Too Much : Chapter 2

THE MOTEL’S RECEPTIONIST LENT ME AN IRON after I found my best clothes crumbled at the bottom of a suitcase. The room is equipped with a moth-ball-smelling closet, but I keep my clothes in my bags. I’m already self-conscious about the moldy odor trailing behind me like a putrid shadow.

I ironed the creases out of the outfit I chose for tonight—a simple spaghetti-strapped crop top matched with a high-waist mini skirt—both black. The mass of my outrageously curly hair could not be styled into anything other than a standard, boring, over-done ponytail. I’ve considered chopping my hair short, but while they’re long, they’re heavy, and the curls drag out instead of bouncing close to my head.

Cassidy and her friends chose a bar by the harbor, three miles from the motel. I wouldn’t make the distance wearing black stiletto heels without earning a few nasty blisters. Bleeding feet is not the look I was going for tonight, so I downloaded the Uber app and booked a ride to Tortugo—a Brazilian-themed cocktail bar by the main street.

I overestimated the time it’ll take the driver to get me there, so now I stand on the sidewalk, clutching my purse in both hands and eying the door with twenty minutes to kill before Cassidy arrives. Loitering outside sounds less appealing than waiting at the bar with a drink, even if I’ll stand there alone.

With a deep breath, I push the door open, eyeing the decor as I walk across the room toward the bar at the back. Latin music filters through the air, an energetic soundtrack to the excited conversations buzzing over most tables. A satisfying, heady scent of soil, passion flowers, and candy fans my face as the air moves with me.Warm, earthy tones dominate the space, and hundreds of matching clay pots holding natural plants stand on the floor, hang from the ceiling, and fill rusty metal shelves screwed into the bare red-brick walls.

My heels click happily against the worn, concrete floor as I approach a long bar. My foreign features draw attention again, and heads snap toward me when I pass a few tables, feeling the burning gaze of men inspecting my every move.

Definition of Greek beauty—my grandmother said through the years. I don’t see the beauty. Pretty, sure, but not beautiful.

“Good evening.” The bartender asks, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt partly hidden under a matching vest. He rests his hands on the bar, leaning closer so he won’t have to raise his voice over the excited hum filling the air. “What can I get you?”

Five screens above the bar display a long cocktail list with sixty-eight options. Kudos to the bartender if he knows how to prepare each one. Back home, I kept things simple—bottled beer, wine, or Ouzo. Sometimes champagne. During my bartending days, I tried many different cocktails while mastering the skill of preparing colorful drinks, but only three of those are served here—all too sweet for my liking.

“I’m not sure,” I say, ignoring how his mouth curls slightly at my flaring accent. “I’d like a cocktail, not too strong and not too sweet. What can you suggest?”

“Make her a caipirinha,” a man says, stopping beside me. “You’ll like it,” he adds when I angle my head, treating myself to a cursory look.

Ah, shit…

I’ve crossed paths with many handsome men in my life. As I settle into my new life here, the number constantly grows—Americans are hot, but this guy? He’s handsome in a hair-raising, nail-biting kind of way. Not a cover model type. I doubt any magazine would feature him with the long scar running from his jaw to his eyebrow. His nose, slightly crooked at the bridge, must’ve been broken at least once in his life, and he’s got a small scar over his top lip. As far as scars go, this one might be the sexiest one I’ve seen.

An artistic muddle to his dark-brown hair adds ten points to his undeniable, boyish charm even though he isn’t a boy. He’s a red-blooded, broad-chested, testosterone-oozing man. He looks like he knew what his hair should be styled into tonight but discarded the idea halfway through the task and raked his fingers through the thick strands, making a mess. A sexy mess.

I’m held captive by his deep brown eyes, the shade of fine cognac peppered with black flecks. A barely-there stubble frames his full lips that he’s touching with the pad of his thumb, ghosting it left and right, waiting for me to speak. My body reacts with a throbbing pulse between my legs.

What sorcery is this?!

Sweet Lord… theory confirmed. Instant lust is valid.

After eighteen months of celibacy, not being touched, kissed, or fucked, my libido is through the roof, peaking at its all-time high, but despite interacting with dozens of men on the golf course during the past two days, I remained unaffected.

Until… now.

My cheeks burn hotter, and I hope he can’t smell my arousal as if I’m an animal in heat, desperate for a mate. My ovaries play tug-of-war, my mouth turns dry, and my mind fills with stark, erotic redness. I can already picture him kneeling before me, his mouth on my clit, big, calloused hands holding my hips.

