On The Rocks

I give her a ferocious glare. “Smart-ass.”


My eyes slide over to Hunter as he stands at the end of the bar, watching the crowd. He rarely works if he comes here at night, preferring to just be present and keep an eye on things. Brody has been managing the bar and the staff just fine, and it’s been a calculated move on Hunter’s part to give him that responsibility. It makes me wonder if he’s already started the grooming process on Brody, so he can make his escape back to the Tour.

It’s crowded for a late-April, Monday night, which is great. Normally the heavy tourist season won’t start until after Memorial Day, but I expect Last Call is quite the novelty now that Hunter has taken it over and done a basic refurbish. He had to fire most of Salty’s old staff because they were lazy or skimming money, but his new staff is friendly—with the exception of Brody—and efficient. He replaced all the old booths because the leather was dried and cracked, and the Formica top tables went as well, replaced with heavy wood pieces.

The last thing he did before reopening under the name Last Call was to redo the decor by taking down all of Salty’s lame-ass fish netting that he used to conceal cracks in the wall, repair the damage, and decorate with a surfing motif. Large photo prints of surfers riding Superbank in Australia, The Bubble in the Canary Islands, or Cloud Nine off Siargao Island hang on the walls, along with surfboards, surf shop prints, and plaques that said things like “If It Swells, Ride It,” and “No Waves, No Glory.” A huge, life-size print of Hunter taken from inside a wave as it curled over him hung on the west wall, and I found myself staring at that just as often as I stared at him.

He was glorious. His wet hair slapped across his forehead as he crouched on his board, aiming right at the photographer. His right arm stretched out, his fingers dragging through the wave as the barrel rolled over him. He was looking straight at the camera when the photo was snapped and, when I stared at it, it seemed like he was looking directly at me.

It’s mesmerizing… just like Hunter himself.

The only reason I’m here on a Monday night is because Hunter is here. Otherwise, I’d be at his house with him. He’d probably either be riding me hard or taking me slowly… you just never knew with Hunter. But he asked me to come out and hang here tonight because his buddy, John, would be showing up soon. He had flown into Raleigh and rented a car to drive in, and he and Hunter arranged to meet here and have a beer or two before heading home.

I pointed out to Hunter that there was no need for me to come out. It’s not like we could really interact, at least not without giving away something. And I could certainly meet John another day.

But he had insisted… telling me that even if he couldn’t touch me, he wanted to look at me. That warmed me straight through to my toes. Of course, he told me that this morning, just before he pinned me up against the wall of the shower and pushed himself into me from behind. Just the memory of that has me squeezing my legs together to ease the ache I’m feeling.

Hunter slides his gaze around the room, his eyes coming to rest on mine. He stares at me hard, his eyes burning and needy. I have to swallow twice to get past the lump that is there, because the way he’s looking at me right now makes me feel like the most special and cherished individual in the entire world. It makes me want to stand on top of our table and shout out to the world, “Hunter Markham is mine.”

But I won’t, because even if that was something I had the freedom to proclaim, I’m too afraid that I’m not his and would never get the same sentiment back.