Nash doesn't respond immediately. He simply gives her a wicked smile, a knowing smile, an invitation that lets her know he’d rather she got down on her knees right now than play in the sand.
It’s a smile that I’m certain with her more-than-likely extensive experience she’s very capable of understanding.
“I won't go easy on you,” Nash says. “I'm a very competitive man.”
A glint fills her eyes, as if he's telling her that he will fight any man on this beach just to spend more time with her.
“You're not the only one who's told me that today,” she counters.
Nash stands from his beach chair, holding his hand out for the ball when she readily offers it to him.
He tosses it back and forth from one hand to the other as his eyes skate down her body.
“Don't say I didn't warn you.” He steps up closer to her. “No complaining if you don't like how this turns out.”
I hear the threat in his words. The man isn’t talking about the damn game they’ll play for a while as a pretense of the night he has planned for the two of them.
She giggles, a grating noise that I'm sure works on many men.
Nash doesn't even look over his shoulder as he walks away to join the group of people that she's gathered for the game.
With his attention averted, I'm now able to look around for the woman in the one-piece bathing suit, but I don't see her anywhere.
It’s better for all involved, I think as I stand as well.
I walk away from the beach because I feel like I've done my due diligence today. I've acted normal long enough.
Nash won't care that I'm gone. The only thing that man cares about is where he's going to spend his night, and more than likely from the level of attention he's got from the woman in the white bathing suit, it's going to end up exactly as he had planned.
I swing by the surf shop before heading to my SUV in the attached parking lot.
It's hot. I'm sweating. I'm fucking thirsty.
I never should have come today, but at least it kills a couple of hours before I go back to the house alone.
I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in coincidences.
Most all situations that seem like déjà vu are created.
They're generated by the people who are hoping to get the outcome that they're seeking. That’s always been my mindset. Someone is always controlling the narrative.
I give a passing glance to the two guys standing outside of the surf shop.
They aren't traffickers. They aren't the type of men that are here looking for trouble.
Despite the heat, they're both dressed in dark suits, completely out of place for a Texas beach.
They’re private security detail for someone they're tasked at protecting, and it becomes blatantly obvious exactly who they're here for.
When I see her again, she’s now wrapped in a coverup from her elbows all the way down to her knees, standing in front of the drink cooler, trying to make a selection as if it's a big decision.
I don't know who she is. I don't know if she's important. I don’t know if she's a B-list celebrity or if she's just some rich man's daughter. Hell, she could be some rich man's wife for all I know.
“Having a hard time deciding?” I ask as I step up beside her.
She doesn't even look my way, but I do notice the small, weak,fakesmile on her lips. It seems rote, as if it's a habit, as if she has to smile when approached in public or there will be consequences.
I reach past her, pulling open the cooler door to grab a water, but I don’t step out of her way.