The only thing beating with a genuine heartbeat was the ocean.
Cal sat outside a hotel on Ocean Drive. It wasn’t his first visit to a South Beach bar, but it was his first to this particular one. Art Deco, right across from the water. A place he’d been told was an institution — new arrivals to the city must be christened here, apparently.
It was crowded. Late. Women had approached occasionally, but the only one Cal seemed to notice was the one pouring his drinks.
About fifty dollars’ worth so far.
And despite the top-shelf whiskey, he could still feel what he’d come here to ignore.
Staring at the woman, at her sultry lids lined with too much charcoal, at her dark eyes and even darker hair — she had an accent he thought charming — Cal was displeased.
Not with her but himself. Being here made him more aware of what plagued him. You’re the only person I know who can be lonely in a crowd of people. Fuck Maggie and her wonderful words of wisdom.
He picked up his glass and took a swallow, his eyes bouncing on and off the bartender.
Perhaps he wanted to fuck her.
Or perhaps he wanted a good night’s sleep.
Cal was tired.
He’d been in the Florida heat for weeks, hot in March when he’d arrived, hotter still in April, and he hadn’t taken to anyone — not a friend, an enemy … or a woman.
John had invited Cal to his home numerous times, but Cal always politely refused, making excuses. They only met for business and only when necessary. Cal needed to disguise what Maggie would unravel in an instant. A desperation now, really. A denial and an upheaval.
Cal wanted to drink.
As he did in the bar now.
Without prying eyes.
Translation: without Maggie’s eyes. Orbs that would read him, then scold him, The Cat usually desiring to pull him back inside some kind of so-called “normal” reality. One he’d never lived in. Or if he had, he’d sabotaged it.
Maggie would never understand what he felt as he lingered at the South Beach bar, lonely and surrounded by people, drinking. Looking at strangers, needing a stranger. Maggie didn’t know The Lonely.
John pretended to.
The bartender understood.
She probably glimpsed it daily, heard sob stories, but this was her job. A means to an end. He doubted she gave two fucks about other people’s sorrows. She wanted to make money.
“Do you want another?” the bartender asked, raising Cal’s empty glass, then wiping the nearby counter with a rag.
“No.” Cal’s posture changed — he morphed — becoming a fucking chameleon, always achieving what he wanted whether it was for the best or not.
The woman smiled. “Have you been to the beach at night?” Stretching forward, she placed her elbows on the bar top, causing her cleavage to rise as her voice rumbled like a violin playing a Spanish warble.
“I’m here now,” he replied, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s across the street.”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you care?”
“No.” Standing tall, she smirked and flicked her ponytail. “I’m done working soon. Pay your tab.” She tapped the countertop. “Then I will show you the beach … at night.”
Cal knew he would pay.
Question was … how high would the price be?
* * *
The small bottle of tequila she’d swiped from the bar was nearly gone. Cal had taken only a few swallows. In her other palm was a phone.
She’d been talking on the device since they’d arrived near the shoreline, having accepted a call shortly after making fun of Cal’s refusal to bare his feet.
Taking off his shoes meant being reminded of surfing and orchards — things he couldn’t want or have or enjoy because he had another life now, a far different one from someone who could shove their toes in sand or grass or run across tangerine fields.
Cal wondered how in the hell he’d gotten here — sitting on the sand three thousand miles from home, miles from anywhere and anything he knew, the ocean being the closest thing resembling something familiar, the nearest he could get to California. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he faced west. But once he opened them again, he would quickly realize he’d been dreaming.
The reality being he was miles and miles from his ailing mother, from Ojai, from whatever he left behind when he first started searching for bullshit in 1991.
Fuck… He was sick. So sick of all of it.
The only thing beating with a genuine heartbeat was the ocean. The ocean was beautiful, but it couldn’t hold him or love him, and the ocean couldn’t—
Hiccupping, the girl hit “end” and wobbled toward Cal, interrupting his life’s constant rotation.
“You”—hiccup—“take me back to your hotel.” She peered down at him, still holding the bottle and phone.
