Hot Lava (2 page)

“And you?” I asked. “Were you born here?”

“Born, raised, and yet to travel beyond. Maybe some day. I just need a reason to get over my fear of flying, I guess.” (Hah, it’s not just me!)

His wistful tone plucked at the strings to my heart, the heavenly sound being drowned out by Brandon’s window rolling down, and then by Brandon himself bellowing, much to my surprise, “Need a lift?”

I looked out and spotted the marshal who wasn’t a marshal and his captive partner. He smiled at us and walked over. “Man, you guys really know how to travel in style, huh?” His eyes scanned the length of our transport, and then he added, “In any case, I was told to take a taxi to the Waikiki Police Substation and then to drop this guy off, safe and sound. And this is no taxi.”

Liko, upon hearing this, chimed in. “Your hotel is right next door to the substation, guys. Up to you, but we can fit two more if you want.”

I leaned in to Brandon and whispered, “A third wheel I can take, but a fourth one is pushing it. Especially one that’s shackled.”

To which he promptly replied, “Think of it as a new kink, my friend.”

I pondered if I actually had any old kinks, but was too late in responding; Brandon was already opening the door. “Your chariot awaits, sir,” he offered, grandly.

Mister Stunning (capital S again) looked from his prisoner and then to us. The prisoner, of course, smiled and nodded. “Fine,” he reluctantly agreed. “At least it saves Uncle Sam a buck or two. But if you guys tell anyone, I’ll deny it. And then I’ll have to kill you.” We looked at him aghast. “Just joshing.” He laughed and we exhaled. I know, old joke, but it takes on a whole new meaning when a guy with handcuffs and a bulge beneath his jacket is saying it to you. In any case, they both got in, the un-marshal’s small suitcase flung to the floor.

Two was company, four was downright strange. “Champagne?” Brandon eventually asked.

The prisoner and I nodded; the captor said no for the both of them, thereby leaving more for me and Brandon. Woohoo! “So,” I finally said, admitting that the white elephant in the limo was stinking up the place, so to speak, “what did this guy do?”

“Nothing,” the guy in question quickly replied.

“Drug trafficking,” the detective amended, after he told us that he was a detective for, now get this, the FBI. As if he weren’t hot enough already. “From here to California and back again. Over a million dollars worth of cocaine stashed up his... up his, um...
rectum
.”

Brandon gave an appreciative whistle. “All at one time?” (Difficult, but not impossible, I figured. At least not for the man who asked the question in the first place.)

“No,” came the reply. “Over a year, at least, we figure. The guy’s a flight attendant. The money went to the mainland with him, the drugs came back.”

I looked at the prisoner. A flight attendant, huh? That could mean only one thing: there were obviously three gay guys in our limo. Minimum.

“I didn’t do it,” the prisoner protested, once again.

“He was caught with eighty thousand dollars while leaving Waikiki three weeks ago. His rectum was torn and there were traces of cocaine detected. Three other flight attendants confirmed that they’ve noticed him spending vast amounts of cash as of late, and an island drug dealer testified that he was his carrier. He’s being taken from California to Oahu to stand trial.” And, yes, we did give an involuntary wince at the whole torn rectum thing.
Ouch
.

“I didn’t do it,” was said a third and final time, the prisoner not even facing us but looking up instead.

Detective Stevenson (He’d flashed us his badge. Guy was a good flasher. Be still my heart.) shook his head from side to side. “Be that as it may, I’m here to bring him to the station. Then he’s the state of Hawaii’s concern.” (And with a rectum that loose, he’s not gonna make too many
friends
in prison, if you know what I mean.)

Minutes later, we pulled up to our hotel. “Welcome to the Moana Surfrider, gentlemen,” Liko announced, running to the side of the limo to let us out. “The First Lady of Waikiki.”

We all looked up, even the drug smuggler. “Holy fuck,” I managed.

“Ditto,” Brandon seconded.

“Check out the bathroom in the wing to the left,” recommended the purported smuggler with the loose asshole.

And with that, the chained pair veered off to walk the short distance to the substation, which we could actually see just down the street from us. (Perhaps not such a good thing to have a police station so close to Brandon and me, I thought. Better to keep the authorities at a safe distance. Though whose safety I was worried about was anybody’s guess.)

