Page 74 of Triple Threat

“I’m already part of that club,” I said.

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes, more than once actually.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Sadie.” I looked over at her, and saw that my words might have been too curt, and not soft enough. This was going to take work. She looked up at me, slightly. “The mile-high club is overrated. If you step into the cabinet that passes for a bathroom on an airplane these days, you'll see. The last time I got Roan on an airplane, it was like watching a bear fighting his way into a clown car.”

Thankfully, she gave me the smallest hint of a smile.

I would have to do better. Roan made this look so fucking easy.

The flight was exactly three-and-a-half drinks long, and I even managed to coax Sadie into having a pair of drinks. She politely disliked the first one, and it seemed that she wasn’t going to be a run-of-the-mill fruit juice and vodka girl. That actually made me rather happy. The second drink, a rather lowbrow attempt at a Moscow Mule, she actually smiled as she sipped it.

“I like that,” she said.

“They’re nice,” I said, and bumped my plastic cup against hers. She would have had another mule, but the stewardess had to stow her cart because we were already coming into landing procedure. St. Henri wasn’t a large island, and it didn’t take long for us to touch down and taxi to the terminal. I took Sadie’s hand, and we were among the first to leave the plane.

It was easy picking up our single checked bag at the jetway, and minutes later we were whisked away from the airport by what seemed like a century old Citroen 2CV. Roan would likely know all about this quaint old car and its sputtering engine and complete lack of performance. It was passably comfortable, and it delivered us to our destination without incident. I thanked the driver, passed him a small tip, and we were left to walk up to the registration desk. Her eyes were huge, taking in the crystal blue sky and the sapphire blue waters.

Then she burst out laughing when a large blue parrot, or was it a macaw, started talking to her in clipped English. The man handling the birds earned a polite tip, and I shooed him away before he overstayed his welcome.

He came very close, thinking us to be easy tourist marks.

A porter carried our one bag down the beach, to a wooden pier. We followed behind, while the man spewed out the list of services and amenities the hotel offered, and how and when we could find them.

I was glad when he finally wrapped up his sermon, presented his hand for a tip, and clutching a few bills, left.

Fucking, finally.

It was worth it though. Our hotel was a series of huts, sitting on pylons driven into the white sands of the beach. When the tide came in, we were completely out in the water, with only the pier connecting us to land. When it was out, we could use a ladder to pop down to the beach for whatever delights we wanted.

“Bathing suit,” I gestured. “The beach and view are why we’re here.” She looked around and found what passed for a bathroom.

“Is there no running water?” she asked.

“There is a clubhouse up above the waterline, with bathtubs and showers, and all the hotel things. The toilet here is… primitive,” I said. “Put on your bathing suit, this isn’t the nude section of beach.” Her head jerked up from where she was digging in the bag.

“There is a nude beach here?”

“Of course, there is, but we aren’t going there,” I said.

“Would you want to?” she asked.

“Only if you want to watch rich, mostly older, almost always overweight American and European tourists wander around with their cellulite jiggling for the sun to burn to a crisp,” I said. She made a comical face.

“Ew, no thank you,” she said.

“We would certainly be the prettiest people there.” I made an offering gesture, not wanting a repeat of the mile-high club gaffe.

“I think maybe, maybe next time.” She smiled. It was infectious, and I smiled back. While she excused herself to the divided section of the ‘room’, I took the time to slip out of my casual slacks and shirt and traded my briefs for a simple black speedo. I adjusted myself into the hammock, snapped the waistband, and waited for Sadie to figure out her own bathing suit.

I was not disappointed in her personal shopper; the one piece was very tasteful, and had a spray of some crystal across her side, mimicking the profile of a flower. Her eyes ran down my chest, my abs, and then to the prominent bulge of the speedo and then she turned red. “Oh my God, is that - is that a speedo?” she asked.

“It is.” I gave a turn and a little flex. “Too much?”

“Not enough.” She coughed a laugh. “Do you have something, uh, less provocative?”

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