I go to the slightly less fancy restaurant.
He’s not there either.
The sky darkens as I leave the restaurant, streaks of tangerine and violet fading into deep indigo. By the time I reach my room—the cheapest one on the property, the beach is alive with flickering torchlight.
Drums echo through the resort in sharp, staccato bursts.
I go to his villa. Should I knock on his door?
But Jason seemed unhappy, not like a man seething with anger at being forced to play with gay teammates or something. Maybe he needs to relax some more. Maybe he’ll be bored or talkative tomorrow.
I walk to the other side of his villa, to see if he’s on his patio, but it’s empty, and his shades are still down, even though lots of other guests are watching the stars over the ocean.
Tomorrow morning. I’ll find him then. I’ll get the quotes, go back to Boston, and prove to Rex that he made a good hire.
The resort is beautiful, but I’m here to work. I open my laptop. I hesitate briefly, then google Jason Larvik.
The screen fills with articles and pictures.
The man is impossibly good-looking.
Pictures flood my Google images tab: gorgeous women draped on his arm. Cheerful blondes and sultry brunettes beam at him in crowded sports bars. They slink their slender fingers into the crook of his arm during red-carpet events.
There are pictures of them making out.
Pictures of Jason with glazed, alcohol-influenced eyes with captions that say: “bad boy” and “player.”
My stomach gurgles. I don’t want to look at them. I might be gay, but I can recognize a beautiful woman. Clearly Jason has known many in the Biblical sense.
I keep on scrolling. Because I don’t actually see someone referenced to as a girlfriend. Though maybe Jason’s the girl in every city type, like he’s pretending to be a World War II sailor.
I should click away. Close my computer.
But I didn’t come here to vacation. I can do research here just as well as in Boston.
Finally, I come to another article: List of 10 Worst Celebrity Lays.
Why is that article being presented to me? Maybe another Jason, another Larvik is being talked about. My fingers tremble, guilt once again moving through my body.
I click on the article.
Apparently, Jason is on a list of 10 Worst Celebrity Lays.
A whole paragraph is devoted to him.
A woman named Sienna claims Jason only kissed her in public and only wanted to have sex when his teammates were in the next room and could overhear. Once they were in private, he wanted to watch hockey.
My brows knit together. I jot down her name. Maybe I can interview her.
Another woman said he insisted she get on top during sex, then afterwards gave her a spare toothpaste and went to sleep in the guest room while she was alone in his king bed.
The women are catty. Probably some perturbed hookups.
I keep on clicking through the internet. Jason’s reputation isn’t great.
There’s no sign of a long-term girlfriend, ever.
Jason is not who I expected. His unhappy eyes fill my mind.
