Jolly Old St. Barts

48 Pages·2011·0.742 MB·English

by  Skelton, Joel

Jolly Old St. Barts • Joel Skelton

Jolly Old St. Barts

he deeply tanned handsome hunk charged out of the
T
azure water. A bright-white banana hammock,
leaving little to the imagination and plenty of

expectation, performed its envied duty with a tease.
Pausing on the sun-bleached sand with the ocean swirling in
the background, the hunk raised his muscled arms to the
sun, showing off gorgeous, dark tufts of hair. Then he
turned, paused, and sauntered down the beach, his
curvaceous, naked ass mesmerizing as it shifted from side to
side.
Startled out of his lustful trance by a fat, lazy snowflake
making a direct hit on the tip of his nose, Matt glanced
around the tree lot. Large flakes were beginning to cascade
down all around him, their plump, white bodies changing
colors as they passed by the swooping strings of Christmas
lights outlining the lot. Reluctant to say goodbye to the
smokin’ hot video he’d been watching, he pocketed his phone
and hurried into the makeshift plywood shelter. He glanced
down at his watch—it was already past five. It wouldn’t be
much longer, he thought as he pulled his phone back out
and fired it up.
Wait… go back to the site with the über handsome dude.
The one with those dreamy bedroom eyes.
Matt backed up his search until he found what he’d
been looking for: St. Bart’s Hotties. He had no problem
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remembering where to navigate, and sure enough, his hottie
was waiting patiently for his return.
Hello, Bart! My name is Matt. A sleepover? Sure, I’d love
to!
Page after page showed the model in various swimsuits
and poses both on the beach and off. Matt found himself
gravitating back to one photograph in particular. It wasn’t
the most revealing picture in the collection, but it was the
most satisfying. There was something so familiar about that
handsome face. Had he seen the model featured in a
magazine?
The memory swooped in out of nowhere—there was a
guy last year on the lot who took his breath away. He had
eyes like the swimsuit guy’s. Matt remembered hating
himself for days after—Emile had only been gone for a
month.
This photo featured the model wearing a red Speedo and
a white muscle shirt, lying on the wet sand. His body
language invited Matt to snuggle up close. Closing his eyes
Matt tried to imagine what it would feel like to be wrapped in
the model’s warm, powerful arms. For now, fantasies like
this were all he had. They were baby steps toward a process
he still couldn’t bring himself to initiate.
Emile would be mad if he knew I was lonely and,
because of his memory, not doing anything about it. He would
never require this.
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Matt was only starting to buy into this notion that life
could move on. He knew this was important. Friends had
begun to encourage him to start dating.
But it seems so soon.
Only a short year separated him from tragedy. His life
had been shattered when he lost his partner of four years,
Emile, in a car accident. Emile was thirty-three, several
years older than Matt. He was killed on a late-November day,
when another driver swerved into his lane, causing a head-
on collision. Driving conditions were excellent and both cars
were thought to be traveling the speed limit on the busy
expressway. The other driver, married and a father of two,
died several days later. It was still a mystery as to why his
car left its lane and entered Emile’s.
Matt had spoken to Emile just minutes prior to the fatal
crash.
“Hey, Matty, how are you doing?” Emile almost always
called him Matty unless they were with people they didn’t
know well.
“I’ll be a whole lot better when I see your smiling face.”
Matt cherished his time at home with Emile. They rarely
went out, choosing instead to enjoy one another in the
comfort of their apartment.
“Have you had a chance to think about dinner?” Emile
had asked.
“I’m making BLTs and I have some tomato soup
warming.”
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“Very good, Matty. If the traffic isn’t too heavy, I’m going
to stop off and renew my driver’s license. I’ll be a few
minutes late, so don’t worry.”
“Okay, sweetie, drive safe.” How ironic, Matt thought
each time he replayed in his mind the last words they had
shared.
Why hadn’t I insisted he come right home?
Handsome, loving Emile. Born in France, he had come
to the US as a teenager when his father’s job required the
family to transfer. With amazing clarity, Matt remembered
the first time he met Emile. They both were attending the
University of Minnesota. Emile was in his senior year, and
Matt was just starting out. A party at a mutual friend’s had
been the setting. Emile had come into the small apartment
kitchen to refill a glass of wine, and in an instant, Matt was
a goner. “It’s his voice, his accent that makes me crazy,”
Matt remembered he had joked to friends shortly after they
