Page 65 of My Heart Still Beats
I look around. Where is it coming from?
And then I see.
Oh my God…
The band. A steel drum player, a guitar player, and…
Some of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen.
Jamaican men—their skin dark and their muscles rippled.
Oh. My. God.
All wearing tight white trunks—and nothing else.
Damn you, Ben.
Fucking damn you.
Chapter Eighteen
Ben
The ladies are here, and they’re hot.
And they come in a spectrum of colors.
From the darkest brown to the fairest white.
Four women, all with bodies to die for and luscious racks too, of course.
We’ve moved from the beach into one of the ballrooms. The ladies gyrate around us, and one by one, they shed their bikini tops.
They crowd around Braden, dancing for him.
And of course he’s got a scowl on his face. “Jesus Christ, Ben. What did I tell you?”
“I believe you said no strippers.” I smirk. “These ladies aren’t strippers. They’re topless dancers.”
He shakes his head.
“Good call, son,” my father says.
He gets up and starts dancing with the half-naked women, taking each one in his arms and twirling her around in a makeshift waltz.
I’m not surprised. My father likes them young. Kathy, one of Skye’s friends here in Jamaica, used to date my father. I have no idea how or why that ended, and I’m not asking.
Braden finally lets his lips curve into a smile.
“You seriously thought I was going to let my big brother leave bachelorhood without a true party?” I chuckle.
“They’re not hookers, are they?”
“No,” I assure him. “Like I said, they’re not even strippers. They’re not taking the thongs off. Just topless dancers. No lap dances or anything. They’re only here to party and have some fun with us.”
He narrows his gaze. “Dad seems to be having fun.”
Braden and I get along well with our father now, but we didn’t always. During most of the formative years of our childhood, he was an alcoholic. Things I don’t like to think about much.
