For Carlos—a twenty years old uneducated immigrant—being Mr. Kesling's gardener was, in general, the most ideal temporary job he could have found; having to trim the hedges and mow the lawn and clean the pool were easy enough tasks, and the wage was more than decent. There was only one problem with the job: Mrs. Kesling.
Carlos fished leaves and suicidal bugs out of the pool with a large net, while Mrs. Kesling sunbathed on a lounge chair a few feet away; and Carlos' gaze could not stay away from her for longer than a few seconds.
She was wearing only a barely-there g-string; he watched her rub sunscreen on her skin often, paying particular attention to the more tender areas of her body. The heat of the scorching sun was nothing compared to the warmth that rose in his body, whenever he met the sight of her oiled-up, sweaty body on the lounge chair, legs slightly spread.
Connie Kesling was a twenty-three years old English major and wannabe writer; a tall, slim, athletic blonde, stunningly beautiful, and perfectly aware of the effect her good looks had on other people, especially men.
Carlos, overwhelmed by the heat—and perhaps subconsciously inspired by the tall tales of porn—took off his shirt; he might not possess the most perfectly shaped body, but, he did have toned arm muscles and a flat stomach with discernible abs.
He smiled, slightly embarrassed, when Connie raised her head and he sensed her green-hazel eyes, hidden underneath the dark shades, scanning him with an increased interest; she spoke not a word, simply lay back down and rang the bell sitting on the glass table by her side.
Without any delay, the maid, Rachel, rushed out of the mansion carrying a tray with a new batch of cold margaritas; Rachel poured a glass coated with salt and lime juice, set the blender next to the glass, and hurried back inside.
Connie had a long sip, then lit one of her long, slim Davidoff cigarettes—after placing it in a long, black cigarette-holder. Thus she remained smoking and drinking, her glance moving from the sky to Carlos and back to the bright blue sky. She polished the first glass of margarita off and instantly, almost mechanically, poured out a new one, from which she took a long hit.
She remembered reading about Hemingway always having a drink in his hand; or, of Fitzgerald drinking his words away in Paris during the '20s. She drank again, the combination of the strong margarita and the scorching sun slowly getting to her head, making her lightheaded and gently dizzy.
A few of her short stories had appeared in literary magazines, but, that was predominantly due to her husband's—a business mogul and highly influential man—connections to the literary world; when her first story had been accepted by a widely circulated, and well-respected, literary journal (after heavy pressure put to the editor by her husband), she had been dead-certain her career would skyrocket; instead, there had been no reaction whatsoever.
Connie attributed the lack of reaction to the world's, at its current crumbling state, unwillingness, and incapability, to accept the drunken escapades of a rich woman; never did it ever cross her mind that she, like most of her peers in the creative writing classes she attended, was simply a crafty wordsmith, equipped with all the proper techniques, but, in possession of no actual talent.
She had another long swig of margarita, her mind occupied with only two thoughts: her masterpiece in progress that would shake up the very foundations of literature, and the gardener's/pool-boy's naked, sweaty torso.
Carlos put all his effort in concentrating on the task at hand, forcing his gaze to remain fixed on the pool, when Mrs. Kesling rose from the lounge chair, put on her high-heel platforms and walked—slowly and purposefully wiggling her ass exaggeratingly—towards him.
"What an awfully hot day, huh?" She asked playfully, standing right next to him.
"Yes, ma'am," he responded, a faint tremor in his voice, whilst desperately trying to fish out some drowned bugs from the middle of the large pool.
"Why don't you take a small break, then? You don't have to work so hard!"
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and with the corner of his eye observed her long legs, her shoes toning her calves astonishingly. "But, I have more work to do; Mr. Kesling does not pay me to take breaks."
"Mr. Kesling is out of town," she touched his shoulder and ran her fingers, gently, across his upper arm. "Which means, today, I'm your boss; and I order you to take a break. I don't want you to suffer a sunstroke, or anything."
"It's..." he sighed heavily; what was the purpose of refusing? She'd insist, until he gave up. "Alright, but, only for a few minutes; I do need to clean the pool."
"Fine, fine, just for a few minutes," she replied, faking resignation. "You've got quite the work-ethic, you know."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, gratefully. "I'm doing my best."
"You're nothing like the gardeners we had prior," she continued, when she sat on the lounge chair, crossing her legs high and calling Rachel for a second margarita glass. "You can go now," she addressed, scornfully, Rachel, who remained still for a few seconds inquiringly staring at Carlos, who was still standing up, not knowing what to do with himself.
"Here," she offered him the glass, "have a sip. It'll do you good; rejuvenate you," she smiled widely and brightly.
"I never drink at work, ma'am," he said, holding the glass as if it was a burning piece of metal. "In fact, I never drink."
"Oh," she exclaimed, her eyebrows arched. "Well, just one sip won't hurt you...what's your name again?" He told her. "Right," she snapped her fingers theatrically. "Well, Carlos, just one sip; it's rude not to drink for a toast," she said and clinked her glass on his. "To you and your work-ethic," she smiled, giving him a suggestive glare, then choked down half the glass.
Carlos, reluctantly, had a tiny sip; he did enjoy the sweet, fruity taste, but, to his virgin liver, even that tiny sip of the strong cocktail (Rachel, upon her mistress' request, was making it far stronger than a "normal" margarita) was enough to set his stomach in turmoil.
"It's quite strong," he remarked, still holding the glass, afraid of moving a muscle.
"Yes, it is," she nodded, then patted the soft pillow covering the lounge chair, "come sit here, next to me. I hate seeing you standing up. After all, this is your break; you're supposed to relax."
"I'm okay, ma'am, really, I don't..."
"I insist," she interrupted him; obediently, Carlos sat, stiffly.
"So, tell me about yourself, Carlos," she said after a few moments of awkward (from Carlos' side) silence, and touched, tenderly, his upper arm.
