Two from the Heart(34)

Bron wraps his sweaty slacks, shirt, briefs, and socks in an extra towel and hands them over. Gonzalo tucks the packet under his arm and runs toward the office building. He calls back, “Ready ma?ana! On the house!”

Bron has never been crazy about kids. They’ve always made him uncomfortable. But he has to admit, this one is a real find.

He slips on the shorts and T-shirt, hangs up the wet towel, and flops onto the bed for the only thing better than a nice warm shower—a nice long nap.

His eyes close… he starts to drift off… Minutes pass… maybe hours…

And then, suddenly:

“All I do is WIN, WIN, WIN…!”



The pumping sound of DJ Khaled wakes Bron with a start. And it’s not just the music. It’s the sound of two strong male voices singing along with gusto. The bed is so close to the window, Bron can roll over and peek through the blind slats.

“What the…?”

The music is blaring from the deck out front. Sitting there in facing lounge chairs are two guys in bathing suits, shirts open, both wearing Ray-Bans. On the deck between them is a portable speaker connected to an iPhone. Resting on their chests—outrageously large cocktails. In the real world, Bron would think about picking up the phone to complain about the noise. But this is not the real world. Also, there’s no phone.

Bron emerges tentatively from his room, rubbing his eyes against the late afternoon glare. The two guys look up and whip off their sunglasses at the same time.

“Oh, no!” says one. “We are so rude!”

“Wow. Sorry. We didn’t realize there was anybody else here!” adds the other. “Apologies for the concert. Really, man… so sorry.”

Bron’s fellow guests look like a pair of All-American quarterbacks—with a swagger to match. They’re immediately friendly, charming, and irresistible—totally comfortable in their own skin. From the look of them, they appear to have life figured out. Even here.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Bron. “I’m Tyler.”

“I’m Timo,” says the one with the blond crew cut and the elaborate angel tat on his chest.

“Luke,” says the one with the artfully shaved dome. He points to his nearly empty glass. “Drink?”

Bron can still feel the road dust in the back of his throat. He pulls an extra chair from his room onto the deck. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

Luke rolls out of his lounge chair and gestures toward the end of the row. “Tyler, allow me to escort you to libation central!”

Weaving a bit, Luke leads the way to Unit 1. He opens the door and waves Bron in. “After you, sir…”

The room is a mirror image of Bron’s, but with one major addition. Sitting on the dresser is a world-class, kick-ass margarita machine. Luke pats it lovingly.

“We don’t go anywhere without it.”

As Luke dumps a bucketful of ice cubes into the stainless-steel contraption, Bron glances over at the bed. In a room this small, there’s no way to miss it. Rumpled and slept in—with two pairs of guys’ jeans lying on top of the sheets. Okay. Got it.

After the ice, Luke dumps in what looks like an entire fifth of Patrón. Then a whole bottle of bright green liquid. He presses a button. The room lights dim for a second.

“Go, baby!” says Luke, rubbing the machine like a genie’s bottle.

The device gives off a powerful grinding noise that quickly evens out to a loud hum. Luke steadies the heavy-duty glass pitcher as it fills with a greenish slurry. He shouts above the sound…

“What brings you here, Tyler?”

Bron shouts back. “Long story.”

“No kidding. Same here. We were on our way to the coast. Transmission blew. Car’s in the shop down the street—waiting for parts.”

“Could be a long wait.”

“Tell me about it. Ten days far. And… here we are!”

Bron and Luke rejoin Timo on the deck, all three now equipped with super-size beverages. Luke hoists his glass: “To strangers in a strange land.” Clinks all around.

Bron puts the glass to his lips and tastes his first blast of the concoction: killer sweet and sledgehammer strong. It tastes soooo good—ice and booze blended to a frosty citrus slush. He should sip, but he slurps.

“What business you in, Tyler?” asks Timo.

“Computers,” Bron says. Close enough. And at the moment, nobody seems all that interested in career résumés anyway.

“That’s cool,” says Timo, lowering his shades.

“Very cool,” says Luke, doing the same.

Bron tucks his feet under his chair. Suddenly he feels a slithery touch just below his ankle. He leaps up, spilling half his drink and knocking his chair back. A tiny lizard skitters from under the chair and off across the deck. Luke and Timo tilt their sunglasses up and watch the critter disappear around the corner.

“Western whiptail!” shouts Luke.

“No way,” says Timo. “That’s a desert spiny.”

“Whiptail.”

“You’re nuts! Spiny!”

Back and forth they go, laughing. Whiptail. Spiny. Whiptail. Spiny. Bron rights his chair and settles back down, his brain becoming comfortably numb. His head is swimming with the booze and the great lizard debate and, in a nonsensical way, how good it all feels. Warm. Relaxing. Friendly. Before he knows it, there’s a refill in his glass. Then another. Jesus.