Admittedly, this isn’t the first time my mind has gone to this place. Heisa very attractive guy. And if I’m stuck in this place for the next couple of months, maybe indulging in a little fun wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Help me pass the time. Plus, I’m always down for a good lay.
Would he be down for it, though?
Is he even into men?
Guess there’s only one way to find out.
Hedidsay he gave that housekeeper guy head for the alcohol and cigarettes… but was he telling the truth?
It was probably a lie. Everybody lies.
Eventually, the trail opens up to a clearing that overlooks the water. A cliff. It’s mind-boggling how turquoise the water is here. It’s unreal. I’ve always seen pictures of places like this, with the water all pristine, but I always thought it was fake. Like maybe they photoshopped the water to look that color. But nope, it’s real.
Walking up to the cliff, I peer over the edge. It’s only about a twenty-foot drop, give or take. I bet people jump off here all the time. I glance back when I notice Rowan isn’t beside me. He’s all the way back toward the entrance of the trail, watching me with wild eyes.
“Why do you look so freaked out?” I ask.
He shakes his head tersely, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. “Don’t like heights.”
I don’t know why, but that makes me laugh. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he snaps. “It’s a very normal thing to be afraid of, thank you very much. Acrophobia is one of the most common phobias.”
The way he says it, with so much defensiveness, it’s clear he’s gotten shit for this many times before. It only makes me laugh harder. “Fine, well, at least meet me in the middle, and we can smoke. The cliff isn’t going to collapse, and where you’re standing, the sun won’t even hit us.”
Rowan rolls his eyes, then groans, but takes the few steps to meet me anyway. We sit on the ground—it’s not quite sand, but it’s not straight rock either. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the pack of Marlboros, flipping open the lid, plucking out a pre-rolled joint from beside his other cigarettes. He tucks it between his pink, pouty lips before flicking open the Zippo, and lighting the end of it. His nostrils flair slightly as he inhales, his eyes squinted nearly shut. The joint is pinched between his thumb and index finger, and he takes a few puffs before eventually handing it to me.
Whoever that housekeeper guy gets his weed from must live on the island. Either that, or he grows it himself. As far as I know, the employees also live here, so I can’t imagine they’re leaving the island enough to stock up on drugs. That would be a huge hassle. It’s not like this place is some small island off the shore of the United States or anything. I had to take two separate planes to get here.
They must grow it.
The slightly sour, earthy smoke fills my lungs, and I have to admit, it’s good shit. Whoever grows it knows what they’re doing. The one and only other time I smoked with Rowan earlier this week, just one joint got me pretty baked. When I pass it back to him, I pull out my ear buds that I always keep in my pocket, place one inside my ear, handing the other to him this time on my own.
It's fucking stupid that my Wi-Fi and my phone connection won’t work here, but at I have music downloaded, so I can at least listen to that. I’d go out of my mind insane if I didn’t have music. Social media and all that bullshit, I don’t need.
The occasional bird flies by over the water, but aside from those and Ragu, the cat that hangs out near the main building, I haven’t seen any other animals. You’d think in a jungle as lush and thick as the one behind us, there would be all kinds of animals creeping around, but I guess since we’re on such a secluded island, there aren’t many.
“What happened with that girl?” he asks after several minutes of neither of us saying anything.
Glancing out toward the water, I fight to roll my eyes at him for asking this question again. He’s always so fucking nosy, but I knew that when I invited him out here, so I can’t really complain. Still, I don’t like to talk about personal shit.
“She died,” I deadpan. “There’s not really much to tell.”
“God, you sound heartless,” he replies with a breathy chuckle.
“Maybe I am.”
“I don’t believe that.”
This time, it’s him I’m glancing at. My gaze colliding with his mossy eyes. In the sunlight, they look like dark crystal orbs. “Why do you say that?”
He shrugs. “Think there’s more to you than you let on.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“True,” he agrees, shrugging. “But from what I’ve seen—”
“You mean from the tabloids and social media?”
