4. Luca
"What have you got?" I ask, quickly ducking into the pastel green combi van, hoping no one from the tour catches me.
Gazza—real name Garry—shuffles in after me and slides the side door closed.
The van smells like damp sheets and dried cum.
"You're in luck, my man," he says, opening a container that reminds me of my dad's fishing tackle box. Except I'm positive this one doesn't contain lures, hooks, lines, and sinkers.
Gazza's probably my age, mid-twenties, but he looks strung out, like he hasn't slept for the last two weeks.
Boy have I been there.
"I got a hundred bananas," he says, his fingers skimming over the neatly sorted plastic bags. "Strawberries came in yesterday, seven-point-five milligram."
He stops admiring his stash, looks up at me, scowls, then quickly replaces the box with another one. "So." He taps the side of the new box. "What'll it be?"
My mind latches onto something shifty going on, but the laughter of a few people passing by the van snaps me back to reality. I'm in a fucking parking lot in Australia trying to get drugs, mere feet away from the beach where Travis will shortly be competing.
This is insane. I'm way too exposed.
I need to get in, get out. Chitchat about why Gazza produced a new box isn't important right now.
Only one thing is.
Scoring.
"Give me ten bananas and five strawberries," I tell him, producing my wallet out of my pocket.
I flick the notes in front of him. He finishes bagging up my order, then eyes the money.
"More? Less?" I ask, my knee starting to bounce nervously.
I just want to get the fuck out of here, retreat to my hotel room, take a shower, and get high.
"It's fine. Wait." He bends over. His boardies slip down his legs, revealing the top half of his ass.
Just like Travis. Why can't Australian guys tie up their board shorts? Is it an unofficial rule, or something?
"Here." He tosses two small, see-through baggies filled with my order at me, as well as a twenty-dollar note.
I don't bother checking. He's been good to me over the years, and I'm pretty sure he's undercharging me. Makes up for the ass crack tax I just paid.
"Thanks."
I push the latch, open the door of the combi van, and jump out.
"Hey, Luca," he says before I take off.
"Yeah?"
"Look after yourself, okay?"
Half an hour later, I'm numb, peaceful…floating.
I'm in bed watching some Australian morning show.
It's a manageable high. A high that will still allow me to compete this afternoon without anyone suspecting a thing.
I've come so far. This isn't like the other times. Fuck, I used to be so messy.
I bring the comforter all the way up to my chin, shuddering at the thought of some of the drug-induced lows I've fallen into over the years.
Three years ago was when it got really bad. The worst it's ever been. My tolerance increased to such an extent I was averaging ten thirty-milligram oxycodone pills three times a day. That's thirty powerful opiates, enough to kill an elephant.
Every. Single. Day.
It was the end of the season, and I was fucking depressed. I'd finished in the top ten—again.
It's frustrating…but also confusing.
Frustrating because I want to win the championship. I haven't dedicated my entire life to this sport to finish safely in the top ten. I want that title. I want that number one ranking. I want to walk around, solid in the knowledge that there's no better kitesurfer than me on the planet.
And it's confusing, because while I'm performing worse than Travis rankings-wise—he at least finishes in the runner-up slot every year—the media narrative about us is the wrong way around. He gets called terrible names and scrutinized for being unable to nab the championship while I seemingly get a free pass.
For some reason, I've acquired the nickname of 'the golden boy of kitesurfing.'
Maybe it's because I'm the first Brazilian to make it into the top ten.
Maybe it's because the press loves a good rags to riches story.
Or maybe it's because I've earned some cred from the fact that despite my relationship with Travis, I've deliberately avoided ever appearing on a single episode of that show.
That's Travis's theory at least, and he hates it.
I have to admit, I hate it, too.
I don't like the idea of getting a free pass from the media at the expense of Travis. I'm not snubbing him or his family. My reasons for not wanting to appear on Kings of Airlie are all on me.
I have secrets I need to keep hidden because, Lord knows, if they came out, my golden boy rep would be in tatters.
My whole life is a sham. And I don't see that changing in the foreseeable future.
My thoughts circle back three years into the past again to when I was at my lowest point.
That time in my life was a rinse and repeat cycle of competing, us breaking up, and taking drugs.
It was bad.
Not as bad as detoxing at a facility because that is the motherfucking worst thing in the world. Not something I'd wish on my worst enemy.
Been through it twice now.
Mentally, I thought I was going to die.
And the physical withdrawals? The worst. I had cold sweats. My eyes burned. My skin crawled. Headaches, stomachaches, nausea, dizziness, you name it. I never knew it was humanly possible to feel that horrible.
That's why this time I'm being smart.
