Hot Vacation

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The heat caressed his face as August Lang stepped out of his hotel room to the white sand. Waves crashed over the shore thirty feet away and a child was laughing further down the beach. There was no rush to do anything. It was a feeling he was slowly falling in love with.

He headed in the general direction of the little cantina he’d found the day before that served the best tacos and coldest beer in three miles. Ratty leather sandals, cargo shorts, and t-shirts were the only attire he’d allowed himself on this trip. It felt damn good not to be wearing a suit and tie.

It was clear, blue, and for once he didn’t have a fucking headache. He’d left his headache behind in Boston; otherwise known as his ex-wife Madeline. With a grimace, he pushed her from his mind. Violently. There was no room for her here, his first vacation in over a decade. His only vacation since he’d married her after college that wasn’t a miserable excuse for her to shop.

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