Page 1 of Tropical Vice
ONE
THE ASSIGNMENT
The boat had dropped Blake off at a wooden jetty with rusting railings and a cracked white bench, half-eclipsed by the wing of a leaning coconut tree. He stepped down onto the weathered planks, his sandals tapping lightly, the sun hard on the crown of his head.
A dark-haired man with a laminated placard reading “Mr. Blake Sinclair – Tantara Retreat” waited nearby with a distracted smile, wiping his neck with a crumpled handkerchief. The expression on his face told Blake he might’ve regretted taking this job. The drive inland began with the promise of shade, but the open-air transfer van smelled of sun-hot vinyl and citronella oil. Air conditioning, Blake noted silently, was evidently not part of the island’s charm package.
He sat with his legs neatly crossed, one hand braced on the smooth leather of his carryall. As they rounded a curve lined with bright-flowered bougainvillea and barking roadside dogs, he caught sight of a beach. It was wide and pale, nearly empty, but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a wall of palms. A mosquito landed on the inside of his wrist, and he swatted it with more irritation than force.
The driver said something in Thai and laughed to himself. Blake nodded reflexively, offering the kind of closed-lip smile reserved for cab drivers and bellhops, then turned back to his tablet.
By the time they pulled into the entrance of Tantara Retreat—the resort he’d been sent to scope out as a potential partner for travel tours—his shirt clung damply to the middle of his back. The gate was hand-carved, wide open, and unmanned. A pair of hanging chimes clinked lazily in the breeze. The main building stood low and horizontal against a dense green backdrop, its roof thatched and uneven.
Blake stepped down from the van, the soles of his sandals crunching on fine gravel, and glanced around, expecting a porter. No one appeared.
A few minutes later, a young woman in a pale sarong finally emerged from behind a wooden screen, bowed gently, and asked if he was Mr. Sinclair.
“Yes,” he replied, adjusting the angle of his tablet under his arm. “From Aureus Escapes. You should’ve received the briefing.”
She smiled and gestured toward the reception pavilion—a wide-open room with polished floorboards, two cane fans spinning overhead, and not a single piece of glass in sight. Blake stepped inside and waited for someone to offer him a towel, a drink, even just a rehearsed compliment on his journey.
Just like earlier, no one came immediately to greet him. Just as his patience was thinning, a tall man in linen trousers appeared behind a carved desk and beamed.
“Mr. Sinclair, welcome to Ko Lanta,” he said. “We’re honored you’re here.”
The accent was Australian, the tone sincere, the handshake firm. Blake gave the usual practiced thanks. The man launched into a monologue about tides and solar power and somethingcalled “dignified barefootness,” to which Blake had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
He offered a leather-bound welcome folder. Taking it without comment, he flipped it open. The keycard was tucked beside a leaflet advertising nature hikes, moonlight paddleboarding, and “local encounters of the meaningful kind.”
“You’ll be in Villa Six,” the man added, already motioning for the staff to take Blake’s bag. “One of our favorites. Outdoor shower, private plunge pool, view of the banyan tree.”
Blake followed a smiling boy down a winding gravel path, dodging tree roots and lizards. When they reached their destination, the boy dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and left with a swift bow. Finally, alone, Blake exhaled deeply.
The villa was broad and low, all teak and glass, with gauzy curtains and a bed too large for one person. The air inside smelled of lemongrass and dried leaves. A ceiling fan circled slowly overhead. In the bathroom, the showerhead jutted from an open stone wall, exposed to the trees. A pair of white robes hung beside a shallow basin carved from what looked like petrified wood.
Opening his voice-recording app, Blake made a note aloud into his tablet. “Villa well-designed. Private. Natural materials throughout. Mosquito net in place. Gecko on ceiling. Wi-Fi erratic. Authenticity teetering toward discomfort.”
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, checked his messages—eleven unread emails, four marked urgent—and let out a quiet exhale through his nose. He placed his tablet aside and grabbed the folder from earlier instead.
The villa’s welcome packet had a handwritten note tucked inside. The same Australian hand had circled the name of a café and scribbled underneath:“A real local gem. Try the lassi.”Blake stared at it. Then he folded it twice, slid it into his trouser pocket, and stood.
He took a brief walk along the resort path. The pool was empty, and the beach chairs didn’t match. The breeze was strong enough to carry the scent of seaweed and overly ripe mango.
From within his satchel, Blake’s tablet buzzed again. A notification from the Aureus head office reminded him to file his first impressions by end of day. He ignored it and kept walking.
Sand clung to his sandals. The resort had beauty, certainly, but it lacked cohesion. No glossy signage, no trained smiles. No sense of polished choreography.
Still, he wasn’t ready to write it off. There were elements worth salvaging. The villa itself had potential. The isolation might suit certain clients. But the execution lacked control, and the more he saw, the more he felt that this place was trying to seduce him with a kind of earnest messiness he had not come prepared to meet.
Returning to his villa, he poured himself a glass of tepid filtered water, stared at the insect crawling along the bamboo windowsill, and glanced again at the note in his pocket.Sai Fa Café,it read. He retrieved his tablet, logged the café’s name for cross-reference, and added a new voice note.
“Investigate local café before excluding. Circle back to culinary angle. Professional obligation, not personal interest.”
The café sat crookedlyat the edge of the bay. It was open to the breeze, its roof patched with corrugated tin and the wood faded to a color somewhere between driftwood and smoke.
Blake paused outside the entrance, tablet under one arm, eyes adjusting to the dim after the noon sun. Plastic chairs sprawled around low tables. A chalkboard leaned against thedoorframe, half-erased, its faded script giving up midway through the specials.
Nothing about the place had been curated, and that in itself intrigued him.