I once heard a famous musician say that the key to life is moderation. They said they liked drinking and partying too much to ever stop, so they made sure to never cross the line or go so hard with anything that they'd be forced to quit.
So that's what I'm doing now. I'm self-moderating.
I could have ordered five times what I bought from Gazza today, but no. I got just enough to get high without getting too fucked up and having it interfere with my life.
It's kinda genius, this self-control thing.
No one suspects anything.
Not my father.
Not any of the other kitesurfers on the tour.
Not even Travis.
Sure, he made that comment asking me if I was totally honest with him about everything, but we have so much history and baggage, he could have been referring to anything.
I'm eating.
I'm sleeping.
I'm competing.
And I'm able to get hard.
All things I struggled to do when I was at my worst.
It's working. I'm fooling everyone. And I know it's going to be different this time.
I flick through a few channels on the TV but can't find anything interesting to watch. That's when I remember Travis is competing right now.
I turn the television off and grab my iPad from the bedside table. I open the live YouTube World Kitesurfing Championships (WKC) channel, but dammit, I've missed his round. All I see is him making his way to the player's tent.
Hang on.
Why is that guy from the network with him? Holding his arm?
And why are they being chased by a pack of media?
I open a social app on my phone, and yep, the Kings are trending. It takes me a few minutes to get up to speed—a joke I'm allowed to make since I only abuse opiates, thank you very much.
A string of Portuguese swear words spill out of me when I gather my bearings.
The Uncle Tim story has broken.
But why the fuck is the media reporting he had a heart attack? Then again, it's better than the truth.
I send Travis a message. Are you okay?
I don't expect him to reply right away. He rarely does because most of the time, he doesn't have his phone on him. Someone from production usually has it.
I pop another pill, lift the covers over my head, and continue scrolling through social media posts about the King family.
S?o Miguel do Gostoso, Brazil
Four years ago…
"I'm excited to meet your old man," Travis says, staring out the window from the passenger seat.
I'm…less excited.
My usual dealer is a no-show so I haven't been able to get my hands on anything since Travis and I touched down in Brazil two days ago.
I need a hit. Badly.
The last thing I should be doing is introducing Travis to my father sober. Like that's not nerve-racking enough.
"You're being quiet," Travis observes.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
Exhaling, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. "I've never brought anyone home to meet Dad."
"Well, then, it's a good thing the first person you bring to meet him is someone stellar like me."
I glance over at him. "You're not nervous?"
He smiles and shrugs. "I'm more excited than I am nervous."
"You are?"
"Yeah. I want to see where you grew up, and I want to meet the man who raised you. He's done an incredible job."
"My father is a good man." I pull up at a stop sign. "But I have to warn you, S?o Miguel do Gostoso isn't anything much. It's just a small fishing village."
"I grew up in a small coastal town."
"But it's poor, Travis. I've seen photos of Airlie Beach. No one's driving around in Range Rovers or living in swanky multimillion-dollar mansions overlooking the ocean around here."
"Good. Because people who drive Range Rovers and live in swanky multimillion-dollar mansions are tossers." Noticing my blank expression, he clarifies, "Assholes. Besides, we hardly grew up rich. Dad being kitesurfing famous didn't translate to actually having much money."
When I don't say anything to that, he adds, "Even though we've only been dating for less than a year, I hope you know me well enough to know that I'm not the kind of person that would ever look down on someone based on something like money or where they're from."
A pang of guilt washes over me for all the wrong assumptions I've made about him this past year.
Including this latest one.
I'm projecting.
It's me. I'm the one with the problem. I'm ashamed of where I grew up and the poverty my father still lives in.
"I do know that. Sorry."
"It's fine. Relax. Everything will go smoothly." He aims a friendly smile at me. "There's really no need for you to be on edge."
Ha.
If only he knew the number of vital organs I'd give up to score a few pills right now.
"Holy shit!" Travis points out the window. "Look at that."
I take in the massive lagoon. "That's where I learned to kitesurf," I tell him. "There are many lagoons near the beaches around here. We get the trade winds so it blows every day, all year round."
"Sounds like bloody perfect conditions for kitesurfing."
"They are."
"Have to say, from the little I've seen so far, this place looks like paradise. Which, yes, before you remind me, I'm a privileged white prick from a rich country, but I genuinely mean it. This place isn't beautiful in a tourist porn way, there's something special here. I can feel it."
He's right. The rugged coastline of northern Brazil is beautiful. I take it for granted because I grew up here. Lived here. Escaped from here. Travis seeing it for the first time makes me appreciate it in a way I haven't in a very long time.
