Page 3 of Gin and Lava

“That’s good advice,” Esme agrees, tugging on Desmond’s arm and moving him toward the dance floor. “Dance with me?”

Desmond looks at me and Mason with a frown, perhaps regretting how flagrantly he offered my single status to the class clown.

“You going to be okay?” Desmond asks.

“I’ll be fine,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll just drown my sorrows in flaming champagne and gain ten pounds eating wedding cake. You cats go have fun.” Desmond eyes me like he isn’t sure if I’m playing or not. “The alternative is the three of us dance together,” I jab. “And if that happens, Mason’s definitely going to watch. Consent or not.”

“Yes, I am,” Mason confirms.

“She’ll be fine,” Esme says, dragging her boyfriend onto the dance floor and nodding back to me. “I’ll find you later, okay?”

I shrug as she wraps herself in Desmond’s arms and they couple up on the dance floor. Seriously, everyone here has a significant other: Esme and Desmond, Arie and Connor, Olivia and Ned. Heck, I think Simon is even hooking up with the wedding planner. The dance floor is a smorgasbord of happy pairings.

I glance at Mason. It turns out my choices for this evening are Olivia’s toothless grandfather, or the perverted-talk-a-thon named Mason Haas.

“What’s that look?” Mason asks, narrowing his eyes at my inspection.

I check out his outfit. At least Ned or Olivia dressed him in nice clothes for the wedding: smoky grey suit, purple tie, a pincushion boutonniere that matches the orchids and exotic flowers covering all the tabletops. Whenever I’ve seen Mason at his bar the Gin n’ Lava, he always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. His everyday uniform is board shorts, Rainbow sandals, and the most offensive (and usually wrinkled) Hawaiian shirt he can manage. In his natural state, Mason’s a dirty Tommy Bahama model, sans all the preppy branding.

“You know,” I say, risking giving him a compliment. “You don’t look half bad in a suit, Mason. It’s a huge step up from your normal phallic Hawaiian shirts.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” Mason counters, stepping closer to me and unbuttoning his jacket. He points to the dark button-up shirt he’s wearing underneath. It’s black—well, almost—there’s the faintest of grey patterns on the fabric, which look a little like paisleys, except—

“Are those…?” My eyes cut to Mason.

“I’ve got to live up to my reputation,” he beams.

They’re penises.

Yup, under his jacket is a universe of swirling little dicks all spinning in pinwheels of cockiness.

“Why would you show that to me?” I scold. “I might’ve gone the whole evening without noticing.”

“True. But what’s the fun in that?” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a stand-up guy.”

“You realize that’s the sort of shirt a gay man would wear to attract another gay man.”

“If gay men think I’m hot, so be it.” He gestures to himself like he’s the living version of the statue of David. Which he isn’t. Mason’s cute, and definitely fit, but he’s not Greek-God-let-me-sculpt-towering-works-of-art-in-your-honor worthy. He’s more like a wiry white basketball star—athletic, but you won’t be writing romantic poems about him.

“You really don’t give a crap what people think, do you?” I ask, shaking my head, almost in awe. I’m always so meticulous about how I look. I spent forever picking out my designer dress for this wedding and choosing my jewelry. The gown’s deep plunge neckline almost goes to my navel, with spaghetti straps and a mermaid flair. Its ethereal gauzy fabric is perfect for a beach wedding. I picked out the navy blue color to contrast with my blonde hair, and I love the swath of skin on display between my breasts. It’s the perfect canvas for the delicate gold jewelry I’m wearing. I don’t have big tits and curves like Arie and Esme—I’m flat-chested and thin—so I have to decorate my body with highlights of gold to make it more provocative.

And … the jewelry’s all mine.

As in—I designed it.

It’s not my day job, of course. I work at the Mandara Spa at the resort, which is where I met Esme. The jewelry is a hobby. It’s a private little part of my life that I don’t tell anyone about.

“Trying to impress people leads to disappointment,” Mason replies, and for a second he almost sounds profound—if he wasn’t, well, Mason. “So, be yourself and fuck ‘em!”

I smile. I’m jealous that Mason can walk through life so cavalierly. Of course, everyone thinks he’s a joke. But still, there’s a freedom in how he doesn’t care if he measures up.

“Right.” Mason turns to me. “So, I’m obviously not going to get to watch you and Esme eat each other out,” he says, returning to his silver-tongued self as he nods to my best friend on the dance floor. “Second best choice: you let me watch you touch yourself all by your lonesome?”

“Mason!”

“Not now,” he looks at me like that would be a crazy suggestion. “Later, once it gets dark.”

“You realize, I’ll have eaten ten-pounds of wedding cake by then and be thoroughly bloated.”

---