Read Online Vacation to Die For by Josie Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Josie Brown
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is definitely an avid Braves fan, having held onto season tickets for years, even during the team’s disastrous 2008 season; (b) that he is a partner in the Peachtree Street-Atlanta office of Merrill Lynch; and (c) that he also happens to be married.
Not that he’ll divulge this interesting tidbit to Tuggle when she picks up his room card during tonight’s Key party.
Key swaps are just one of the dozens of activities offered. In any given hour, the resort’s activities directors herd guests into games of all sorts. Eden Key’s top picks are Strip Poker, Truth or Dare, Scavenger Hunt, and the Dating Game.
More strenuous activities include nude yoga, nude sunbathing, and nude hiking. Do you see a pattern here? The operative word is nude .
It’s been a slow and grueling process. In the past forty hours I’ve eliminated only six of Eden Key’s fifty-five male guests. That means a lot of flirtations and bar pick-ups, scanning the faces of possible suspects in the hope that Acme’s facial recognition software will make a match with the fuzzy photo we have of Dr. Mandrake. The process of elimination is helped by anyone whose fingerprints are registered elsewhere. But other than that, we don’t have much to go on—
Except for gossip. In this hotbed of hunks, tarts and hotties, the oddest of sexual peccadilloes is grist for the mill.
Tuggle, Merritt and Angie have also kept busy. Their close encounters of the male kind have reaped reconnaissance on at least another fifteen or so male guests, some who could easily be prime suspects except for the fact that they’re missing the mushroom cloud tattoo.
The more my band of sistahs reveals, the more revealing they become. Turns out that Tuggle is recently divorced from the man who was her high school sweetheart. She is now looking to make up for lost time. On the other hand, Merritt, the raven-haired cougar, is thrice divorced and proud of it. One of her several mottoes—“the younger, the better”—is something she declares loudly and proudly.
The last of our clique, Angie, is a gorgeous ex-model who has never been married because (as she puts it) “men only look skin deep.” To make it easy for them to do so, she adheres to the club’s Nude Is Good policy as often as possible. I’m beginning to wonder if her wardrobe consists of anything other than a belly button ring collection.
“What about the guy over there, in the golf shirt?” I try to sound nonchalant as I point out a fifty-something dark-haired golfer who has just come off the back nine with three other middle-aged men—brothers from St. Louis whose wives think they’re on their annual fishing trip at their grandpa’s old cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks.
“Haven’t met him.” Merritt shrugs. “And I’ve got no plans to do so. He’s too old for me.”
“If no one else has dibbs on him, I’d take him, any day,” Tuggle pipes up.
“Trust me, you can do better than that creep,” Angie assures her. “He’s a biter! See?” She flips over onto her back, where an obvious set of teeth marks can be made out on her right butt cheek. “He picked me up before lunch. Said we could order room service in my suite. Oh, well, that’s what I get for telling some dude I’m ‘into rough stuff.’ I thought he meant a little slap and tickle, not covering me in barbecue sauce and having me for lunch. I screamed so loud that he took off like a thief.”
Merritt scrutinizes the manicure on her left hand. “You know my motto—”
Angie sighs. “Which one? You have so many.”
Merritt folds all her fingers down, except for the middle one. In her position Angie is oblivious of the gesture. “The most obvious one, my ignorant little friend: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’”
“I wasn’t interested in his heart. And the part of his anatomy that piqued my interest turned out to be a tiny bit disappointing.” She holds up a finger of her own—a
Not that he’ll divulge this interesting tidbit to Tuggle when she picks up his room card during tonight’s Key party.
Key swaps are just one of the dozens of activities offered. In any given hour, the resort’s activities directors herd guests into games of all sorts. Eden Key’s top picks are Strip Poker, Truth or Dare, Scavenger Hunt, and the Dating Game.
More strenuous activities include nude yoga, nude sunbathing, and nude hiking. Do you see a pattern here? The operative word is nude .
It’s been a slow and grueling process. In the past forty hours I’ve eliminated only six of Eden Key’s fifty-five male guests. That means a lot of flirtations and bar pick-ups, scanning the faces of possible suspects in the hope that Acme’s facial recognition software will make a match with the fuzzy photo we have of Dr. Mandrake. The process of elimination is helped by anyone whose fingerprints are registered elsewhere. But other than that, we don’t have much to go on—
Except for gossip. In this hotbed of hunks, tarts and hotties, the oddest of sexual peccadilloes is grist for the mill.
Tuggle, Merritt and Angie have also kept busy. Their close encounters of the male kind have reaped reconnaissance on at least another fifteen or so male guests, some who could easily be prime suspects except for the fact that they’re missing the mushroom cloud tattoo.
The more my band of sistahs reveals, the more revealing they become. Turns out that Tuggle is recently divorced from the man who was her high school sweetheart. She is now looking to make up for lost time. On the other hand, Merritt, the raven-haired cougar, is thrice divorced and proud of it. One of her several mottoes—“the younger, the better”—is something she declares loudly and proudly.
The last of our clique, Angie, is a gorgeous ex-model who has never been married because (as she puts it) “men only look skin deep.” To make it easy for them to do so, she adheres to the club’s Nude Is Good policy as often as possible. I’m beginning to wonder if her wardrobe consists of anything other than a belly button ring collection.
“What about the guy over there, in the golf shirt?” I try to sound nonchalant as I point out a fifty-something dark-haired golfer who has just come off the back nine with three other middle-aged men—brothers from St. Louis whose wives think they’re on their annual fishing trip at their grandpa’s old cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks.
“Haven’t met him.” Merritt shrugs. “And I’ve got no plans to do so. He’s too old for me.”
“If no one else has dibbs on him, I’d take him, any day,” Tuggle pipes up.
“Trust me, you can do better than that creep,” Angie assures her. “He’s a biter! See?” She flips over onto her back, where an obvious set of teeth marks can be made out on her right butt cheek. “He picked me up before lunch. Said we could order room service in my suite. Oh, well, that’s what I get for telling some dude I’m ‘into rough stuff.’ I thought he meant a little slap and tickle, not covering me in barbecue sauce and having me for lunch. I screamed so loud that he took off like a thief.”
Merritt scrutinizes the manicure on her left hand. “You know my motto—”
Angie sighs. “Which one? You have so many.”
Merritt folds all her fingers down, except for the middle one. In her position Angie is oblivious of the gesture. “The most obvious one, my ignorant little friend: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’”
“I wasn’t interested in his heart. And the part of his anatomy that piqued my interest turned out to be a tiny bit disappointing.” She holds up a finger of her own—a
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