He’s intriguing, and unfortunately, that’s a red flag if I ever saw one. Men like him approach women at bars with one goal in mind—sex. Granted, my body is starved for a real man, not the silicone substitute hidden in my suitcase, but I need more than a drink, a handsome face, and the undeniable craving rushing through my body to give up the goodies. I need a basic-level connection. First name. An hour to check if he’s not dull, married, or a psychopath.

“Thank you.” I cheer internally, pleased that my voice doesn’t betray the amorous agony prickling my center. “I’ll try it,” I tell the bartender, leaning my hip against the bar.

Instead of my drink, he slides two Budweiser’s and a Corona toward the man standing beside me, even though he hadn’t ordered yet. He must be a regular, which means he’s not a tourist… he’s a local.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says, tugging a hefty sip of his Budweiser. “I’m Theo, and you are…?”

“I’m new around here.”

Yeah, I’m not the most approachable person.

A suggestion of a smile pulls at his mouth. “That’s an interesting accent. Spanish? Italian?”

The bartender sets a tall glass on a napkin, tucks in two swirly straws, and slides it across the counter as I hold out a twenty-dollar bill, ignoring Theo’s question. Let’s see how persistent he is.

“My treat.” Theo moves my hand away; the touch of his skin as electrifying as a live wire. “Put it on my tab, Gary.”

A certain sharpness in his posture tells me I’ve lost the battle over who’ll pay before it began.

“Thank you.” I tuck the twenty back into my purse.

His designer clothes and the general smell of money he exudes mean he can probably afford to waste a few bucks on a drink for a girl who won’t put out.

At least, I hope I won’t.

“Thalia! Damn, you look hot, girl!” Cassidy booms behind me. A second later, she stops on my right, pecks my cheek, and moves her attention to Theo, a cunning, fake smile twisting her rosebud lips. “Run along, Hayes,” she spouts, every word tinged with venom.

“Ah, Greek,” Theo says, ignoring Cassidy’s obvious irritation. “Thalia. One of the nine Muses. Kalós orísate[1].”

“Den písteva poté óti tha ákouga elliniká stin Kalifórnia[2].”

Theo’s smile widens, highlighting the scar on his cheek, but I don’t think he understood what I said. “Yeah, don’t get too excited, omorfiá[3]. I only know a few words.”

Omorfiá coming from his lips has my senses igniting like sparklers. It means beauty in a very whole, all-encompassing way.

“Come on, the girls will be here soon.” Cass clutches my arm, leaving half-moon marks of her pink nails behind. “Choke on your beer, Hayes,” she adds sweetly, eyelashes fluttering, white teeth peeking between her lips as she hauls me away toward a table across the room.

She hops on the barstool, readjusting her baby-blue dress. She’s dressed to impress with blonde locks tucked into a sleek, low bun and a perfectly winged eyeliner. She’s pretty in a modern, flawless, toned, size-zero kind of way. I bet she spends her mornings on a treadmill, wearing skin-tight leggings, a workout bra, and earphones. She probably sips a protein cocktail, and her ponytail swings, brushing her shoulders… I’m jealous if that’s true.

I envy people who take care of their bodies and health by exercising and watching their food intake. I make big plans ten times a year, promising myself I’ll cut back on junk food, count the calories, and work out, but it always ends the same—I wash down pizza with beer.

“I guess there’s a story there?” I ask, taking the first sip of my drink. My eyes roll back, and I almost moan out loud. It’s delicious. Zesty, not too sweet, and the alcohol is untraceable. Which, come to think of it, might be lethal. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Absolutely not!” She purses her lips, pinning me with a glare as if I insulted her. “He’s a Hayes, babe. Hayes brothers don’t do girlfriends. You’ll be better off staying away from all seven of them, Thalia. You’ll know a Hayes when you see one. They’re not hard to spot in a crowd—dark hair, tall, toned lookalikes. The three youngest ones are identical triplets.” She casts a forceful glance behind my back, her head twitching as she urges me to peek over my shoulder.

Theo sits at a table across the room with two other men, one of which I know—Jared, Country Club’s general manager. The other must be Theo’s brother. Cass is right. Their kinship is unmistakable.

