He slides out of his long swim trunks to reveal the lower half of his “spring suit,” a kind of short version of a wet suit. When he stands there, Adonis of the Beach studying the waves, feet planted solidly apart, I realize that I simply cannot breathe. Deep breaths, girl. You don’t want to literally die of desire. That would be just a little too embarrassing.
But I can’t help noticing that even a certain…bulge proves impossible for that slick material to hide. My gaze wanders there, and when he turns back toward me, I pull my shirt tight around my body, feeling self-conscious to realize that he’s this luscious while still half-dressed. What if he were undressed? What if he can tell I’m undressing him with my eyes?
Casey glances between us. “Oh, wait. I get it,” he gibes good-naturedly, his jaw falling slack. “You’re not showing off, Mike, that’s not it. You’re hiding!”
“Hiding what?” Michael grumbles, and by now I swear that a faint blush has crept into his olive complexion.
“You know,” Casey says and makes a little fluttering gesture with his fingers, then touches his own shoulder. “The ole army memento.” Again, he forms a fist, but waggles his fingers like some kind of…creature.
“Ah, geez,” Michael groans, rolling his eyes as he focuses intently on the task of waxing his board. “Please, Becca, just ignore this idiot, okay?”
“I’m right.” Casey grins at me, and I wonder what this joke is that he’s trying to let me in on.
“What’s he talking about?” I ask, curious, but also interested at how shy Michael unexpectedly seems.
“It’s nothing,” he says and now I’m certain that I spy splotches of color staining his cheeks. Pulling my knees close to my chest, I watch him, see the way his sinewy shoulders ripple and pull beneath the wetsuit. Absolutely beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful, as a matter of fact—no wonder he’s been gay. That’s not a straight guy’s body. It’s a masculine body that’s been honed and sculpted to perfection for another man. Or, maybe it’s just the body of a guy who works for a living, of a guy who plays hard in the ocean during his spare time.
He stops waxing and turns to me, the golden brown eyes flaring with something I don’t quite recognize. “It’s a tattoo, all right,” he barks. “That’s all. A damn tattoo.” Then, he looks at his friend. “Happy now?”
I wonder why a tattoo would be the source of such embarrassment, especially with a guy’s guy like Michael Warner. Unless…
“What kind of tattoo?” I ask gently.
Poor Michael, I feel bad when he thrusts an anxious hand through his disheveled hair. I think Casey regrets his own teasing. “I bet our girl loves tattoos,” he says.
Michael mumbles, “It’s a butterfly,” and Casey’s exaggerated hand gestures suddenly make a lot of sense.
“A…butterfly?” I scrunch my nose in surprise. I could have guessed a million things, but never that.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh.” He glares at Casey. “Both of you just laugh your damned asses off.”
“I’m not laughing, it’s just—” I search for the right word, “—kind of surprising.”
He looks at me. “An old army joke. Papillon, that’s what they called me. Got the tattoo on a drunken dare and I’ve lived with it ever since.”
“Uh, huh. So you were hiding it,” Casey says.
Michael points at the ocean. “It is fucking cold out there, man!” he shouts, surprising me with his volatility. He grabs his surfboard and stomps out into the waves without looking back at either of us.
Casey and I watch him step out into the ocean that pools eagerly around his legs, then sail onto his board, chest first. Neither of us speaks until finally Casey sighs. “How can someone that beautiful be so damned touchy about a tattoo?”
“Well,” I suggest, “maybe it makes him feel a little…gay. Having a butterfly?” Then to cover myself I add, “No offense.”
Casey frowns, watching Michael paddle into the waves. “Then why’d he get the damn thing when he was still straight? Huh?”
“Sometimes images gain more meaning after the fact.” I think of Michael with Alex, of how an innocent army joke must have become an emblem, an ambiguous definition in itself. I wonder if it held special significance between the two of them, and if maybe that’s why Michael’s so protective about it.
“Nah, sometimes people are just afraid to be vulnerable,” Casey looks meaningfully at the way I’m huddled on the sand, arms wrapped protectively across my chest. “You weren’t scared to go out there, not really. I don’t think you’re scared of anything.”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh, watching Michael sail awkwardly over the face of a breaking wave. “I’m scared of everything.”
“You were ready to do this until we got down to the beach.”
“Duh. You heard all the things Michael warned me about.”
His blonde eyebrows shoot upward, curious. “Has Mike seen you in your bathing suit yet?”
For some reason, I feel close to Casey. Like I can be real with him. “That really isn’t an image I’m thrilled about,” I admit. “Any more than he’s thrilled with his tattoo.”
“You’re gorgeous, Rebecca. Absolutely gorgeous. You know that’s what he thinks, don’t you?”
“Casey, please…”