"Spring Break" is a sequel to "The Lighthouse," published previously on literotica. Both stories are distantly related to three earlier short stories: "Lake Encounters, Part 1," "Lake Encounters, Part 2," and "My Barista." All can be found on literotica.
Spring Break
By Jack Lynch
Toby threw his backpack up onto the counter. "What's up?"
Karla glanced up from her computer and glared at him.
"Just the usual shit."
Having just returned to Tybee Island from classes at Savannah Tech, Toby reported for his part-time internship at Sav-Hil Vacation Rentals. He'd gotten the job as part of the hospitality management program he was enrolled in.
Just turned 19 years old, still cute in a boyish way. A late growth spurt had stretched him out to nearly 5'8." Slender, narrow hips, with a 29-inch waist. Painfully pale, the whitest of white skin, in contrast to the long black hair covering his ears and neck. Light blue eyes, tiny black moles here and there on his face. Pink lips. When he was a little kid, his grandmother called him the Irish Ghost.
Picking up the bank bag sitting on the corner of Karla's desk he said, "I'll go to the bank."
"No ya won't. I'm gonna go. You can go verify 112."
"Why?" Toby whined.
"Because I've had to register and verify four properties today. I'm sick and tired of taking shit from smart ass kids."
This was the first of three weeks making up spring break for colleges up and down the East coast. Even though Tybee Island was pretty far from the real action in Daytona, the island still got its fair share of spring breakers, hell bent for partying and all kinds of misbehavior.
There was a two part process to occupying a vacation home. For good reason. Smashed windows, holes punched in walls, furniture thrown over balconies. Toby's favorite was when they found a full sized upholstered sofa at the bottom of a swimming pool. Alcohol had a funny way of distorting a young person's judgment.
The first part, registration, was simply picking up keys at the office and signing a long form outlining liabilities and penalties. Prior to occupancy, the names of everyone staying at the house, even small children, had to be listed on the reservation. Verification involved a visit to the property by a Sav-Hil employee to confirm who was actually there and collect ID information. Regardless of who pointed the finger at whom, if and when damage occurred to a property, blame and costs could be assigned.
Tapping away on the keyboard with her left hand while she stared at the computer monitor, Karla grabbed a clip board with her right hand and shoved it at Toby.
"Here ya go. Have a nice time," she said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Taking the steps two at a time, Toby ran down the stairway on the side of the building to the ground level. He was in no particular hurry but sometimes a guy just needed to run.
Pulling onto US 80, he glanced back at the two-story clapboard building, home to Sav-Hil's Tybee Island office. The majority of Sav-Hil's properties were in Savannah and on nearby Hilton Head Island. At those locations, the company had splendidly luxurious offices in handsome buildings. Not so, on Tybee Island. Their office resembled more of an outpost. A couple of desks and file cabinets, computers, faded pictures of properties no longer offered for rent, and a weathered wooden sign on a post next to the street.
Rounding the curve in the road, Toby drove along Butler Avenue, Tybee's main drag. The business district, if you could call it that, resembled similar strips like many other coastal areas along the Eastern seaboard. Aging motels, a plentiful number of t-shirt shops, gift shops, and seafood restaurants. When you walked along the street near the center of town, the unmistakable smell of booze and beer wafted out from the open doors of several local joints.
Just past Nickie's 1971 and Benny's Tybee Tavern, Toby took a slight right onto Inlet Avenue. One short block further, broken concrete becoming crumbling asphalt, and he pulled up in front of 112. Sav-Hil staff referred to their properties simply by number rather than by the full address. Hence, "112" meant "112 Inlet Avenue."
By all standards, this was one of their more modest rentals. Two bedrooms, two baths, in decent condition, no swimming pool, but good access to the beach. Like most of the houses on the island, this one was built on stilts. Periodically, high seas from storms washed across the entire island. As a result, living quarters usually started on the second level, a long flight of stairs from the ground. A Nissan Sentra sat in the sandy driveway, Florida plates. Probably a rental.
Standing on the front porch, Toby rapped on the door. It was only then that he glanced down at the clip board. Three names. Carey Sterling on the first line. Second line: Campbell...his eyes widened. Just then, the door bumped open.
It was him.
"Uh...!" A sharp intake of breath as Toby stepped back in surprise.
"Well, lookee here!" Bell said, a humorous smile on his face.
Campbell Maine. Still looking gorgeous, pretty much the same as the last time Toby saw him. Slightly built and fine boned. Slender, about 5'8." Olive toned skin; perpetual soft tan. Medium brown hair, natural highlights, straight and parted down the middle. Long, it fell just past his shoulders. Almond shaped brown eyes, long nose, high cheek bones, thin lips, and full eye brows.
His shirt unbuttoned revealing his velvety smooth chest and stomach, brown nipples, a soft indentation in the middle of his chest. Christ! Didn't he know how to button a shirt?
Toby could hardly feel his face. His chest muscles tightened, lips suddenly dry.
"Ahem," he tried to clear his throat. "I'm supposed to get ID's for everyone who is staying here."
With a sweeping motion and a slight bow at the waist like a maitre d, Bell welcomed him into the house. Walking to the dining room table, Toby set the clipboard down and pulled the pen out of the clip.
"Ok." Trying to concentrate on business. Three names. "Who is Carey Sterling?"
Standing next to Toby, a little too close, Bell turned his head. "Carey!"
A guy came out of one of the bedrooms. Skinny. Maybe 5'10." Sandy colored hair, neatly cut, slightly over his ears. Fine features, narrow square jaw. A slightly detached look in his brown eyes. Wicked cute. Of course, Toby thought to himself with more than a hint of disdain.
Walking over to Toby with a slight limp, "What do ya need?"
"Drivers license will do."
Toby copied the number down next to his name. A quick look told him Carey was 21 years old.
"Campbell?"