Author's note: This story is a sequel to "The Lighthouse" and "Spring Break," previously published on this web site. They read in chronological order. It's contextually related to the other stories I've published here. Your comments are always gratefully appreciated. Send them to my email through my profile. I'll write back!
Karla banged the phone down.
"Christ almighty!"
Toby simply looked at her, a blank expression on his face. Typical for Karla, everything was a pain in the ass.
"Go over to Horsepen. A kid left a stuffed animal or something."
"Aren't I supposed to pick up those new mops at Islands Ace?"
"Bring the damn thing back here first. I want it picked up before housekeeping throws it away."
Mid-summer. High season on Tybee Island. Now that he'd worked at Sav-Hil Vacation Rentals for nearly nine months, Toby was a seasoned veteran.
After jumping down the steps on the side of their building, Toby got into his hand-me-down Toyota, complete with rusting fenders, and headed to the opposite side of the island.
He checked himself out in the rear view mirror. Not bad, but not great. Toby Gallivan. 19 years old, 5'8," 125 pounds, if he was lucky. Slender, narrow hips, still wearing 29 inch waist jeans. Painfully pale skin. The Atlantic coast sun having no effect except to turn him beet red if he didn't use a generous amount of sunblock. Long black hair covering his ears and neck. Light blue eyes, tiny black moles here and there on his face. Lips so pink a couple of people had actually been nervy enough to ask him if he was wearing lipstick.
Horsepen was one of their rentals. The folks at Sag-Hill Vacation Rentals never identified their properties by the full address. Usually, they just referred to them by house number. Because this one, perhaps their most luxurious property, was the only one on Horsepen Point, it was just, Horsepen.
Luckily, Toby arrived as the housekeepers were unloading their van. After a quick hello, he bound up the steps ahead of them. Looking around the expansive great room, he quickly spied a teddy bear snugged into the corner of one of the couches.
Grabbing the bear, he started to turn back to leave. But, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else on the couch. A piece of paper, a scrap really, some scribbly writing on it, cleverly hidden underneath where the bear had been sitting.
He read it once, twice. His stomach flipped. His pulse quickened. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he started to read it a third time. Just then, one of the housekeepers finished banging up the stairs, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind her.
The noise jerked him out of his funk. He shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and quickly left the house with the teddy bear.
Pulling out of the driveway, he sped down the street to a small parking lot next to one of the beach entrances. Only then did he pull the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and open it up.
"Hey if you're not gay, my friend thinks youre cute. Here's her number: 917-444-xxxx. (And if you are gay, here's mine: 917-743-xxxx."
A hundred questions went through Toby's mind. Who wrote the note? Who was it meant for? As sweat started dripping down his forehead, he realized he was sitting in a sweltering car, windows up, in July, in Georgia, at the beach.
When he got back to the office, he tried to make a beeline to one of the computers to check out who had been staying at Horsepen.
Karla stood fast in his path. She had a long list of chores and errands for him.
"Want me to send that bear back?"
"No. I've got it." Karla glared at him. "Would you please leave here now and get this stuff done?" she asked in a sharp tone. It wasn't a question. "Start with the new mops."
Toby was going to protest, thought the better of it, and grabbed the list.
Finally, at the very end of the day, he made a pretense of going through the basket of rental agreements in order to match up a credit card payment with the right client. What he was really after was the names of the people who had just vacated Horsepen.
There it was! The Benjamin's. Their address: E. 73rd Street in New York. Hmmm. His eyes dropped to the registered occupants. Richard, his spouse Brenda, followed by Jules, Eric, and Layton. Jules and Eric had drivers license numbers listed so he knew they were at least 16 years old. Nothing listed for Layton except his age: 8 years old.
The teddy bear obviously, well probably, belonged to Layton. Who knew, these days? Toby smirked to himself. It could have been Eric who wrote that note. But, what if Jules was Julian and not Julie?
The overriding question was, who was that note for? He felt himself blushing. How could it possibly be for him? He shook his head. But, then again. No. I dunno. Back and forth, he went.
***
"And if you are gay, here's mine." That phrased burned in his mind. Toby lay flat on his stomach. Naked. On his bed. He'd put a towel underneath himself, both to absorb the cum and add a bit of friction to his raging hard-on. As he thrust his hips up and down, he watched himself in his bedroom's closet door mirror. His pale white hips and flanks equal parts dislikable and oddly attractive. Swiveling his hip slightly, he watched his pink cock brushing against the towel, pre-cum on the tip. Pink nipples to match his lips, on his very flat hairless chest. He gasped as the cum squirted out.
So? What was he? What did he even know about gay, straight, or anything else?
All he knew was that he was in love with Campbell Maine. And, what was the basis for that?Really? He'd spent maybe a total of five or six days with the guy. Not even whole days; parts of days. He'd let himself be kissed and he'd kissed back. As far as sex? Ok. They'd gone all the way, more than once. But, Bell was Bell. He'd nonchalantly left to go back home with barely a good bye.
Since then, getting him to answer a text, email, or connect on kik or Snap was an exercise in frustration. Usually, just a few words here and there, sometimes just a word. Mostly, Toby just pined for him while stalking him on twitter. He couldn't count the number of times he'd jerked off to some cute or sexy photo Bell had posted.
Girls? A much shorter story. Magnolia Donahue. Long flowing bright red hair, freckles, and blue eyes. Petite, slender, a figure that was guaranteed to get most guys going. The problem: she didn't get Toby going. In fits and starts, they explored each other sexually. Emotionally, Mags was mildly into him. Even mild was a stretch for Toby. Before they finally broke up, he constantly had to remind himself they were even going out.
Karla worked Toby to the bone the next day. With all of the check-ins and check-outs, it was a crusher. It was hard to concentrate on work, though. All he could think of was that damn note!
When he got home, he went directly to the dresser in his room and picked up the piece of paper where he'd left it. Examining it one more time and trying to figure out what to do, he did the only logical thing. Picking up a quarter from the small tray on the dresser, he said to himself: heads for the top number, tails for the bottom one.
Balancing the coin on the side of his index finger, he flipped the quarter into the air with his thumb. It landed in his palm and he turned it over onto his wrist.
Heads. How about two out of three?
Shaking his head, Toby picked up his phone. 917 was a New York City area code; he'd checked. What was with that? He dialed 917-444-XXX and just as he hit the last number, the name CeeCee came up on the screen.
"Uh-h-h-h!" He gasped as he sucked his breath in.
Before he could click off, she answered.
"Hello?"
