Written by Gora Shade

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100% written by a human, for humans

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For those who love the ocean

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Andre cozied up to Amber against the wall, craning his neck, half shouting to be heard over the music. He’d had a lot of ladies on his mind, but the glamorous blond was at the top of his list. Her breasts defied gravity with a youthful bounce, with a size large enough to squeeze and lose his face in, but not too large for her athletic frame. She was all tight muscles—a dancer—performing regularly for the last few months at the gentlemen’s club near the pier.

Her pink lips smiled. “What?”

The base vibrated through the beach house while bodies gyrated to the latest techno.

This is my last chance, Andre thought.

Mainlanders and tourists would leave the small island by the first of November, and Amber—the seasonal help—would go too. When the weather cooled, every shop, boat cruise, and restaurant shuddered for the season. Only locals like him would remain, prepping for the Spring and the overflow of future people. If it weren’t for the smorgasbord of lithe, beach-ready bodies strolling on and off the ferry a good chunk of the year, Andre would’ve sought out surer shores years ago.

Andre pointed a finger toward Amber’s skimpy outfit. “I said, who’re you supposed to be?”

Mona was nowhere to be seen, but Amber loved attention. She was one of those beings who thrived under praise. An easy mark now that Geoff was out of the picture. If there was ever a time for Andre to make his move, it was now.

Amber’s eyes lit up under her excessively long faux lashes. “I’m Marylin Monroe.” She smoothed out her short, white, sleeveless dress, and kicked a matching sandal as she leaned into his chest. “The iconic version,” she went on, lowering her voice to mimic the intoxicated starlet, “from that day she sang Happy Birthday to Kennedy.”

“I love it,” Andre confessed, fingering one of her large yellow curls. It sprang back into place with a wonderful flexibility he hoped the rest of her shared.

“And what are you, Andre?”

She hadn’t turned away, hadn’t found some excuse not to speak to him. All the eyes she’d made at him since she’d first arrived on shore were filled with exactly what he’d thought. Lust.

“Me?” Andre shrugged. He hadn’t given any thought to his Halloween costume. He never did. The effort involved in maintaining superstitions was as pathetic as the pretentious crowd. He’d entered the party as himself—in his traditional reef diver-fisherman-surf instructor uniform. It never dipped cooler than 70 degrees, even in winter, making comfortable beach clothes and sandals year-round his thing. “Can’t you tell?” He made a gesture with his hand—thumb and pointer finger flexed outward, middle fingers bent inward—and twisted his fist. “Ehhh,” he teased, “I’m a surfer, here for the waves.”

Amber laughed. “I should’ve guessed. Open shirt and board...

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