“That’s Nico,” she says in a hushed tone as if she’s afraid they’ll hear us from thirty yards away. There’s also Shawn and Lo—” she clears her throat, features pinched as if she’s struggling to get the word out. “Logan.”

Ah… so Logan is the one she holds a grudge against.

“You’ll meet them tomorrow,” she continues. “They golf every Sunday. Triplets are seventeen, so don’t worry about them much.”

Why would I?

They’re kids.

Freaking illegal.

“Okay, and why are they bad?”

Cass rolls her eyes in an overdrawn, theatrical manner. “I didn’t say bad. They just think they own this goddamn town. They’re players, Thalia. The lot of them. The worst kind, too, because they act like you mean the whole freaking world, and once they fuck you, they won’t call or answer your messages and—” She halts her rant, running out of breath. She sucks in a harsh breath and morphs her scowl into a smile. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? I’m trying to look out for you.”

“Thank you.” I grab her hand, pumping my fingers around hers. She might be sporting a cute smile, but I can tell she’s hurting. “Message received.”

Loud and clear, but I’m not naïve. The way she talks about them, Logan, in particular, the change in her tone and body language hints at the details. She must’ve slept with him, hoping for a happily ever after, and he didn’t deliver.

I’ve no idea why she hates all seven over something one did. I also don’t understand why she expected a happy ending if I’m reading between the lines correctly. Theo reeks of non-commitment from a mile away. Nico gives off the same, albeit much stronger vibe, which tells me Logan and Shawn might be the same. They want sex with no strings attached. None whatsoever. I doubt they get further than a first-name basis.

Cassidy’s friends, Amy and Mary-Jane, arrive moments later. They both wear beautiful, short dresses, perfectly styled hair, and makeup more suited for a catwalk than a girls’ night. After brief introductions, they leave me alone, moving over to the bar to order drinks.

Newport Beach is filled with flawless people, which isn’t surprising. Money has the power to turn anyone into a fashion model. Despite most people here living different, more luxurious lives than the rest of the country, ninety percent of people I’ve met since arriving seem polite and friendly. Friendlier than I’d expect rich people to be.

Theo catches my attention as I glance over my shoulder, checking on the girls. He taps his finger against the neck of his Budweiser, pointing at the bar, silently asking me to meet him there. Too bad I only had one sip from my drink. I push the caipirinha slightly to my left, tapping the glass too, so he’ll see I’m nowhere near done.

The slight smile lifting his lips convinces me to pick up the tempo a little bit. Theo’s intriguing. A walking contradiction. He looks, smells, and acts appropriately to the player tag Cassidy labeled him with, but he knows who Thalia was in Greek mythology, so he might be smart. As far as my life experience goes, that doesn’t happen often.

I’m curious where he learned the few words he speaks in Greek. I won’t get a chance to ask if I finish my drink in sync with Cass and her friends. After Cassidy’s venomous choke on your beer, Hayes, he probably won’t come anywhere near me if I approach the bar with the girls by my side.

They return a minute later, dismissing my silly worries—each holds a bottle of prosecco and a flute. No way I’d crawl out of bed tomorrow if I drank a bottle of bubbly tonight. For some reason, it hits me harder than any other alcohol.

The girls chat about shopping, work, and Amy’s upcoming senior year of college, involving me in the conversation wherever possible while deftly poking for information, asking about my life choices. Like everyone I’ve crossed paths with so far, they’re curious why I moved halfway across the world by myself. Why I abandoned my friends and family.

We just met, so gruesome truths might not be the best way to start our friendship. I could tell them that everyone I ever loved turned their backs on me, but if I say A, I’ll have to say B and explain why. That’s not happening. It’s not a topic I’ll discuss with anyone unless I have no choice.

So, I lie. I keep the answers light, feeding my new friends the believable, boring story about searching for a better life. All the while, I sip the caipirinha, fighting my stupid curiosity and trying not to glance over my shoulder. Easier said than done. A few times, when I shift positions, I catch a glimpse of Theo in my peripheral vision.

The scar marking his cheek doesn’t belittle how striking he looks dressed in plain jeans and a gray t-shirt, the fabric on the verge of coming apart at the seams as his biceps bulge, shifting beautifully when he pats Nico’s back,

“I’ll get another drink,” I say, downing the last third of my drink as if it’s a hundred degrees and I’m dehydrated. “I’ll be right back.”

“Get a bottle of prosecco,” MJ says, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “Save your legs, girl.”