had started seeing each other, “And his looks aren’t bad,
either—ooh la la.”
In some respects, the holidays this year were even more
painful. Last year had been one big horrific blur. He barely
remembered working the tree lot. A few select scenes were all
he could recall. Several customers had expressed sympathy.
It was always awkward. The enormity of his loss was both
numbing and consuming.
Matt shook his head to clear away the all-too-familiar
feeling of emptiness, a bittersweet remnant of Emile that had
just upstaged “swimsuit guy.” He was starting to gain control
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of these sad spells. It took work to move on, and even though
he recognized the healing process had begun, being without
Emile every single day was an emotional roller-coaster he
begged to be off.
What does swimsuit guy’s voice sound like? Those deep
dark eyes, I bet it’s soft and sexy.
Staring down at the tiny image of the handsome man in
the red bathing suit, he tried once again to imagine himself
wrapped up tight in swimsuit guy’s strong arms. Oh, how
wonderful it would feel to be loved again. Closing his eyes, he
could almost feel those full, wonderful lips brushing behind
his ear and down the back of his neck. A shiver ran through
his body as he savored the moment.
I’m ready. I need someone in my life again. I’m not good
on my own.
He was brought out of his fantasy by the familiar sound
of his uncle’s truck. Matt stepped out of the shelter and
waved as it entered the lot.
“Hello, sport!” his uncle greeted him with a wave. “Had
enough of the tree-selling business this year?”
“Hey, Uncle Ken!” Matt slid his phone into his pocket.
Going back to his teens, Matt had always banked on
working the tree lot for his uncle. In a way, Uncle Ken and
his wife, Aunt Rose, were like a second set of parents, not
having any kids of their own to spoil. Although working the
lot required standing out in the elements most evenings for
weeks leading up to the holiday, Uncle Ken made it well
worth his effort.
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“Here!” his uncle said, reaching into the backseat.
“Hang this on the fence and let’s call it a season.”
Matt accepted a hand-painted sign that read, “All Trees
Now FREE.”
“The cash from today, if there is any, is all yours. Bring
the till with you tomorrow, and I’ll store it away until next
year.”
“You sure? There was more action today than I thought
there’d be.” Matt was careful not to abuse the generosity. As
instructed, he hung the sign on the fence post.
“I’m sure. I’d just spend it on beer, and that would
surely piss off your aunt.”
Matt laughed at his uncle’s remark. It was all a smoke
screen. Aunt Rose would buy the beer herself if Uncle Ken
asked her to.
“Oh, your dad called this morning. He and your mom
are planning on showing up ’bout noon. Shoot for that,
okay? Don’t be late if you know what’s good for you!” Uncle
Ken shook his finger at him and winked. “Your auntie’s been
cooking her heart out the last couple of days. She made that
sweet-potato pie you can’t live without.”
“I’ll be on time, you can count on that!” Christmas and
his birthday wouldn’t be the same without one of his aunt’s
scrumptious sweet-potato pies. “Can I bring anything?” Matt
already knew the answer but wanted to ask anyway.
“Just an empty stomach is all I can think of. You
headed over to your parents’ tonight?” His uncle brushed a
snowflake or two off of his bushy eyebrow.
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Matt had to think about the right response. He’d already
made the decision not join his parents for midnight service.
He called his mother earlier in the day to beg off using the
“college friend home for the holidays” excuse everyone knew
was a crock of crap. With Emile gone, the family had, while
still keeping an eye out, stepped back to allow him time to
deal with his loss. Soon he’d have to find a way to thank
them all for their patience. But tonight, he needed to be on
his own. He’d thought about heading out to the bars. It
could happen. He’d spent so much time on his own lately
he’d almost forgotten how alive and energized it felt to be on
a crowded dance floor, held captive by the pulsating music.
Who am I kidding? Most likely he’d pick up takeout and
hunker down in front of the television. His goal this holiday
season—to keep the crying spells to a minimum. This was
something he needed to work out by himself. Tonight,
Christmas Eve, would be a special challenge.
“I’m thinkin’ I’d like to be on my own tonight.” Matt’s
eyes dove to his feet, unable to make contact with his
uncle’s. He couldn’t mask the guilt he felt for abandoning his
family.
“Well, whatever the hell it is you decide to do, stay safe,”
his uncle cautioned, minus his warm smile. “We could see
three to five inches of this junk by morning, and remember,
noon tomorrow and not a minute later.”
“Gotcha! Say hi to Auntie Rose!”
Matt waved as his uncle backed the truck out of the lot.

