Only Trick

He chuckles. “You haven’t even seen the inside, and it’s dark. You can’t see much out here either.”

Releasing him, I practically bust through the gate to see more. The house is authentic Mexican architecture, with arched doors and windows, adobe exterior painted what looks like a muted sand color, and traditional tile roof. I walk a few more steps then turn a complete circle in awe of the lush gardens and fruit trees.

“Don’t act impressed. I know you’ve seen places much fancier than this.” Trick hangs back a few steps and his rare moment of insecurity saddens me.

I shake my head. “I’m in awe of the moment … this moment in my life.” Retreating, I place my palms on his cheeks. “It’s everything. It’s the house, these gardens, and us. I don’t ever want to leave.” My mind registers what I just said, but it only takes a moment to realize … it’s the truth.

Trick grabs the back of my legs and lifts me up. My hands in his hair, his lips on mine, and this world—our world—it’s paradise. He moves to my neck and I moan. “What are we going to christen first?” he mumbles along my skin.

I giggle. “If you don’t stop, I think the dirt beneath our feet will be first.”

“Suit yourself.”

My stomach flips as he starts to lower us to the ground. “Trick! I’m not serious.”

He sets me on my feet and nips my neck, followed by a smack on my ass. “Get inside. Between this and the backseat sex that never happened you’re being a tease today.”

I try to turn the knob. “It’s locked.”

“The owner said he’d leave a key under the planter.”

Bingo!

We walk through the doorway and find the light switch. It’s surprisingly spacious with modern appliances, handcrafted stonework, and Mexican tile.

“There’s no furniture.”

“It’s a rental, not a vacation home. I’ll grab our luggage.”

I walk out to the covered courtyard, welcomed by the rhythmic, lapping waves of the Pacific and the glassy reflection of the moon off its dark surface.

“Well, it’s our lucky night. Someone left a lounge chair.” Trick sets down our luggage and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

I glance off to the right at the wicker chaise lounge with a weathered blue cushion. “We’re going to sleep on that?”

“We’ll pull it inside. It’s just for one night. At least it’s a roof over our heads.”

Ouch!

I turn in his arms. “Absolutely.” I grin, not wanting to seem like a spoiled little rich girl for a single second. “Let’s check out the rest of our place.”

He kisses me. “Mmm … our … I like that.”

We take our luggage upstairs to the master bedroom. A full wall of windows and double doors opening to a private terrace and a picturesque view of the ocean greets us.

“Wow!”

Trick’s lip twitches when I look over at him. He’s pleased and so am I.

He sets down our suitcases. “We’re never leaving.”

I laugh. “Uh yeah, … never.”

*

I have a small glimpse of the magic Trick’s parents had between them as Trick holds me in his arms on our gifted lounge chair, surrounded by darkness. It really doesn’t matter where we are … it only matters that we’re together.

“Trick?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you have such an aversion to women?”

His neck stiffens as he takes a deep swallow. “My past.”

“The part you remember?”

“The part I don’t.”

“How can that be, if you don’t remember?”

He sighs. “After my accident, Grady talked with people who either lived near my building or worked in the area. One guy who owned a food truck that he parked on the corner of my building told Grady he occasionally saw me coming and going, usually with a woman, but not always the same one and they were definitely older than me. Grady said everything about it seemed off. He thinks those women were taking advantage of me in some way, probably something to do with the drugs. So between dealing with my memory loss and trying to stay clean, I’ve found it in my best interest to avoid women outside of a professional capacity.”

He laughs. “The truth is my female clientele were a bunch of rich bitches that always wanted more than what I was willing to give them. They’d fuck a gay man just to prove they could. It’s laughable; it didn’t matter how much makeup I painted on their face, the ugly on the inside always seeped through. So the makeup on my face, the ‘icy’ fuck-off attitude you felt, it was my defense—my way of protecting the part of me I don’t know. The less connection women feel with me the better. That’s the thing with memory loss, it makes you feel vulnerable.”

“So why me? I mean, obviously you lumped me into the same group as the rich bitches at first, but then you had a change of heart. Why?”