Chapter Three
Jenna
For a few seconds, I turn sideways and do an awkward dance on the spot as I step one foot forward to follow my brother, then shuffle it back before trying again with the other.
In the end, I can't move my feet any more than I can close my mouth or coordinate holding my drink in my hand with my clutch bag under my arm so I simply turn back to the bar, giving them both my back, which starts to burn as hot as fire, and it’s definitely not my sunburn.
“Did you just check in? How was your flight?” Jake asks and I swear my brother doesn’t need to talk that loudly. That said, my ears still strain to catch the reply, to hear the young man’s voice, but I get nothing.
“Well, welcome, we’re happy to have you here. I see you have a drink...” Jake is practically hollering.
I stretch back a bit, hoping that will help, but still hear nothing but a slight, deep rumble.
“Oh, yes, that's my sister, Jenna.” I hear Jake say, even louder. My shoulders freeze close to my ears. “I'll try that again, shall I? Yes, that's my sister! Jenna!”
After a quick cringe, my features do an abrupt turn as I swivel to face them, smiling.
Leaving my nearly empty glass at the bar, I grip my clutch like my life depends on it and make my way towards my brother, all the while wishing I was in something a bit more sophisticated than the bikini and oversized T-shirt dress I've been wearing all day.
“Hi.” I hold out my hand. “I'm Jenna.”
He’s heard my name three times now. Are we trying to drill it into him?
“Hi Jenna,” he says, and immediately I want him to forget it and ask me my name again so he can say it back to me because it sounds so good in his voice. A voice that is husky and ragged. A voice that has an accent. An accent that is very possibly Irish.
Lord help me if it’s Irish.
“Hi,” I say again, like a fool, as he gets up and leans forward to shake my hand with a firm, warm squeeze.
“Nice to meet you.” He sits back down, leaving me standing there, resisting the urge to curl my hand in a ball to keep the heat he left there. “I’m Marty.”
Yes, he's definitely Irish. Did my right knee just buckle?
“Oh, like in Back to the Future?” Jake says, with a hand splayed against his chest. Marty’s kind smile tells me he has heard this approximately a thousand times, but he covers it up well with that broad, teeth-filled grin.
Teeth that are all white and straight, apart from four at the bottom that overlap slightly, which I find adorable for reasons I can’t articulate.
“Well, no. Fortunately, my surname is not McFly. It's actually O'Martin.”
“Marty O'Martin? Are your parents alcoholics?” My brother’s mouth drops open. He overdoes aghast best of all.
“No, but I am, possibly,” Marty says, without missing a beat.
Oh, Christ. This conversation is like a landslide and I don't know how to make it stop.
“You're possibly an alcoholic, Marty O'Martin?” Much to my dismay, my brother is still talking.
“Possibly yes,” he says. “And my name is Aiden, but everyone calls me Marty. It’s a rugby club nickname that just stuck around.”
“Hmmm, rugby players...” My brother rubs his lips together and closes his eyes. “Tell us more about that.”
“I don't play much anymore.”
Because I'm studying his face intently, I see a small dip in his smile, the dimples disappearing and his dark brown eyes losing their sparkle.
“And you just got here?” I ask, changing the subject because for some undefinable reason my urge to see those dimples again is sudden and strong.
“Yes, earlier today. I’ve already tested out some of the facilities. The gym, the pool and spa. All very impressive.” Marty nods at my brother.
“I aim to please,” Jake says with a quick flutter of his eyelashes.
“Dear God,” I whisper, but I smile when I see Marty is unperturbed, laughing to himself.
“How about you, Jenna, when did you get here?” He turns to ask me.
“Two days ago. The whole resort is beautiful,” I say, winking at Jake. “And the views from up in the villas are spectacular.”
“The view isn’t so bad here either,” Marty says, staring right at me. I feel a single bead of sweat slide down the valley of my back.
“So, what do you do, Marty O’Martin?” Jake fills the space my stunned silence creates.
“I'm a chef... well, no, technically I'm training to be a chef.”
This sobers me up quickly. It brings his youth front and centre of my mind. A trainee chef. Meaning he's a student or not yet qualified. Whatever it is, it means he’s young.
Too young.