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A little bit of heaven! Man, it’s good to be home!
“Oh the weather outside is frightful, frickin’
frightful, but the fire is so delightful, SOOOO
DELIGHTFUL! DO-WHAP-A-DOOBIE,” Andy shouted
into the shower spigot. Throwing his head back, he
laughed, the hot water pummeling his chest.
It didn’t matter how plush a hotel his manager put him
in or how long the list of five-star amenities the hotel offered,
his own shower and the comfort of sleeping in his own bed
couldn’t be beat. Nothing came close. Turning to allow the
water to pulsate against the back of his neck, Andy replayed
the highlights of his week in Milan.
This is it, Andy, ol’ boy! You’re about to hit the top of the
heap. This is the explosion you’ve been waiting for.
Milan, the culmination of an intense and frenzied climb
from small, low-budget modeling jobs to A-list shoots, had
been a wild ride. His success in Milan finally put the ball
back in his court. The client was ecstatic and gushed over
the final product. Andy could be selective now, choosing gigs
for the first time in his career. He could regain control of his
life and begin focusing on finding someone special to share
the rewards of all his hard work. There wasn’t a thing he
wanted more right now. It wasn’t that he was lonely, well,
not really. Or desperate. Certainly not desperate. He wasn’t
whole. Finding the right person to share his life with would
be the icing on the Andy cake. He was damn good and ready,
and for once, nothing was standing in the way.
“I am sixteen going on seventeen….”
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Oh God, where did that come from?
“I am twenty-nine going on thirty, want a man to call my
own.” Andy laughed at what a dork he could be. Shutting off
the water, he stepped out of the massive, marble shower.
Grabbing a large, plush bath towel from the brushed-
aluminum shelf nearby, he dried off, savoring the warm,
moist air.
Updating the bathroom last year had been the best
investment he’d ever made. Once the royalties started rolling
in from the exclusive fragrance deal he’d signed a couple of
days ago, he’d have enough money to finish the industrial-
style loft. His plan was to create lush, comfortable pockets
within the old factory space. To date, he’d completed the
large Roman-style bathroom and the dark, richly appointed
master bedroom. The kitchen would be his next project.
Once the holiday was over and the shoppers had run out of
money, he’d start picking out the components for the
gourmet kitchen he’d fantasized for years about having.
Stealing a glance in the mirror, he decided the growth
on his face was still tame enough to skip shaving. Still
steaming from the shower, he strolled through the archway
into his bedroom and from there across the large room into
the huge walk-in closet.
Regular-dude clothes, buddy. Nothing fancy.
Because his work centered around clothes, very
expensive clothes, Andy devoted an entire section of his
closet to what he loved to call “regular dude” clothes. Jeans,
T-shirts, ultra casual attire that felt great to wear and did
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