Godfuckingdamn.
Ten underwireless bikinis, half the lingerie section later, and $6K later, we’re out of there. Next stop, lunch. The new limo driver I hired since the fuck yesterday wouldn't answer me when I was losing my mind wondering where she was, takes us down to the beach, to a tin-roofed cabana with a bar that opens out into the sand.
Flint and I grab a table facing the water, making sure Isabel sits between us with her back to the rest of the restaurant. Because, so help me God, if some motherfucking frat boy in Billabong swim trunks gives her the eye, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.
The waitress brings tortilla chips and salsa and takes our drinks orders. A beer for both Flint and me, and for Isabel?
“A strawberry daiquiri,” she says, pinning her tongue between her sparkling teeth. “With extra whipped cream.”
Fuck.
But in spite of my aching hard-on, in spite of the fact that it’s not just the woman I’m in love with but also my son here at the table, I find I’m actually really fucking comfortable with this whole arrangement. I flick my chin at Flint in our old signal to ask if he is good.
He nods at me, narrowing his eyes, and leans back in his chair. He flips his baseball cap around backwards. “Yeah. All good.”
Isabel pops a chip in her mouth and then puts her elbows on the table. “Alright, you two. Ten out of ten on the shopping round. But can you tell me how the heck this is going to work? Because for as much time as we’ve actually spent together, we don’t really know each other.”
Our drinks arrive and I take a swig of my beer. “True. But I know I want you.”
“Same,” Flint agrees.
“Yeah, but,” she breaks a chip in half, nibbling on a little piece. “I happen to know that you, mister,” she points at Flint, “are somebody. And I have a feeling you,” now she points at me, “are also somebody.”
I lift my shoulders. “What the fuck does that matter?”
She purses her lips. “It matters because how are two Mister Somebodies going to be happy with a little Miss Nobody like me?”
“First of all, you’re not Miss Nobody,” I answer, my voice low. “Don’t you ever, ever say something like that about yourself again.”
Flint nods. “And the thing you gotta understand, Babe, is we don’t give a fuck about what anybody thinks. It’s genetic. We give zero fucks. Period.”
I nod in agreement. “We want you. And we’re going to fucking take you. For now, while we’re here, it’s just that fucking simple.”
“Is it?” Isabel asks, dipping her chip in the salsa.
I lean in closer. “Is your pussy wet, drenched, or actually dripping?”
She smiles down at the table. She presses her thighs together and blinks with a smile. “Actually dripping.”
“Then that’s all you need to know. Trust the pussy, Baby. Trust the pussy.”
Halfway through lunch, Isabel gets up to go to the bathroom. Both Flint and I watch her go, every fucking sway and curve burned into our minds.
When she disappears through the swinging door labeled Mujeres, Flint leans back further in his chair, opens his arms wide, and looks up at the spinning ceiling fan. “Is this heaven? This has got to be fucking heaven.”
I lift my beer for a toast. “Trust your old man, kid. I fucking knew she’d be down for it. But back to business.”
He lifts his chin and gets serious. “Say it.”
“We never finished our conversation. We’ve got some fucking logistics to sort out.”
He nods at me. “Fucking right. If I were a better man, I’d defer to your seniority. But…” He runs his tongue over his teeth, same way I do. “I’m not a better man.”
Neither am I.
We might be blood, but this is about way more than pussy. This is about life changing, Isabel pussy. And that’s a whole different level.
“So what, you gonna fight me for her?”
“Fucking right, pops. You think you can beat this?” He flexes the bicep of his throwing arm. “I’d like to see you try.”
Shit, what a splendid asshole I’ve raised. “I say we leave it up to chance,” I say.
And then put my fist on the table.
He knows how I roll. He knows what a fist on the table means.
“Fuck you. I’m not gonna Rock, Paper, Scissors you for that magic cunt.”
I pound my fist on the table hard enough to jostle our beers. “You forget you inherited that throwing arm from someone. Come on. Or are you scared if she has me first, she’ll tell you to fucking walk it off?”
He spins his hat back around and takes another swig of beer. “Asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Fine.”
Right. “First round is for eating her out. Second round is for fucking.”
“Understood. Best of three.”
“No time. She’ll be back soon. So we play it straight. First round is for eating her out. 3-2-1.”