Palm trees sway in the ocean breeze, the azure waters of the Atlantic stretch all the way out to the horizon, and just coming into view now are the vibrant colors of the fishing boats bobbing in the harbor.
"It's unspoiled. I guess that helps."
"It does. Airlie Beach used to be a sleepy, laid-back place. Now it's overrun with backpackers and swarming with tourists year-round. That changes the feel of a town completely."
"But you still want to live there, right? When you stop competing."
"Oh, for sure. For all the shit talking I do, it's still the only place that feels like home… Do you want to come back here when you retire?"
"No," I say a little too quickly. "I mean, I haven't decided where I'll settle down yet."
"This Airlie Beach place isn't too bad."
"Really? I heard it's been taken over by backpackers and tourists."
Travis laughs. "Touché, mate. Touché."
I veer off the main road, onto a small dirt track. The dirt will eventually give way to sand, and then we'll arrive at the small shack my father raised me in.
Despite my many, many offers to help buy him a bigger house, he refuses to leave. I can't for the life of me understand why.
I don't make a lot of money from kitesurfing. No one does. It's not a lucrative sport like surfing is.
Players make bank through sponsorships. And I've been careful, rejecting opportunities in the US and Brazil and instead opting to concentrate my 'branding efforts'—god I hate that term—on the Middle East.
They have crazy money over there, and it's one of the few places on the planet where kitesurfing is held in high regard.
The campaigns I do are so tailored to that market, there's little chance of them filtering through to the US or back home.
Which is just the way I want it—maintain a low profile while making shit tons of money.
"Anything I need to know about your dad?" Travis asks, his gaze flicking over the dense, green foliage coming all the way up to the road now.
"Not really." I've filled him in a bit, but I guess I should supply him with a recap of the pertinent info. "He's a fisherman. A good, decent, hardworking man. Worked at a fancy five-star resort a few towns over as a teenager. Had a one-night stand with a nineteen-year-old American guest, Ashley, who was vacationing with her family. That's where I come in. Ashley's parents wouldn't let her have an abortion, but they also didn't want her to raise me since they were petrified about what people in their social strata would think of the double whammy of a teenage mom with a brown baby. So Ashley came back here, had me, and then left me with Dad."
"It's very White Lotus."
We watched the first season of that show together, and I didn’t like it. "It is a bit."
"You're not close to your mom?"
"Ashley," I correct him since giving birth doesn't automatically make you a mother. "I visited her once the summer before junior year in high school."
"What the fuck is junior year?"
"It's the year before senior year."
"So…grade eleven?"
"Yes."
"Got it."
"What do you call it in Australia?"
"Grade eleven."
I grin. "That's simpler."
"We're a simple people."
I slow down, letting the tires adjust to the sand, then return to answering his question about Ashley.
"She's married. Lives in Florida. Has three kids. Her husband, Wayne, is some high-flying CFO. We didn't stay in touch after my visit that summer."
"Did something bad happen?"
"No. It's just…how do you make up for missing someone's whole childhood? There was nothing there."
"And you're okay with that?"
No, that's why I began abusing prescription medication, is the honest answer.
"What other choice do I have?" is the answer I give.
"Okay, so let's review. Safe subjects to talk to your dad about include fishing and cooking," Travis says, remembering what I'd told him about my dad being an exquisite cook a few months ago. "Subjects to avoid include working at five-star resorts and impregnating American tourists."
"You're a fast learner."
"Is your dad supportive of your kitesurfing career?"
"He is." I smile. "He's my biggest fan."
"That must be nice."
I pick up on a trace of sadness in Travis's voice that doesn't make any sense. "Oh, come on. Your dad would have to be the best support system you could ever have."
Silence.
He leans back and gently bangs his head against the passenger seat. "Sure. Let's go with that."
I don't get a chance to ask him anything more because we've arrived at the house. Nestled among swaying palms and vibrant bougainvillea, it's small, and the weathered wooden facade gives off a rustic, if not slightly tired, charm.
By the time we get out, Dad is standing at the door in his usual uniform of a white T-shirt and blue jeans, greeting us with a massive smile.
"Luca!"
"Pai!"
We embrace, and then it's time for the introduction.
"Dad, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Travis King."
Travis extends his hand. "Prazer em conhecê-lo."
Dad's eyes widen. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, too," he says, before brushing Travis's arm out of the way and embracing him in a hug.
He invites us in, and we spend the evening catching up, and the two of them get to know each other.
I couldn't have asked for things to go better.
The truth is, I was nervous about them meeting.
My dad is cool with the whole gay thing, but he's an outlier. In this small town, attitudes are still conservative, bordering on close-minded. Him hugging Travis means a lot to me. It's a sign he accepts him, and in turn, me.