And yet earlier he pointed at me. And right now, he's smiling at me and kicking lightly at the chair I’m leaning against. “Are you going to sit down and join us? Or do you want me to get a crick in my neck from looking up at your beauty?”
My brother claps his hands together. “Oh, we have a live one here, Jenna! Quite the smooth operator!” He exclaims, easing a little of the tension in the air.
I feel myself blushing as I sit down and wish I had something equally quick and flirty to say back to him. Instead, I ask him a totally offensive and unsympathetic question.
“So, if you're possibly an alcoholic,” I point at his drink. “Then what's that?”
If he's unnerved by what I just said, it doesn't show. “This? Well, yes, it's a mocktail. I asked your bar staff to make it for me,” he tells my brother. “I like to call it Sex with Socks On. It's basically Sex on the Rocks, but no liqueur.”
“What's Sex on the Rocks?” I say, without thinking it through.
“A cocktail,” Jake says at the same time that the lightning-fast Marty leans towards me and says, “Maybe you'll find out one day soon.”
I know my brother doesn't hear because he isn't doing what I'm doing, which is staring at Marty so intently my pupils feel strangely immovable in my skull.
Yep, my eyes are definitely hard.
“Sorry.” Marty leans and brings his chiselled face closer, just a few inches away.
I can smell him – it’s spice and citrus and something else, not sweet, not floral, but still soft and fresh.
He doesn't touch me even though part of me wants him to, just a tap on my knee or maybe a gentle nudge on my arm, just something to let me know if this attraction I feel is real.
That it's not just made up of the evening’s warm air, the cocktail I just drank and the magic-hour light that surrounds us now that the sun is a little lower in the sky.
“That was a bit forward, even for me. I apologise,” he says.
As Marty sits back a little, I realise that I can't think of witty things to say because it’s been a long time since I flirted like this. But I suppose I may have to try and learn again soon. This spurs me on to try a little harder.
“Don’t apologise. I need telling sometimes. I only know about Sex on the Beach, you see, but everyone knows about that, don’t they? You probably don't need reminding exactly how sweet and juicy and fun that is, do you?” I say, staying close but also ensuring no part of my body touches his.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake being approached by a staff member and after a very dramatic eye-roll he's standing up and walking away, doing up another button in his shirt.
With him gone, I can unabashedly fix my attention on Marty, and I do, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I start to think I've left him speechless, and that makes me feel almost as good as when he pointed at me earlier. But a beat later he’s composed, turning his head so our eyes meet. This close to him I can see how they’re oak brown with flecks of other colours in them, green and gold maybe.
He holds my gaze as he speaks. “You're right. I'm not interested in Sex on the Beach, and I can't even say I crave real Sex on the Rocks but being sober does mean I miss the shit out of French Kisses, Screaming Orgasms, Sloe Screws and a good old-fashioned Royal Fuck.”
His dimples are back as he smiles. Then he sits back and watches me react.
It's my turn to swallow hard and force myself to blink slowly, ensuring that when I open my eyes again, he sees the wide, playful grin on my face as I point my finger at him.
“Are they even all cocktail names? Because if they're not, you're cheating, and I do not tolerate cheaters.”
His dimples deepen as he laughs. He puts his drink down, uncrosses his legs as if to ground himself, and leans towards me again.
“I'm a lot of fucked up things, Jenna, but I'm not a cheater.
And yes, they're all real cocktail names.
But I can't even blame my alcoholism on that.
I've worked in bars and restaurants since I was fifteen, and right now I'm working for my uncle who runs a cocktail lounge and restaurant in Dublin.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say, hoping I didn’t flinch. It’s just so strange to hear him say things like ‘working in bars and restaurants’. It’s like going back in time to my teenage and student years.
He seems oblivious as he continues to smile and stare at me. “It is. It's exactly the kind of place I imagine you would look very comfortable in.”
He’s not suggesting a date, and yet I feel like I've been accosted. This whole conversation feels like I'm being accosted. Part of me is desperate to dive in and bathe in it, but I also want to check first that the water is safe to swim in. I want to know that this banter isn't just a facade for something else. A joke. A dare. Simply put, I don’t want to be made a fool of. I’m not strong enough for that yet. Perhaps it’s this awareness of my own vulnerability that again makes me reach for a terrible joke.
