Beasts & Bourbon
Alta Hensley
Chapter One
Cheri
The sunlight of a new day has a way of changing how you once viewed something the night before in the darkness. This could be a good thing when you fall asleep feeling as if the whole world is crumbling down upon you, but then the morning brings new hope and a fresh perspective. Or this could be a bad thing when you meet a man in a bar, think he is the sexiest thing you ever laid eyes on, bring him home for a night of incredible but casual sex, and then look over and realize that the sunlight is not your, or his, friend.
Shit. When would I learn that two margaritas, followed by too many tequila shots, would make any man appear hot in a small Costa Rican dive bar? Sure, he was a tan, lean surfer, still sandy and damp from the salty water of the sea. Sure, he wore a man bun, which for the life of me I could never figure out why I found that attractive, but I did. Sure, he seemed to have the free spirit gypsy soul I found so enticing in a person. The type of man who traveled from one adventure spot to the next, never taking root in any one town for long. And yes, I melted into a pool of goo when he said my name with that thick accent that I simply called ‘European,’ because I never could figure out which country these surfer boys came from. Yes, my panties dropped for men like that.
Vagabonds. I liked to fuck vagabonds.
Was my situation helped by the fact that, in my alcohol-induced haze, I’d told the man I wanted to lick his nipple?
Well I did.
I own it.
Should I have tried to examine his appearance closer, past the shadows of the local hangout, and through the blurry booze goggles? Glancing over my shoulder at the man snoring lightly in my bed, I knew the answer was a big hell yes.
What had I been thinking? Where was his sexy man bun now? All I saw in the light of day was greasy, unwashed hair. Where was his muscled chest that I’d so desperately wanted to bathe with my tongue the night before? The man in my bed now looked thin, borderline emaciated, and in need of a meal that wasn’t vegan and organic.
The poor guy needed a damn cheeseburger.
But vagabonds who wore man buns and surfed in Costa Rica didn’t eat burgers. It was some unspoken rule—the vagabond rule.
I looked at that pec I’d so hungered for the night before and cringed when I saw the ingrown hair bumps circling his nipple. Really? Really! My tongue caressed that plucked-feather flesh last night?
Reaching down for my crumpled panties on the tiled floor, I shook my head in disgust. The purple lace of my underwear contrasting with the decorative Spanish clay tiles reminded me that I was in a foreign exotic location, yet making the same foolish mistakes of my past. I should have known better when he’d compared my hair to the golden rays of the sun, and my eyes to the blue of the sky. He’d actually said the thick curls in my long hair reminded him of the ribbons on a holiday present. The man had no game. But I’d stupidly wanted to lick his damn nipple and had been willing to overlook the fact that he seemed in awe of my every move—the creeper, stalker type of awe that should have sent any sane girl running.
But sane girls don’t do tequila shots with strangers in random bars in Costa Rica all alone. No, I was far from a sane girl.
So, now the time had come when I had to decide if I was going to be a bitch and simply kick him out, which is what I really wanted to do. Or if I would just give him some bullshit answer that would spare his feelings. I knew all I had to do was give him some line about needing to go write poetry under a palm tree while eating mangos or something bohemian in nature. Then he would feel like he was aiding my artistic soul and gladly go on his way, assured he was part of my enlightenment. Total bullshit, but I knew it would work.
Glancing at the man in my bed, I wondered why I was so disgusted. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet, and I was already condemning him as a shallow-minded hipster. Poor guy. But the fact remained that I still wanted him out of my small bungalow, and I wanted it to happen now.
Pulling a simple black tank top over my head, and then yanking up a pair of loose-fitting denim shorts, I leaned down and shook his arm. “Hey.” I shook him again with more force when he didn’t even budge in the slightest. “Hey, it’s time to wake up.”
Rolling over to his side, he reached for my hand. “Why the hurry?” he mumbled, not really opening his eyes as he tried to pull me into bed with him.
“I need to go.” Here came the bullshit. “The waves are great this morning, and I really want to wake up with the ocean.”
He stretched his arms above his head and yawned so big I could see that each one of his molars had a silver cap on them. His tongue was white. The man needed to brush his teeth in the worst way. “Okay, give me a second, and I’ll go with you. I’m always up for a good surf.”
I walked over to a small wicker desk in the corner of the room, pulled a notebook and pen off of it and placed them near my brown leather bag that rested on a chair by the door for effect. “Oh, I don’t want to surf. I need to work on my writing.”
The last part really wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t turned out a short story, an article, a poem or anything since arriving in Costa Rica. Being a freelance writer sure did have its perks when it came to freedom and flexibility, but it required a lot of discipline to be able to actually feed yourself. Discipline was not something I had, although fortunately for me, I had somehow won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry earlier in the year, and the $15,000 award helped float my dry spell.
“You write?” he asked, still not getting out of the bed. “That’s cool.”
I nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.” I walked to the small bathroom and attempted to tame my curly locks by pulling them into a sloppy bun. “But I really need to get going.” I peered out of the corner of my eye as I applied deodorant and then reached for my toothbrush. “I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but you know how it is. When inspiration calls…”
Continuing on with my morning hygiene duties and brushing my teeth, I sighed with relief when he finally flung his legs over the bed and rubbed his face. He was taking his sweet ass time, but at least he was moving.
“Yeah, I get it. I write songs.”
I simply raised my eyebrows in feigned fascination and nodded like we had some deep connection. Satisfied, however, that he was at least moving to put on his pants, I just brushed away to allow the sudsy toothpaste dripping from my mouth to be my excuse for not asking about his songwriting. I couldn’t care less, which was awful. But I really didn’t give a damn whether he wrote, or sang, or painted, or spoke philosophy, or considered himself a gourmet chef all because he could cook paella. I was so over that type of man… well, at least in the sunlight and when sober. Mr. Tequila unfortunately changed everything.
Damn Mr. Tequila.
Reaching for his shirt, he said, “Well, I had a really great time with you last night, Cherry.”
“Cheri.”
“What?”
“My name is Cheri—the ‘sh’ at the beginning. Not Cherry.” Not that I cared that he didn’t know my name. I had no idea what his name was nor did I bother to ask.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you said your name was Cherry like the fruit. So, like the drink Sherry. Got it. My grandmother loved drinking that shit.”