And I was also worried about, well…about Travis's reputation. He's the bad boy of kitesurfing and has all the trappings of fame and notoriety that come with that. I wasn't sure how Dad would react to his cocksure smile and quick mouth. But so far, Travis is on his best behavior.
Then there's that fucking sex tape.
Dad's heard about it, of course. The whole fucking world has. He and I only ever discussed it once. I asked Dad how he felt about it, and he said it wasn't his place to judge. I took that as a win and have never raised it again.
By the time we get around to having dinner—moqueca de peixe, which is a traditional stew made with fresh fish, coconut milk, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and cilantro served with rice and farofa—the two of them are thick as thieves.
Me?
I'm about this close to losing my fucking mind. I hit it pretty hard at the end-of-season party, and my body is craving a hit.
Dad and Travis are talking about Dad's fishing, Travis peppering him with all sorts of questions, like he's genuinely interested.
I stop scratching my forearm under the table for a moment to appreciate the effort he's making. It was super sweet of him to learn a Portuguese greeting, even if he did butcher the pronunciation. I could see Dad was touched by that.
And he's acting like he's genuinely interested in this kinda dull conversation they're engaged in.
"I'd like to get into fishing one day," Travis says.
"What? Since when?" I say.
It's the first time he's mentioned it.
"Since forever. Well, not fishing, per se. Oyster farming."
"Really?" My dad's eyes light up.
If he weren't happy fishing locally, he'd take off for Santa Catarina Island, a place that's been dubbed 'Brazil's Oyster Capital.' He's said so a thousand times.
"Yeah. I've been looking into it for a while now. There's a couple of rivers and natural harbors near Airlie…"
As the conversation takes an even duller turn and they start talking about freaking oyster farming of all things, a wave of desperate need washes over me. I feel like I'm about to burst out of my skin if I don't get my hands on some pills.
I get an idea.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, excusing myself from the table, making sure to take my phone with me.
There's a guy I used to get high with, Jo?o. His folks live a bit further down the road. I'm not sure if he's around tonight, but as soon as I close the bathroom door, I send him a text.
By the time I finish pissing, I've gotten a reply.
He's home, and he's stocked up.
Brilliant. He's not that far away.
I can run to his place and be back before Dad and Travis finish their riveting conversation about cultivation techniques used in oyster farming and how pollution can impact production.
I slip out the window, careful not to make a sound, then make a break for it.
TRAVIS
This whole evening has been going really well.
And I'm not just saying that because I want to get into Luca's good graces and score myself a hot make-out session and frot job later, I genuinely mean it.
Rafael is laid-back, funny, and super easy to talk to. Almost makes me wonder if he really is Luca's father, since the similarities between the two men personality-wise are almost non-existent. I smartly avoid making that joke since I don't think it will go down well.
He's also super fucking hot. Something Luca failed to mention.
He had Luca young, so he's in his early forties. Dark, tousled hair frames a strong jawline, his expressive brown eyes sparkle with warmth and intelligence, and his sun-kissed skin radiates a healthy glow, hinting at the many hours he spends fishing under the Brazilian sun.
Not to mention his body is banging. Another thing I decide to keep to myself.
Look at me, acting all grown up and making mature decisions about when to keep my stupid mouth shut.
So yeah, things are cruising along nicely, which is why I'm shocked when, as soon as Luca leaves the room to use the bathroom, Rafael turns to me, his expression turning deadly serious, and asks, "Are you supplying drugs to my son?"
I almost choke on a piece of fish. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't give me your I have no idea what's going on bullshit." He leans over the table, yanks my shirt, and gives it a couple of rough tugs. "Are you supplying Luca with drugs?" he repeats, gritting each word out.
"No. Of course I'm fucking not."
I smack his hand away. I don't care that the man is Luca's father, no one is laying a hand on me ever again.
"Why on earth would you think that?"
He doesn't reply, but he looks over his shoulder, in the direction Luca went. "Fuck."
He jumps to his feet and races toward the bathroom door, pulling it open before I can yell at him not to. "Fuck."
I'm a few steps behind him, so when I reach the bathroom, I fully expect to see a mightily pissed-off Luca in there wondering why his father burst in on him taking a slash.
But the room is empty.
The window's open, though.
Where the hell is Luca?
I follow Rafael as he runs out to the front yard. "What is happening here?"
He looks up and down the tiny, dimly lit sandy street. "You really have no idea?"
"No. I really don't. Can you please tell me where the fuck Luca is?"
"Come on." He makes a resigned noise and places a hand on my shoulder as we head back to the house. "You and I need to have a chat."