STD, I don't know. Or care.

Anyway, while she's off pumping her stomach, accident-style, I’m sitting on a semi-comfortable plastic plane seat, smitten as can be with my recent escape into the night. First, I told Dea and the others that I was going to attempt ‘home visits’ for a few days, giving me an excuse to leave. Then Hailey, the first girl who I ever talked to in this life, covered for me when I didn't come back. I don't know what she said, but I hope the rest of them bought it. And then there was Aaron—we had a talk. One of those talks that never end well. One of those talks I don’t want to talk about.

When the plane ride is finally over, I step out into the day and am slightly overwhelmed by my surroundings. Perfectly pale sand stretches out into water that looks so clear I'm afraid it's fake. An open, tropical-looking jungle on the horizon intensifies my feeling of being in one of those "Welcome to Paradise" snowglobes. As I step toward what is obviously my hotel, huge and looming with three intimidating pillars at the entrance, I notice something moving around under my toes. Tiny, itty-bitty mussles are digging into the soft area where the sand and water meet. I drop my single bag and bend over to watch them. They find comfort in tight spaces. I find terror in being confined. We're opposites, but I sort of like them anyway.

"Ahem..."

A voice makes me straighten up and glance over my shoulder quickly. Whoa, how long has he been there? And then I notice his looks. His shoulders and chest are broad, his arms are tanned nicely, and his obviously muscular legs are covered by white, vacationy-looking capris. Ow-ow. But then I notice he has a cute little button-down polo on and shoes of a nice brand mostly bought by women. Also, his hair is perfectly gelled into place, and he either plucks or was born with immaculate eyebrows. Dammit, he's probably gay.

"Hello, I'm Zane. I'll be here to attend to any personal needs you have," he says, his voice a deep rumble. Too deep for a gay guy. Maybe his outfit is his uniform. Maybe his eyebrows are just that awesme. Gay or not gay? This is the mystery of the hour right here. "Do you need anything right now?" he says a little uncomfortably, probably because I am openly staring at him.

“Umm.” I reply. I am quite the charmer. “Guess not.”

“Would you like me to take you to your room?” he asks.

“Only if that’s a pickup line,” I quip. He smiles, all dimply. He’s hot, that’s for sure. Potentially gay, and a staff member, I remind myself. This vacation will not have any of those sex types of shenanigans.

“Well,” he begins again, “We have a few rules. Don’t go into the other rooms, as they are being rennovated.”

“Asbestos, got it,” I say, nodding.

He cocks an eyebrow and continues, “And don’t ask too many questions. We’ve heard you’re a curious one…This is a vacation, okay? Don't freak out on us.”

“Yeah, sure. Actually, I would like to go to my room now.” He turns and I follow him. When we’re about halfway through the walk there, I catch myself taking one too many looks at his rear end.

Instead, I (failingly) attempt to watch the clouds roll by or stare at the shitloads of multicolored parrots in the trees surrounding the hotel. When we finally get to my room, he opens the door for me and looks surprised when I throw in my one bag.

“Is there anything else left on the plane?”

“Nope, I’m a lowly girl with one poor bag of clothes.”

“That’s not what I meant—“

“No seriously, it’s true. Ha-ha.”

“Alright, I’ll go now.”

“Hey,” I call out right as he’s about to shut the door. “What field do you play for?” Aww, fuckers. That is not what I meant to ask.

“Excuse me?” Uh-oh. Offended.

“Don't worry, I’m not homophobic or anything—I love everyone—I was just wondering—”

Suddenly he’s laughing. “You think I'm gay, oh! Heh, it’s the uniform, right? Well, I can assure you I am not. Perfectly straight. But I'm sure my girly waxed eyebrows don't help. We're supposed to look perfect around here."

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Well then, this week should be even more fun than I expected.” Picture me trying to smile all flirt-like here. And with that, I slam the door and run to pee, which I’ve had to do for three solid hours.