10:11 P.M.
Toby dries off with a fluffy blue towel next to the pool. Head first, shoulders, chest, private parts, ass and back, and his legs. He places the towel over a chaise lounge that sits next to the pool, drying it out overnight, which might be a challenge since the humidity is so thick, and probably won’t break for the next few days. His cellphone beeps inside the house and he escapes the pool area, having every intention of fetching the device.
* * * *
It’s King calling, he determines, studying the man’s name on the cellphone’s screen. Toby decides to take the call and says, “What’s going on, King?”
“Are you at Denver’s, house-sitting?”
“For the next few days. Through the holiday.”
“Can I come over with a girl and swim tomorrow? It’s supposed to be in the nineties.”
“Only if you call first. I’m sure Denver won’t mind.” Toby pauses for a few seconds and asks, “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Daisy. She’s a stripper. I met her this afternoon. She works out at my gym. Black hair. Blue eyes. Built like a stripper. And beautiful. I don’t think Daisy is her real name, though.”
Never does King mention a woman’s attributes besides her looks, which is sort of unfortunate since he will most likely be a single man for life. “Beautiful is nice. You’ll find out her real name soon, I’m sure,” Toby says. He can start an argument with King about being shallow and one dimensional in King’s relationships with women, but he chooses not to. Instead, he’s pleased that his friend has to run, something to do with another call coming in on his cellphone. Perhaps Daisy, or whatever her name is, is confirming their swim date for the following afternoon, or not. Toby signs off with a quick, “See you tomorrow,” and ends the call, feeling bad for his best friend and his sexually haphazard use of women in his life.
* * * *
Toby searches out his bag in the master bedroom, slips into a fresh pair of lime green boxer-briefs, and decides to spend the next hour snooping through the Tudor. He opens closets, looks behind doors, and reads a number of queer fictional titles on Denver’s three-tier bookshelf in the living room. He pulls drawers open, preys upon the space underneath the abode’s furniture, but doesn’t find anything remotely exciting that entices him. Unsatisfied with his hunt, he decides to eat an apple and read a slim hardback mystery from Denver’s collection, something about two men visiting Key West and accidentally drowning.
Around two o’clock in the morning, reading over one hundred pages in the chosen tome, he turns in for the night, sleeping in Denver’s bed again. Naked is the only way he rolls, and doesn’t let himself down. His skin feels comfortable in the man’s sheets, and aroused, but it doesn’t entice Toby to masturbate. Rather, he closes his eyes, drifts into pleasant dreams, and sleeps until almost ten o’clock the next morning.