Page 53 of Stuck in Paradise with You

Today is about preparing this island and Virgin Gorda and the homes of as many family members of Joe’s staff as we can for the hurricane.

When I get to the terrace, Joe, Henry, Jenny, Dave (one of the security guys), Glen (one of the gardeners), Dionne (one of the housemaids), Monique (one of the kitchen staff) and Roy (a handyman) are all sitting around one large table, having pulled a bunch of smaller ones together.

The tables aren’t set as usual with cloths and flowers in vases. Instead, they’re bare carcasses and on top of them are a basket of breads, a bowl filled with what look like hard-boiled eggs, a plate of bacon and sausages, and a board of sliced cheeses. A delicious and wholesome but nonetheless fuss-free breakfast of necessity before a long day.

‘Morning, all,’ I say, making my way into the group and accepting a mug of coffee Monique pours for me from a French press on the table. I tell her she needn’t but she asks me, ‘What else would I do?’

There’s an atmosphere about the place that’s somewhere between anticipation and adrenaline.

It’s really bizarre to think this, so there’s no way in hell I’ll confess it out loud, but I have a strange sense of excited nervousness. Like, I really don’t want a hurricane to hit the islands, or anywhere for that matter, but if it’s coming, I sort of want to see it, feel it, breathe it, live it.

I know, when I look at Joe, that he’s feeling the same. It’s like standing at the top of the hardest, fastest black slope and knowing that, no matter how treacherous the run is, you’re skiing down it and you’re going to feel the buzz of danger.

‘I appreciate it, thank you,’ I tell Monique, accepting the mug of coffee but not taking one of the spare seats at the table. Instead, I walk around to grab my own plate of food, which I setdown at my spot between Joe and Jenny. I still don’t sit. I can’t. I’m fidgety.

I take a bite of sourdough bread and stand by the table, coffee in hand, waiting for it to cool enough so that I can take a much-needed hit of caffeine.

There’s not much conversation at the table besides some discussions of which boat we’re taking to the island and how many tools and chip boards we can bring with us. Then there are dead moments, where you could literally hear a pin drop. Even the dogs are lying under the table quietly, not begging for food or wanting to play.

It’s in one of these long silences that I get the shock of my life.

‘Good morning,’ Carrie says.

I think I’ve heard a ghost but when I turn around, she’s here, she’s real and she’s standing right behind me.

I jump, startled, and splash scalding hot coffee over my hand, which in turn makes me drop the mug, and the boiling hot liquid spills onto the crotch of my shorts.

‘Jesus, shit, bastard and mother-fucking fuck!’ I jump on the spot, legs wide and gangly, pulling on the material of my shorts, trying to fan the burning of my cock.

‘Oh my God!’ Carrie shouts.

I’m still dancing and holding the bridge of my nose when Carrie grabs a jug of ice-water, pulls out the waistband of my shorts, and pours the water – cubes and all – down my crotch.

As the last ice cubes drop – one,pop, then two,pop– from my shorts onto the decking, I look up to Carrie and ask, ‘Are youeffingkidding me?’

‘It didn’t help?’ she says sweetly. But I know that look. It’s not innocent at all.

‘Enjoy that, did you?’ I ask.

Someone at the table sniggers, someone else snorts, then all the tension of the morning fades into raucous laughter fromeveryone except me – I’m livid and worried how many blisters I’m going to get on my dick – and Carrie, who looks really damn pleased with herself.

‘I didn’tnotenjoy it.’ She shrugs.Shrugs. Lieutenant Chalmers may have been caused irreparable damage and Carrieshrugs.

As I’m scowling at her, she swings her hips, making her firm butt cheeks look outrageously attractive in her blue yoga leggings.

Eyes up, Luke, she’s not a piece of meat.

Only as she bends across the table to pick up food – I’m fairly certain she folds forward, hips high for my further torture – do I realize…

‘What are you still doing here?’

Everyone has calmed again and Carrie shifts to face me, food in hand. ‘The airport is closed, so it looks like I’m staying.’

My head shoots to Joe. ‘She’s stuck here?’ I’m irrationally livid with him. The storm isn’t Joe’s fault but the very last place on earth I want Carrie to be right now is the Caribbean. Not because her presence is like a slow torture to me – except when it’s a boiling hot drink, or dangerous sea creature, or kick to the face kind of pain – because… ‘There’s a cat five hurricane coming, Joe!’ I state the obvious.

Give him his due, Joe looks needlessly apologetic, but I don’t know who else to take this out on. Any fear that I’ve been harboring internally just increased a million-fold.

‘We’re all aware, matey,’ he says calmly. ‘I tried my best but the military has commandeered the ports.’

---