The writer studied the boy. His dark skin gleamed with a fine mist of perspiration. He had perfected the bedroom eyes look. Maybe he grew up watching old movies, Steve McQueen perhaps.
He leaned into her and took her hand, smiling as if he could read her mind. He was tall for a Mexican, close to six feet. His t-shirt stretched tight across his well-developed chest, his upper arms bare and strong. She let her thoughts free-fall and she could imagine him lifting her and sliding her down on top of his large, hard penis. She shivered involuntarily.
“I don’t want to take you away from your livelihood this evening. Could we get together tomorrow during the day to talk? Would that be okay?”
“Sí, I work at the Hotel Fiesta Americana doing massage on the beach. Would you like a massage?”
Layla smiled. Somehow, she knew a massage from him would end up more than a massage. The thought was delicious and disturbing. He really looked young.
“Let’s meet at A Page in the Sun in Old Town, up the street from McDonald’s. We can have coffee and talk. Would that work for you?”
“Sí, Señorita. Tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning. What about now? I have some free time. Can I give you a taste without cost, so you can see why the women pay me so much? Sí or non?”
“No!” They both laughed. His confidence was incredible for such a young man.
“Well, it never hurts to ask, no?” he teased.
“Adiós, Antonio. I look forward to tomorrow.”