I'd hooked up with men for cash before, bored businessmen at the hotel bar where I used to work. Quick, uncomplicated transactions that never felt dangerous. But becoming a professional in a luxury resort? Unfamiliar territory. For the next twelve weeks, I was tied to this place with no escape—no leaving, no texting, no phone, no spontaneous trips to grab a burger or catch a movie.What if he needed me?
Whatever. Decision made. Last thing I needed was to screw up and get fired.
I glanced at the closet where my “uniforms” hung, gauzy white cotton robes that covered about as much as a sneeze. Today I'd be behind the bar again, mixing drinks with a side of flirtation, putting my bartending skills to work for a clientele that expected a lot more than a decent Old Fashioned.
“Get a grip, Theo,” I muttered, glancing at the clock. Time to move. I slipped on the flimsy underwear that clung to every curve and bulge while somehow showing skin in places regular underwear didn't, then shrugged the robe over my shoulders. The wristlet that designated my work status was dark—off duty for now.
Theo Bennett, the fuck-up, was back in California. Here, I was a companion at The Ranch, doing whatever it took to support my brother.
The walk to the pool bar took me through the central courtyard, an Instagram-worthy oasis with flowering vines climbing stucco wallsand water features creating that rich-people ambient noise. The design created tons of private nooks while still feeling open.
At this hour, the courtyard was pretty chill. A few guests lounged around, reading or talking quietly. A silver-haired dude sketched in a notebook. Two guys made out in one of the alcoves.
Just another Tuesday at The Ranch.
Six days. That's how long I'd been here, learning the ropes of a world that felt like a parallel universe. Six days of watching naked men parade around, witnessing stuff that would make porn stars go “damn,” and reminding myself why I signed up for this circus.
I kept my eyes forward and headed toward the pool area, bracing myself for whatever I might find there. The pool was basically the daytime main attraction—a massive mosaic-tiled masterpiece surrounded by fancy loungers and private cabanas where ‘exclusive resort’ blurred into ‘sexual playground’ real quick.
As I got closer, I heard splashing, laughter, and the thump of music from hidden speakers.
I paused at the entrance to take in the scene.
Turquoise water gleamed in the bright sun. The shallow end had built-in loungers where guests could chill in a few inches of water, while the deeper section had actual swimmers.
Around the pool, dozens of men stretched out in various states of undress—mostly the ‘undress’ part. Tanned bodies soaked up the sun, some alone, others paired up or in groups getting friendly. Staff moved between them, delivering drinks and towels, applying sunscreen, and handling whatever ‘needs’ popped up.
The poolside bar was a small building set off to the side with a polished counter facing outward toward the water. Behind its sleek surface, glass shelves displayed premium liquor bottles, catchingsunlight like liquid jewels. I stepped up to it, my bare feet slapping against warm stone.
Pablo was already there, tattooed arms a blur as he mixed drinks with flair. He glanced over, dark eyes crinkling. “Theo! Hola mi amigo! About time, man. It's getting wild out here.”
I slid behind the polished wood under the colorful canopy. “Wild? It's not even three.”
Pablo laughed. “Brother, this is The Ranch. Might as well be midnight.” He slid a mojito down to a waiting guest, then leaned closer. “You holding up okay?”
I swallowed, eyes flicking to the pool where the party was ramping up. Bodies glistened with sweat and sunscreen, hands wandered freely, lips met in fleeting kisses or deeper embraces. It was like someone had choreographed a soft core scene and yelled “action” without telling me. “As okay as I'll ever be, I guess.”
“You'll do fine.” Pablo clapped my shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. “Just remember, you're here to make sure they have a good time. Smile, flirt, look pretty. The rest happens naturally.”
I nodded, trying to channel his easy confidence and smooth charm. I needed this job to work out. For Casey, who'd always been there for me until a patch of ice changed everything. “Alright,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Let's do this.”
For the next hour, I fell into a rhythm, mixing drinks with growing confidence. The bar work itself felt familiar, but with top-shelf ingredients and drink names that would make my old boss blush.
What wasn't familiar was everything else. At my old jobs, flirting was background music. Here, sex was the main event, playing at full volume.
As I worked, I couldn't help noticing the activities around the pool. Two men locked in a deep kiss on a shared lounger, hands exploringtanned skin. A threesome disappeared into a cabana, sheer curtains closing with a suggestive rustle.
One guest lay face-down as a companion, blond and tanned, straddled his thighs, firm hands kneading muscles with long, firm strokes. This was clearly no regular massage; the companion's movements were slow and sensual, his body rolling with each touch.
I swallowed hard, watching oil glisten on the guest's back. The companion leaned down to whisper something, lips brushing against his ear before trailing kisses along his neck and shoulders.
Heat stirred in my belly as the guest rolled onto his back and the companion sank onto him with a soft moan. Part of me couldn't look away, even as another part felt like I was intruding on something private.
Fuck.
A group of men walked over and sat at the bar, fresh from swimming, judging by their damp hair and towels. They wore what technically qualified as swimwear, though ‘dental floss with ambition’ might be more accurate. They all had that polished, perfect look of guys who vacationed on yachts and had personal trainers on speed dial. Their gazes, like mine, were fixed on the sensual scene unfolding between the companion and his client.
“And who's this?” one asked, and I realized with a start he meant me. I turned to find the entire group staring at me. The speaker was around forty, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tan that screamed “I winter in Bali.”
