Page 59 of Sticky Fingers
“Should I?” I reply with a question of my own.
“I don’t know.” She merely shrugs, turning her head slightly so that she can look into my eyes. “I always found a normal life to be boring, but this…this is nice.”
“Well, sure. As long as you consider a private island part of having a normal life.”
“I’m not talking about that,” she chides, gently punching my arm. “It’s just…being here with you, not a care in the world…it feels good. I just want it to last.”
“And it’ll last until I open the boxes, right?” I find myself saying, looking straight into her eyes.
Even though I couldn’t give any less of a fuck about what’s inside those boxes—Jimmy Hoffa’s body, a collection of edible strawberry thongs, or a Picasso’s watercolor equivalent of a dick pick—Sonia constantly brings it up.
We’ve been here for four days now, and she has asked about the damn boxes more than a hundred times.
Whenever we wake up.
Whenever we go for a walk.
Whenever we go for a swim.
Whenever we sit down for a fucking meal.
Whenever we lie together after a massive earth-shattering orgasm…the fucking boxes are always there, like a fucking shadow I can’t seem to shake off.
Don’t you want to see what’s inside?
That’s Sonia’s new catchphrase and, swear to God, I’m starting to have nightmares with these seven words.
“Well,” Sonia whispers, the hint of a teasing smile on her lips, “don’t you want to see what’s inside?”
See? Like fucking clockwork. Shit, okay—this time I was the one bringing it up, so I might as well call her bluff.
“Alright,” I start, swinging my legs off the hammock and jumping into the water.
It doesn’t go higher than my ankles, and I feel the soft sand under my feet. Just two steps and I’m on dry land, the heat of the fire lapping at my skin as I walk past it.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me as I step inside the bungalow, the wood floor protesting with each step I take.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I go straight to the end of the living room, where the staff has neatly stacked the three boxes.
I place my hands on my hips, stare at the boxes for a couple of seconds, and then drag them out onto the beach. Sonia’s already out of the hammock, a surprised—and anxious—expression on her face.
“I guess you’re right,” I announce, only stopping when the boxes are resting between me and her. “It’s time I see what’s inside.”
She doesn’t say a word.
She merely looks at me, lips pursed as she clasps her hands behind her back.
Without a smile, I bend over to pick up the first box; as I bring it up to eye-level, I let my right hand go and the box clumsily tumbles right on top of the fire, the flames waltzing over the wood to devour it whole.
“Ah, fuck,” I say with a grin, taking a step back as the fire devours the box whole. “I hope that wasn’t the Picasso,” I continue, enjoying the look of pure disbelief on Sonia’s face. “Well, good thing we’ve got more boxes, right?”
Moving toward the second box, I purposefully drag it away from the fire, dipping my feet into ocean’s water.
“Wow, heavy,” I say, never taking my eyes off Sonia’s as I turn around and purposefully drop the box into the water. “Fuck, so clumsy. Do you think water will ruin it? Maybe I should toss it into the fire to dry off.”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?” I ask her, taking one step towards her and lowering my voice. “Maybe I am. Or maybe…I just couldn’t care less about what’s inside these boxes.”