The two of us again looked up at our hotel. It was like a massive antebellum mansion all in white towering above us, its giant columns, arched windows, and chair-lined porch drawing us in like moths to a flame -- which was kept at a reasonably low broil by the massive palms that shaded us from high overhead. Think Tara goes Hawaiian and you wouldn’t be far off the mark.

Liko led us in, three porters gathering our belongings, which would eventually make it up to our room. A fresh, cool glass of guava juice was offered, as was a damp towel to wipe off our hands and sweat-drenched faces. Then two more fragrant leis were placed over our heads. In other words, we officially looked like tourists, albeit fancifully stinking ones.

“You look like a flower shop just vomited on you,” said my supposed best buddy.

“Gee, thanks,” I replied, smiling nonetheless. “Considering it’s usually
you
that’s throwing up on me, I think I’m one step ahead of the game.”

At that point, and probably already sick of us, Liko bid us farewell. “Okay, guys, have a great stay at the Moana. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again over the next couple of weeks. And if you need a ride, here’s my card; just give me a call.”

Sadly, he was gone, but not forgotten, in a jiff, and the two of us were on our way up to our adjoining rooms. My recent money downpour assured, at least for this trip, that we wouldn’t have to share a room. With Brandon’s sexual proclivities, plus my desire for some, this was a good thing. When we saw our rooms, it became a grand thing.

“Man, this day just keeps getting better and better,” I proclaimed, plopping down on my king-sized bed and cushy down-cover. The room was old-school Hawaii: comfortable and elegant, with lots of polished wood and beautiful adornments. This being a Westin, it was, as they say,
heavenly
. Though it couldn’t, of course, compare with the view.

I ran to the terrace just as the door that divided our suites opened. Brandon sauntered over and joined me, our arms atop the railing, our bodies leaning over, breathing in all that fresh ocean air.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No, the view, asshole.”

“Ah, that, too, dickwit.”

Though, my initial comment was a gross understatement. The water, blue as sapphires and sparkling as such, broke gently along the sandy beach. Farther out, the waves grew larger, attracting pods of surfers, intermixed with a few sailboats and outrigger canoes. The sky was dazzling and fairly cloudless; a gentle breeze wafted languidly over us, rustling the palms that lined the edge of the hotel property. I smiled and sighed, as did Brandon.

“I’d say let’s just lie out for the next two weeks and do nothing,” I tried, looking his way, “but I think I know you better than that.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “you do.” He turned and walked back inside. “But for now, let’s wait for our luggage, get changed, and go jumping into that ocean down there. It’s calling to me, like a... like a...”

“Drink?” I asked, holding up our complimentary bottle of wine.

“You read my mind,” he replied, lifting up a glass.

“Short read,” I told him, popping the cork and pouring.

He smirked and clinked his glass against mine. “To a wonderful, relaxing vacation,” he toasted.

“And to getting laid (not lei-ed, of which we had plenty of already),” I added.

“Hear, hear.”

And amen to that.

***

Our luggage arrived, and we promptly got changed into our bathing suits and T-shirts.

“You’re not wearing
that
, are you?” I asked Brandon, when he reemerged a short while later, clad in Speedos the size of a pocket swatch and a matching midriff-revealing, spaghetti-stringed, pink tank top. Not to mention flip-flops adorned with bright orange flowers.

“What’s wrong with this?” he asked, admiring himself in the mirror.

I couldn’t think of a response that wasn’t homophobic, so instead I replied, “The other guests will be jealous.” (Sometimes it’s better to go with the flow, especially when the current is so strong and dragging you under.)

He smiled. “They can just eat their hearts out, then.”

Of course, when they saw his wardrobe choice, they’d be tossing the meal back up soon thereafter. “Yes, well, let’s go,” I said instead, wisely changing the subject. “Time to bronze some of this ghastly pale.”

Grabbing his sunglasses and then reaching for the door, he quipped, “Fine; we can just Botox the wrinkles away later.”

Ah, that explains his perfectness. I should’ve guessed.

