WHERE OCEANS MEET

A contemporary M/M/M Romance set where the Atlantic and the Pacific collide.

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 https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/946895
Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TV962D9

ENJOY AN EXCERPT

“You let him finger you in the middle of the street!” Viviana clutched imaginary pearls. “You were not kidding when you said you needed it bad!”

Not the middle of the street. A discreet wall.

The Pan American Highway was virtually deserted as most of the cars that would cause the massive traffic jam on Ash Wednesday were still parked, their owners squeezing the last hours of Carnavales hard as sunset quickly approached.

“Leave him alone, Viv,” Benito commanded, looking at her from the rearview mirror. “Just last night you were sandwiched between two guys and no one knew where their hands were.”

“Well, I saw some hands on those freaking melons,” added Boris with a snicker from Salvador’s left.

“Shut it, Boris,” barked Belinda, who rode shotgun. “We barely saw you. You never slept in the house, and you just casually surfaced to see those guys with Viv. You’re no saint, girl.”

“Salvador was in a sandwich last year and no one said anything!” Viviana tried to save face by throwing Salvador under the proverbial bus, most probably the last standing Rio Abajo - Veranillo Diablo Rojo.

“Because we knew it happened, but we didn’t see it,” Boris insisted. “Not the same!”

“And he was just honoring the Canal by taking fare from both ends,” Belinda added with an evil giggle.

“Hey!” Salvador protested. He’d been a good one-on-one boy for the past year, no need to bring up old shenanigans.

Belinda was right, though. In how many countries could you say that being spit-roasted honored THE national landmark? Salvador almost snicker-snorted, but he didn’t want to encourage their ribbing.

“The point is— we’ve all done things,” agreed Benito. “Sal is excited, and he’s sharing it with us. Who are we to judge him by a couple of fingers up his ass this year?”

 

“Thanks for your support, Benito,” Salvador growled. “I truly appreciate it,” he added.

“You’re welcome, and I applaud you ’cause dude’s seriously hot.”

The other three agreed with Benito enthusiastically, commenting on Leo’s face, chest, arms, legs, ass, and (of course) bulge. They all had seen him while he was over the tanker.

Salvador had purposely not shown them the selfies the mango had sent him before the group reunited.

“Pity you didn’t get his full name,” said Boris. “We could be in total stalking mode right now.”

“Well, he works with Seco Seco Pub. He ought to be in their pictures,” offered Viviana, throwing a side glance at Salvador and grabbing her bag, certainly to get her phone.

Three smartphones were aimed at the web to begin the hunt.

Salvador just crossed his arms and tuned them out as Viviana, Boris, and Belinda divided forces looking on different sites, each doing a play-by-play of every picture as they scrolled. He looked up and met Benito’s eyes on the rearview mirror. Benito nodded, and Salvador gave him a weak smile.

It hadn’t been a mistake to tell his friends about Leo, even if he knew they would tease him the whole four hours of the journey. He couldn’t have kept all his excitement to himself, though. Luckily, the most vocal of the group were now engaged on a stalking mission that should keep them busy for a while.

Salvador closed his eyes and thought about the hard week coming his way. After spending the last four days close to the Pacific, the next nine days would be by the Atlantic, overseeing the final stages of the resort Argüello, Armuelles & Arjona (colloquially known in the Real Estate Development industry as Triple Argh) was building by the shores of Nombre de Dios.

****

Carnavales might have ended for Salvador, but it was still in full swing at Casco Viejo, so Viviana & Co. had to leave him on a side street way too many blocks away from his house.

The Old Quarter of Panama City had changed abruptly in the last twenty years. As soon as it became a World Heritage Site, someone had the excellent idea of gentrifying it Panamanian style; they would keep the basic structures of the buildings but renovate them internally and leave some poor people around to make it look more lived in. Even the former gang members were tour guides now, showing enraptured travelers where they’d practiced their misdeeds and chicanery along with the history of the area in their colorful maleante accents.

Nevertheless, tonight was all about the party before the remorse of Lent engulfed the whole country. The outdoor cafes were full; the bar-goers flowed to the streets and pop and rock music mingled easily with Murga and Típico bands. Salvador zigzagged among the revelers until he reached the three-story building where his apartment perched atop like the nest of a Harpy Eagle, a bit higher than the rest of this colonial man-made jungle.

Salvador waved at the perky waitresses of Mulatto’s, the karaoke bar at street level of his building, as he approached the entrance. They waved back with simultaneous “Hey, Sal!” He stopped on the first floor to check on his favorite neighbor, Doña Ines, who had been keeping an eye on his cat, Mingo. She opened after the first ring of the doorbell.

“Did you have a good time, Santi?” In her head, the short form of Salvador was Santi and not Salvi or something along those lines.

Salvador like her too much and had never tried to correct her. “Yes. I had a great time. Thank you so much for taking care of my boy.”

“Oh, Mingo is a sweetheart. It was no trouble at all.” She gave a very juvenile giggle. “Do you want a beer or something, Santi?” She giggled again. “Well, I guess you had your fill of that in Las Tablas. What about some food? I made arroz con pollo today. It has the olives with pimentos that you like.”

Salvador was hungry, but the woman had been cleaning Mingo’s litter box for four days, he shouldn’t even consider taking food from her too. Although, Doña Ines wasn’t really old (must be in her late forties or very early fifties) she had this abuelita quality about her that was seriously hard to resist. “If it isn’t too much trouble,” he said, and the knowledge of her culinary skills made his mouth water.

“Not at all, dear. I don’t know how to cook for one person, so there’s always plenty to share. Come in and let me make you a plate you can take upstairs.”

Doña Ines made Salvador a plate to go but also sat him to eat some with her and wash it down with beer. It seemed only fair to spend some time with her since she had helped feeding and cleaning after Mingo “the sweetheart.”

Thirty minutes later, Salvador found the aforementioned sweetheart licking one of his paws over the coffee table, apparently oblivious to his owner’s absence for more than a weekend. “Mingo,” Salvador singsonged twice before the Russian Blue deigned to look at him. He slinked toward Salvador and greeted him with an almost “About time” meow. He scratched the cat’s head and rubbed his chin. He closed the door and said, “Hey, mom,” standing for a minute before the big oil painting of his mother. He about-faced to the stairs of his mezzanine bedroom to leave his duffel-bag, take a shower, and watch TV for a while after that.

Salvador wasn’t really paying attention to the drama unfolding on the sixty-four-inch flat screen; he was reviewing the events of that afternoon, distractingly making circles on Mingo’s grey fur. The relentless happy purring in his lap was loud enough to drown some of the dialog of the TV, and somehow encompassed the review of his encounter with Leo: the texture of his lips, the width of his chest, the spark in his hazel eyes when they were focused on Salvador.

The ding of a text message snapped Salvador out of his reverie.

FROM LEO: hope to see you soon. *cat blowing kiss emoji*

Damn.

****

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