“You do not want to party with me when I’m drinking bubbly. Trust me.” I spin on my heel, finding Theo on his feet, looking at me over a sea of heads, and my smile tightens.

He says something to Nico, whose eyes snap to meet mine. His face remains impassive, not an ounce of emotion other than meticulously maintained disinterest. The crushing confidence surrounding him makes my skin crawl, and not in a good way. He’s not a man I’d like to spend one minute alone with.

I set the empty glass on the bar, summoning the bartender. “One more, please.”

A spicy, masculine scent consumes my senses when Theo stops beside me, a step closer than earlier. “I see you liked the drink. Did Cassidy tell you to run for your life yet?”

“She used different words, but I guess you could say that.”

He rests one elbow on the counter, his body facing my way like an unconscious invitation. “Why aren’t you?”

I glance at my feet, prompting him to do the same. “Have you seen a woman run in five-inch heels?”

“No, but I won’t mind a demonstration.”

“Are you subtly saying I should run or wondering if I’ll fall on my face before I reach the door?” I swat a few unruly locks away from my face. “Jokes aside, I don’t know Cassidy well enough to trust her judgment.”

“Which means you don’t trust me, either.” He mindlessly spins an empty beer bottle on the counter.

“Not one bit.”

I’m not sure why he finds it amusing, but the smile blooming on his lips reaches his striking eyes.

“How long are you staying in Newport?”

I’ve not had time to sightsee or explore the town yet, but I spent a year researching different locations in California. Newport Beach is definitely where I’d like to sprout my roots. “Depending on luck, work, and health, fifty, maybe sixty years. Seventy at a stretch, but that’s wishful thinking with my lifestyle.”

He cocks an eyebrow, straightening his back as he inches closer again. “Green Card holder?”

“I might be very soon.” I tilt my head to the side, treating myself to a cursory once-over of his perfectly toned body. A shadow of a self-indulgent smirk twists his lips when we lock eyes. “You think I’m pretty, Theo? Funny? Interesting?” I bite back a smile when his eyebrows bunch in the middle. “I believe Vegas is just five hours away. How drunk do I need to get you before you say I do?”

A single snort flies past his mouth. Not amused—horrified. He jerks back like a person walking off an unexpected step.

“Relax,” I chuckle, touching his shoulder, curious if the electric current jabs at me again. It does, traveling from the tips of my fingers straight to my clit. Resisting this man will be one hell of a challenge. “I have a strange sense of humor. I won the Green Card Lottery last year.”

He shakes his head, and mortification gives way to amusement. “Unless you’re ready to land a husband fast, don’t crack that joke around too often. You’d be surprised how many middle-aged men would gladly go down on one knee for you.”

The bartender slides my drink over first, this time before he opens a large fridge to fetch Theo’s order.

“Don’t,” Theo clips when I reach inside my bag to retrieve my wallet. “It’s on me.”

“That’s sweet, but—”

“But nothing, Thalia. Smile for me, say thank you in Greek, and join your friends. Cassidy’s so red she might spontaneously combust.” His eyes don’t leave my face, so I’m not sure how he knows this.

“Efcharistó[4].” I grab the drink, place my hand over the glass to stop the liquid from spilling, and then give Theo a quick show of what running in high heels looks like. His soft laughter forces my heart’s rhythm into higher gear.

“Oh. My. God!” Amy squeals when I hop on my stool, draping my bag over the back. “Do I need glasses, or was that really Theo Hayes hitting on you?”

“He didn’t hit me!” I exclaim a touch too loud.

They gawk at me for a second, then burst out laughing. MJ’s cackling so hard she’s tearful. The more prominent the confusion on my face, the harder they laugh, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot.

“I guess I misunderstood that…” I say. “Can you explain?”

“I said he was hitting on you, not hitting you, girl.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I mix up words sometimes, and I don’t understand all the slang phrases. Does that mean the same as making a pass at someone?”

Cass drapes her arm over my shoulders, pulling me to her side. “Yeah, babe, it does. Theo was definitely making a pass at you. He’d eat you out right here, right now, if you’d give him the green light.”

Not the best image to feed my vivid imagination. My brain grabs hold of the idea, develops an enticing plot, complete with multi-dimensional characters, and transforms it into a full-blown, detailed fantasy.

I pause the inappropriate, erotic video clip so I can enjoy it another time—when I’m alone with my silicone friend, ready to use the fantasy to my advantage.