And then we were off, making our way down the elevator and back toward the open-air lobby, with its scattered, luxurious couches spread out atop large, gorgeous rugs. We headed to our right, out onto the veranda overlooking the courtyard, which had comfortable, cushioned wicker chairs that were lined up on either side of us. Then, to top this all off, as if the view wasn’t exquisite enough, smack-dab in the middle of everything sat a majestic banyan tree, its plaque informing us that it was planted all the way back in 1904. An outdoor café with a perfect ocean view hugged the tree on two sides, and off to the right of all this was the pool. The tree itself spread its grand, old branches high above everything, with myriad colorful chirping birds flitting about from limb to massive limb. Throw a snake and an apple into the mix, and you’d swear you were in Eden.

In any case, we bypassed this area and went straight, er,
gaily
ahead
, toward the beach. Private beach, that is -- roped off from the public, the riffraff, the common folk. There we were greeted by a lovely man who promptly set up two lounge chairs for us, just below a large umbrella. He blanketed the chairs in hotel towels and told us to have a nice day. This, I was certain, was a given, all things considered. (Ignorance, of course, being both blissful and blind. And, in our case, deaf and dumb. And a tad tipsy.)

We sank into our chairs, our feet digging beneath the warm sand, and let out hearty sighs. “Ah,” we each exhaled, in relaxed unison.

“Let’s move here,” I suggested.

“Agreed,” he agreed, once the cocktail waitress came over and we both ordered a Moana Sands, which consisted of Chambord and peach schnapps and everything tropical. “A superb place to retire,” he added after his first cooling sip.

“Um, Brandon, in order to retire, I think you first have to have a job,” I corrected him.

“Yuck,” he yucked. (And I couldn’t help but agree. Being without a job was stressful but also quite wonderful. Being without health insurance was just the first, however, and certainly not the latter. Especially since hanging around with Brandon constantly put my health at risk.)

And there we sat, sipping our fabulous concoctions, soaking in the rays, and watching the sun dapple the ocean that lay spread out gloriously before us, splendid and awe-inspiring. And, of course, we ogled the men as they walked by: dozens upon dozens of hot, shirtless, bare-legged men, also splendid and awe-inspiring, which, naturally, popped a new and twisted idea into my head. “Gotta take a pee break,” I told Brandon, hopping up. “Haven’t gone since the plane.”

Brandon gave me a cursory nod, enveloped as he was with his iPod and the ever-passing scenery. I re-shirted myself and re-flip-flopped my feet and was off, bypassing, of course, the outdoor lavatory as I headed for the indoor one, recalling what the smuggler had told us.

The bathroom was at the end of a long hall, situated on the first floor and on the wing opposite to our own. It was quiet and deserted -- in other words, ideal for clandestine trysts. Sadly, I was alone in the small bathroom upon arrival. I did have to pee, though, and headed for one of the two urinals.

And then, of course, I wasn’t so alone anymore.

The door opened and someone joined me, standing to my right, suitcase placed between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell he was tall and dark, the handsome part yet to be determined. He coughed and tapped his feet, clear signage that he had more on his mind than taking a leak. I echoed his cough and moved an inch in reverse, allowing him viewing privileges to my privates. He followed suit, his privates more than a major eyeful. In fact, they were five-star general impressive.

My eyes roamed from his burgeoning prick, now arcing out, to his lean torso and wide chest. His stunning blue peepers met mine at the same instant. “Chase?” he practically hacked. Scratch that -- it came spewing out in jagged shock.

“Detective Stevenson?” I nearly shouted, both of us instantly pushing our crotches forward into the porcelain, again out of dignified sight. “Um, Detective, what are you, uh, doing here?” I stuttered, finishing my stream before stuffing my shrinking prick back inside my bathing trunks.

“Bathroom break. I dropped the prisoner off and was headed back to my hotel.”

Which wasn’t at all what he was doing. “They didn’t have a bathroom at the station?”

I looked over at him, his eyes once more locking onto mine, laser intense, burning a hole right on through me. He grinned, a red flush working its way across both cleanly-shaven cheeks. “You were paying attention back at the limo, too, huh?” he asked.

“Valuable information like that doesn’t go, um,
unrewarded
, Detective.”

“Will,” he corrected. “I’m off duty now.”

I upped the ante. “Wanna get off some more, Will?”

His grin widened, perfect white teeth glinting under the overhead lights. “You want to know something, Chase?” he said, his prick still hard and coming beautifully back into view. (And wide angle lens view, at that.)