Bahama Reckoning

Friday, 3:30 PM

Victor Torres lay face down, naked, on the padded massage table in his suite at Graycliff Hotel in Nassau. His onyx eyes were closed, and a peaceful expression spread across his handsome face. How wonderful, he thought, to be him.

Victor’s long, sinewy, smooth arms draped from the table. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. Tight, perfect orbs of buttocks flowed to lean, well defined legs. Even in full repose, the power of the Young Bull’s body was evident to the almond skinned girl busily manipulating her fingers into Victor’s left calf. Oil glistened from the shaved surface of Victor’s leg as the attractive Bahamian, clad in brief white shorts and a black bikini top, ran her hands above his knee and carefully began to knead his gluteus maximus.

A sigh of pleasure slipped past Victor’s pursed lips, and he involuntarily spread his legs slightly. The lucky Bahamian girl, he mused, so privileged to be able to rub his magnificent body.

The tentative knock on the door was completely unexpected. Victor’s lids snapped open; his pitch eyeballs rolled toward the sound and bored holes of fury through the heavy mahogany.  How dare someone…

A mistake, he concluded. The maid knew better than to disregard the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the knob. None of his men would risk knocking during one of his sessions. It must have been a guest passing down the hallway. Or perhaps it was a child mischievously running the hall and rapping on all the doors.

Victor eased his eyes closed and willed his body to relax again. His irritation began to ebb just as the knocking sound was repeated. This time the reluctant rap of knuckles was longer, more insistent. The girl’s hands paused, and she ventured a shy peek at Victor’s face.

The Young Bull pulled his hands upward and grasped the two edges of the table. Effortlessly, he twisted his upper body, his triceps bulging, ropey muscles jumping to the surface of his forearms. Victor’s eyes smoldered beneath his crinkled brows.

The Bahamian girl took a half step back from the massage table. A short intake of breath accompanied her movement. Her left hand moved toward her mouth as if to mask any sound that might escape. It was the reaction one would expect from a person suddenly encountering a coiled rattlesnake, poised to strike.

“Lo siento, Senor Victor. Lo siento,” the cracking voice issued through the door. “I am sorry to disturb you. Pero, es muy importante. Muy importante.”

Victor Torres spun gracefully from the massage table and landed without a sound on the carpet. He snatched a small folded towel from an adjacent chair and deftly wrapped it around his waist, tucking an end to lock it in place. Two slight horizontal depressions and a narrow central vertical cavity chiseled his smooth abdominal muscles into a taut six-pack shape.

Victor reached the massive suite door in three long strides. He snapped open the lock and yanked on the knob.

Carlos Barnes stood in the hallway, his fist raised, about to knock a third time.