“So, at the risk of being both racist and insensitive, what's it like being Irish and an alcoholic?”
His reaction is worth the risk because laughter rumbles out of him.
“I guess it's like being Italian and gluten-intolerant... Or French and vegan.” I laugh with him.
“You are a funny man, Marty. Sobriety looks good on you,” I say, although I want to suck the words back into my mouth as soon as they're gone.
How do I know if it looks good on him compared with when he was drinking?
I force myself to not think about what would lead a man who is surely only in his twenties, to call himself an “alcoholic, possibly”.
“Can I buy you another drink so you can say more flattering things like that to me?” Marty asks as his laughter dies.
“As long as it's a Sex with Socks On,” I say, far too swiftly. “I feel like sobering up too.”
He gives me another dimple-framed smile, then pushes up to stand, and that’s when I see exactly how tall and broad and real he is.
The noise my throat makes is so much louder than I would like that I'm grateful when he doesn't seem to notice before striding away.
I sit back and watch him, telling myself that if all I get this evening is the opportunity to watch him walk away from me like this, slightly bow-legged, thick in the thighs and shoulders, and narrow in his waist and ankles, then I'll be happy and grateful, and frankly, good to go for a marathon masturbation session tonight.
This thought has me bringing my hand to my mouth to smother a giggle, which is how Jake finds me as he rushes back into my line of sight.
“Can you fucking believe it?” he exclaims, his hands moving as fast as his mouth.
“My first night off in weeks and one of the mid-level villas added sodding bubble bath to their jacuzzi.
It's like a naff Magaluf-in-2005 foam party up there!
We have only minutes to stop it cascading over the terrace to the villa below, so it's all hands on deck. Just wanted to check you were okay and...” He trails off as he sees Marty standing at the bar, leaning against it and giving me a thumbs-up.
A thumbs-up that gives myself and Jake a clear view of how long and thick and curved that digit is.
“Clearly, you are more than fine,” Jake says, lifting his left eyebrow and studying me for a moment. “You know, if you weren't my sister, I would tell you that you have a moral obligation to yourself to screw his brains out...”
“I literally just met him.” I shake my head at my brother.
“You've had longer conversations than seventy per cent of my hook-ups in the last few years.”
“Well, that's on you and Grindr,” I say.
Jake waves my comment away. “The point is, he's very attractive. You scrub up well enough. And my God, he seems very into you. I’m afraid there wasn’t time for me to grill him about his age or that of his mother’s, so yes, it may indeed be a weird Mummy kink, but who fucking cares if it means he gives you the Eat, Poke, Lube night of your life? ”
I pull my shoulders back. “Are you serious? Mummy issues? I'm hardly that much older than him.”
“I said a Mummy kink, not Mummy issues. Two very different things. Says the man with a Daddy kink and Daddy issues but hey...”
“Oh, Jakey,” I say wanting to pull him into a big hug... and to put a fist in my father's face even though he's currently 2,500 miles away. “But we have dinner tonight.”
“No, we don't. Not if this works out. Just please... enjoy yourself. You deserve this,” he says, before pointing a slightly concave finger at Marty. “You deserve that. Even if it's just for one night.”
I feel a frightening number of different things in response to my brother's suggestion, so I take a deep breath and tell myself they will pass. With my exhale, I blow Jake a kiss.
“Don't worry about me. I'm a big girl. Haven't you got to go?” I say. Behind my brother's head, I see his assistant manager, Lionel, running across reception carrying a stack of towels. Jake turns to where I'm looking.
“Oh, Meryl-Streep-in-Mamma-Mia, Lionel! Not the guest linen!” He charges off in pursuit.
I turn back to watch Marty some more, hopefully, while he's not looking, so I can let my eyes roam his back and better, his backside, but then I see he's not alone. There's a woman standing next to him. There's a young woman standing next to him and they're talking together, intimately.
There's a young woman standing next to him and they're talking together, intimately, and she's resting her hand on his arm.
There's a young woman standing next to him and they're talking together, intimately, and she's resting her hand on his arm, and she has the kind of beauty that only the young are blessed with - the unspoiled, smooth and very symmetrical kind.
“Oh, fuck,” I say out loud to myself, wishing I hadn't abandoned the last few mouthfuls of my mojito. “That sucks donkey balls.”