“Then they should’ve paid a flanelinha to watch it.”
“A what?”
“Car attendant. Pay someone to watch your car so that some shitty criminal doesn’t come along and steal it.”
“Nice.”
“Same thing happens in the certain parts of our great northern America. Some neighborhoods are entirely transactional.” I fiddle with a few wires, and the car coughs to life. “Plus, are you up for walking forty kilometers or would you rather eat in an hour?”
“Drive then.”
Flashing her a big grin, I floor it. Throwing her my phone, I say, “Find the shittest-rated hotel in Ipanema.”
Fifty minutes later, we are checking into Real Aorporto. Regan reads the reviews to me as I drive down the narrow, hilly streets. “Carpets are filthy. I was scared to even lie down on the sheets, so I slept in my clothes and when I woke up, I was covered in more sand than you could find on the beach.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Not that I’m complaining because I’m not funding this, but why are we looking for something so awful?”
“Because we can’t go into Copacabana Palace Hotel looking like we fought a drug gang in Monkey Hill. This place is going to be happy to accept our cash and not ask questions.”
“I DIDN’T THINK PLACES THIS shitty existed,” Regan says as we unlock our hotel room door. The hallway stinks like fish guts were spilled and never cleaned up. This room smells of stale smoke and too little air. I place our bags on the rickety desk and check out the bathroom. There are two towels that look as thin as tissue hanging on a towel bar and two extras on the bed. Flies are everywhere. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to look up the second worst hotel down here.”
“Thanks, genius.”
I throw one of the towels onto the base of the shower floor. “Stand on those while you shower. I’ll get you another dress so you can dry yourself off with it. It’s cleaner than anything here.”
Inside Regan’s bag I find a swimsuit, toiletries, and a cover-up. The attendant at the shopping center had thought of everything.
Scooping it into my arms, I carry it into the bathroom and am rewarded with a yelp. “Jesus, Daniel,” Regan harps. “A little privacy.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. Placing the clothes and toiletries on top of the toilet, I try to make it out of there without peeking. But a little scream halts my progress. Gun in hand, I whip back the shower curtain and there’s Regan huddled away from the shower head. Heart pumping, I look for the danger. Whisper-thin legs stretching out from a fat black body cling to the metal head. Shit, I don’t like spiders either. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see that Regan would be happy to have me shoot the insect with my Ruger. I shove the gun into the back of my jeans, grab a bunch of toilet paper, and remove the damn thing.
“I can’t finish my shower,” she says miserably.
“Sure you can.”
“No, because I can’t close my eyes now. I have to keep watching for spiders.”
“You can shower with your eyes open.”
“No, I can’t. I haven’t washed my hair. Will you…?” She doesn’t finish her question, but I can see it plainly in her eyes. “Please, Daniel.”
And I find myself unable to turn her down even though I know this is going to be torture for me. I pull the gun out of my pants and rest it on the edge of the sink. With my other hand, I pull my shirt over my head, but I keep my pants on. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll not be able to keep my dick from attacking her.
“Scoot forward, baby doll.”
She does, shivering and shaking even under the hot water. “I know I’m being unreasonable, and I don’t even care.”
I squeeze some of the shampoo from Regan’s bag into my hand. “Lean your head against me,” I order. She does and I’m acutely aware that my bare chest is about two steamy inches from her naked body. And even though I’ve tried to keep my eyes off of her, truth is her figure is stamped into the fibers of my neuro system. Those images aren’t ever coming out. And now I’m adding sensation and smell to the mix. I wonder if I’ll ever fantasize about any other woman.
My fingers fork through her hair and press into her scalp. When she moans, I feel the vibration rip through my body and take hold of my cock. It springs to attention and tries to bust through my zipper to get to her. She doesn’t stop making those sounds, and it’s making me so horny I can barely stand still.
“You need to shut it, Regan,” I bark more harshly than I intend, but goddamn, a man can only take so much suffering.
“I’m sorry,” she says between moans, “but I can’t. It feels too good.”
I could ruin the moment, like I have so many before—with some stupid, sexist comment about how she could bend over and I’d give her a feel good that she’d never experienced before—but somehow I can’t. I let her lean even more heavily against me which causes my side to ache but it’s a sweet pain, one that I welcome because it means she’s touching me. “Your shampoo is done, sweetheart,” I tell her huskily. I turn her so that her pink-tipped breasts are thrust out in front of me, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep my hands in her hair and not drop them down the front of her body, following the path of the water droplets as the soap and water create erotic patterns on the surface of her skin.
She leans back, implicitly trusting that I’ll keep her upright, and I do. With one hand at the nape of her neck to keep her steady, I smooth the clean water over her hair, making sure none of it spills onto her face. Over and over, I let the water wash us—uncaring that my wet jeans feel like a thousand pounds hanging on my hard cock or that the last of the soap streaks were gone five minutes ago. Maybe we would have stayed like this for hours more had the hot water not turned cold.