Shoving an ankle against her shins, Cal tripped, then caught her, slipping his hand across her back as she fell. She laughed, pressed her body close to his, then put an elbow in the dirt.
“We can’t go to my place.”
“You live here?” Her eyebrows rose. She shoved the bottle into the sand. “What? Do you have a wife at home?”
Cal reached for the tequila.
“You want a drink now?” She snagged it from his grasp and laughed. “You’re weird.” She took a generous sip, then wiped her mouth. “Do you want to fuck here?” She nuzzled his shoulder, batting her drunken eyelids.
Cal looked to the sky. The stars were impossible to see with all the light pollution. In Ojai, he could see thousands, maybe millions.
He hadn’t prepared himself for the change in scenery. The people. The way the energy felt here.
Or for nights out alone.
His expectations had been too high. Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be with this woman at all.
No, he did know.
He didn’t want her. He’d been wrong. Wrong about her, but right about needing to get laid. A warm body. A cunt to milk his cock so he could forget. If only he could get it over with. There hadn’t been a girl since Reegan. No one.
Why couldn’t he still do this? He needed it, but it wasn’t in him anymore. The chase. The randomness. There was nothing in the others either. No spark. No charisma. Something to arouse his mind — the challenge, the intelligence, the … something. Even Reegan had something — married and lost and lonelier than a thousand of him, but she crackled like wood over an open fire.
“I share an apartment with my brother.” Hiccup. “He’s home. We can’t go there.”
The girl began to kiss his neck. Her breath along with the moisture from her lips were both distasteful and welcomed. Everything about her was that way now. The moment she touched his zipper, Cal forgot where he was, forgot she was a stranger, and she caused him to remember what he needed. He pushed her flat against the sand and put his mouth on hers. Right as he was really beginning to use his tongue, a song played, something modern. Something he didn’t recognize. She answered the call.
Sitting up, he brushed sand from his clothes and eyeballed her, irritated this would’ve been the first woman since Reegan — the girl in her twenties, the one who assumed he couldn’t understand a word she uttered.
Technology degraded people, reducing them to this.
Perhaps the device would make her come.
He was done.
“Where are you going?” she slurred the moment he stood.
“Estoy dejando,” he replied, making sure his eyes bled intimidation and no charm. “No soy tu jodido niñero.”
The bartender’s mouth dropped open. She said goodbye to the caller and stood. “I’m sorry.” She nuzzled his bicep. “Take me to your place. You’re not an anciano.”
“I told you ... we’re not going to my—”
“Then here … on the beach. We can find a private spot.”
“I don’t fuck without a condom.”
“You go out to the bar, and you don’t have a preservativo?” She crossed her ankles and wobbled some. “I’m on birth control.”
Cal looked toward the water and put a hand in his pocket, fingering the square foil packet. He didn’t want to be inside her now. He didn’t even want to be near her. But he still needed to fuck.
“Can I make sure you get home?” He glanced back into her sooty eyes, her woozy stare, the breeze blowing through his dirty-blond hair.
The girl laughed, then her phone pinged. The screen lit her face as she raised it higher.
“Too bad your phone can’t fuck you.” Cal began to walk away.
“Fuck you,” she yelled. “You are too old … anciano, and crazy! I don’t need you!”
Cal was already miles away.
No. Nobody fucking needed him. He already knew that. That lesson had been covered long ago. The poor girl, thinking she could hurt him with that.
Women didn’t need him.
Sometimes they said they did, but it was momentary.
Or a lie.
Women didn’t need men. They fucked each other. Their friendships meant more than keeping a husband. They borrowed men for sperm.
No. Those words hadn’t hurt him. In fact, they only made his will grow stronger.
He didn’t want more mistakes.
He’d left California wanting to put an end to them. The fucking Lonely wanted him to keep making the same ones over and over.
But he had control.
He. Had. Control.
Yes. He had it. It was here — in his swagger. The control bucked up against the wild neon of the Miami night. The control was a fucking contender.