The Reina was a two-star hotel near the heart of Marbella’s Old Town. Its rooms were small, its amenities limited, and the air conditioning barely worked. Jay considered it a vast improvement over the Serenidad—especially since the television in their room was an old-fashioned CRT model and dumb as a brick.
Following another appointment at Dr. Schwinghammer’s clinic, Jay’s drains were gone. The now-bandaged incisions under his arms still itched.
They left the hotel just before noon. According to Jay’s phone, it was a fifteen minute walk to the nearest public beach. With Moran in tow, it was closer to twenty; he was in no hurry to get anywhere, and Jay was content to match his pace.
As they reached the edge of Old Town and started down the path to the beach, Jay’s phone pinged with a text from Michael Yun:
I’m flying out Monday. Want to hang out this weekend?
“Everything all right?” Moran asked.
“It’s Mike,” Jay replied. “He wants to meet up.”
Moran bumped his shoulder; he had the most irritating grin on his face. “Sounds like you made a friend.”
Jay rolled his eyes. “I tried to steal two billion pounds from him.”
“And he’s clearly decided not to take that personally.”
Another text rolled in:
Bring Sebastian! It’ll be fun 🙂
“He says you can come, too.”
“Generous of him.”
The beach was noisy and crowded, overrun with tourists and their screaming, perpetually-underfoot children. Moran’s hand found Jay’s in the chaos, and Jay held on tight as Moran forged a path toward a clear spot not too far from the water.
They laid out their bags and towels, and then—with a steadying breath—Jay swiftly unbuttoned the front of his shirt and unzipped the surgical binder.
“You sure it’s all right to take that thing off?” Moran made it sound like a casual question, but there was real concern in his eyes.
“If I can take it off to shower, I can take it off for a few minutes at the beach.” Jay shrugged the binder down his arms and tucked it into his tote bag along with his shirt.
The surgical mesh over Jay’s incisions had been removed; the skin beneath wasn’t so bruised any more, but there were raised, red scars that—Jay had been assured—would fade with time.
People might stare, but they didn’t matter. And Moran was here, so staring was the worst they could possibly do.
“Well?” Jay held his arms out as far as they’d go with a little flourish. “How do I look?”
Moran’s eyes trailed down Jay’s body, looking him over with thorough appreciation; his only response was a small, open smile.
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