LUST & MONEY

Chapter Two: The Necklace

This one takes his seat opposite me. He picks the one without the cushion and moves it so that he's well shaded from the afternoon sun. I'm left to take my own seat and as I struggle to move it without losing the bag I have carefully slung over my shoulder, he sits and watches. He knows there's not enough space in the shade for both of us, but the old prick doesn't seem to care. He's leering at me with a big grin. Looks like I found a real gent.

I don't get straight down to business. Not yet. This time I need to figure out the lie of the land. There's something off about this one. He needs to be reeled in carefully. Best wait till I play with him a little first.

A young Hispanic waiter with what might grow into a real moustache some day approaches us from inside the doorway. He pauses at the fan inside the door, making a show of checking his notepad and scanning the area for paying customers before he takes the plunge and moves reluctantly our way. I look down and examine my nails, giving the old fart the hint that it's time to start taking care of business if he wants to get in my panties. Or to find out if I'm wearing any.

I cross my legs, giving him a glimpse just to drive the point home. His breath seems to have caught in his chest as he orders an Old Havana rum and coke for himself and a Chardonnay for me. Californian. Cheap bastard.

My mind turns to tomorrow's cruise ship. Fresh catches five days a week. Maybe I'll cut my losses and throw this one back. There'll be more old men desperate for it tomorrow. Besides, I'm tired and this one's no fun. But he's here now and I've set my mind on what he can offer.

We sit in awkward silence while the waiter fusses around us with laminated menus. I mentally urge him to go get my damn drink. Does he enjoy torturing diners just because they are well off? Even water would be acceptable in this heat. I slide my fingers under my Ray Bans and rub the grit from my eyes. Then I focus on the old guy.

It's hard to guess his age, but definitely over 50. He might have had an attractive physique in his day, but my guess is that he's got too friendly with all-you-can-eat (and drink). I see it all the time. Even the most self-controlled passengers end up losing their grip when one day blends into the next and they lose track of time. This one is wearing a Hawaiian shirt—whether for its comedic value or not, it's hard to know. He fidgets with his napkin, bending it, twisting it, trying to appear nonchalant but his sexual frustration is obvious. Not playing it so cool now that I've tipped my hand.

It's an ideal opportunity to turn up the heat. I make a show of fanning myself with my hand and allow it fall to my chest where I momentarily rub one of my breasts, as if adjusting my bikini top to make myself more comfortable. He can't help but see the deep valley of flesh beneath my v-neck Chanel top before I pull it loosely back into place.

We still haven't spoken since our arrival. I look up from his pudgy forearms and squat, fat little fingers to see the waiter approach with our drinks. He sets them carefully on the table, giving them a little twist as he places them before us. A real showman. I lift the Chardonnay to my lips, ignoring the perv in front of me who tries to clink glasses, and I inhale through my nose, delighting in the notes of melon and vanilla. I take a sip of the chilled liquid Heaven, roll it around in my mouth and savour the lingering oaky finish.

Time to turn on the charm.

"I needed that," I say. An opening gambit that excuses my rudeness and puts him at ease. I need to make him feel I'm not just an arrogant little bitch whose going to make him feel empty after we fuck. I'm just a girl who needed a drink to steady her nerves. He's the conquering hero and me, I'm just an unworthy young girl with no experience of the world. I watch as he sips his own drink and his shoulders begin to relax. He sinks into his seat and smiles at me.

"It is hot here isn't it? Although I suppose you locals are used to it." There's a trace of an accent there. English?

"Where are you from?" I ask, somewhat interested.

"California,' he lies. I look again at his pudgy fingers and it's there, just like on all the others. A faded tan line where his wedding ring was until an hour ago. Why do they bother? Do they think a hot 22-year-old like me wants to take one of them as a husband? That without the illusion of bachelorhood I might not be interested?

"Linda's a nice name," he says, fishing for an angle to make small talk, and failing. "What's your last name?" 

I wonder where this one has hidden his ring. Hopefully it's still about his person. Wedding rings make the best bargaining chips, even when the threat of police involvement doesn't work. Everyone pays at some point.

I keep him talking for two more drinks and he's gradually getting more daring. He straightens one leg and allows it brush against mine. I'm certain I manage to mask my disgust with a knowing smile before I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I'm alone in the cool porcelain sanctuary, the open windows allowing air move through the room, cooling my skin. The Chardonnay has worked its magic and I check myself in the mirror. Looking this good should be a crime. The idea makes me snort, almost giggle aloud. Laine Tandy, you are one sexy criminal!

I don't believe that bullshit about self praise being no praise at all.

I watch him for a few minutes as he becomes restless, and calculate my return just right. He runs to the men's room. There's just enough in our glasses to tell the waiter he needn't bother tend to us for a while. He seems content to remain of service from behind the fan inside the building doorway.

There's a lull in the day now. Everything is slow and quiet. Most of the Glades are taking a siesta. No one is paying any attention to a sullen young girl having lunch with her father. There's no one here but tourists. I don't bring men anywhere we might bump into someone I know.

No one notices me slip the small plastic vial from my handbag and pour its powdered contents into my companion's rum and coke. I give it a swirl and replace it just as he emerges from the side of the building.  I flash him a big smile.

"It's so hot," I complain, pulling my top down several inches and wafting air against my skin. The beads of sweat gathering in my cleavage make his eyes pop.

He stops fidgeting with his watch, thankful that we're getting down to business in time to get the deed done and back to his wife before she gets suspicious about his absence. Soon, he'll be fast asleep in a room at the Havana Club and I'll be in a taxi home. One he'll pay for. And I'll be taking that diamond necklace he bought her.

It will look much better on me than it would her.