The sun melted onto the horizon, leaving trails of golden light rippling across the pool’s surface. Mallory tilted her head back, neon green bikini catching the dying embers of sunlight. She brought the bright orange drink to her lips, its candied tang unavoidable even with the aftertaste of vodka. The aroma of saltwater tickled her nose, despite the fact that they were miles inland. Elements of the ocean had a way of lingering, even at faux paradise resorts like this one.
The pool area was alive — chatter, splashes, distant laughter zooming out into the humid sky. Couples lounged on white recliners; children shrieked before cannonballing into the water; a DJ oversaw a forgettable techno beat vibrating through the summer noise. From whatever angle you filmed this, you’d swear it was the pinnacle of leisure.
And yet, Mallory sensed it. The edge. That invisible cliff where the carefree atmosphere teetered too hard on its claim of innocence. She adjusted the layered gold necklaces on her chest, trying to ignore the feeling. Just think of Miami. Glittering lights, rooftop parties, her job — the lofty modeling gig that had landed her an all-expenses-paid stay here to promote some brand of sunglasses she didn’t care to remember the name of. It was supposed to be perfect.
But the man in the gray shirt wouldn’t stop staring.
The Stranger
He was perched awkwardly near the edge of the pool, fully clothed, which in itself was an anomaly among the barely dressed scene. His shirt, slightly damp from the mist coming off the fountains, clung to his torso in patches. He kept his eyes locked on Mallory, and whenever she shifted her gaze, thinking it was over, she’d catch him again in her periphery. Watching, unflinching.
“Hey, is that guy bothering you?” asked a voice beside her.
She turned to see Kit, her makeup artist-slash-handler for the trip, standing just past her recliner, a piña colada in one hand, and exaggerated concern plastered across her face. Her hoop earrings jingled as she shifted her weight. Kit never missed a beat when it came to theatrics, and right now, Mallory was grateful for the distraction.
“I don’t know,” Mallory muttered. “He hasn’t moved for the past twenty minutes. It’s creeping me out.”
Kit scrunched her nose and looked over her shoulder, as if to size the man up. “Want me to call one of the hotel guys? They’ll toss him out on his—”
“Don’t.” Mallory hesitated, surprising herself. “I don’t want to make a scene.”
Kit gave her a dubious glance. “Girl, you’re literally famous for being looked at. Why does it matter?”
The Envelope
The man got up a moment later, and guilt nipped at her heels for making it so obvious she’d been unnerved. He brushed his hands down his damp pants and strode past the pool, heading for one of the glass doors that led to the inside lounge. His movement erased him from Mallory’s mind until an envelope, bright red and impossible to miss, was plucked from his back pocket and dropped onto her recliner as he passed by.
Kit practically jumped out of her sandals. “Oh hell no! Who does he think he is?” she hissed, clutching her drink like it was a weapon.
“Wait.” Mallory felt her pulse quicken. “Let me see what it is.”
With fingers made hesitant by some inexplicable foreboding, Mallory opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph. Not glossy, not high-resolution. Just a standard print on flimsy paper like you’d get at the drugstore. The crunching sound of the photo slipping out filled her ears.
It was her own face staring back. Specifically, her from last week’s shoot in New York, wearing a sequined mini dress, candid yet posed. There was a crudeness to its composition, though. No professional photographer she’d worked with would let a picture like this leave their camera.
On the back, scribbled in sharp, jagged letters, was a message:
I own what lies beneath.
The Twist
Mallory didn’t sleep that night. Kit slept like a rock, snoring faintly in the cardinal-red suite they shared while Mallory sat cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the photo. She scoured her memory until her mind ached, but all roads led back to a single incident she’d buried years ago. A former photographer, infamous in certain circles for his invasive obsession with his muses. He’d been blacklisted, or so she thought.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single text:
“See you soon.”
And there, a figure in the shadows outside their glass balcony doors. Mallory grabbed Kit, waking her into immediate panic, and together they fled the suite.
The hotel staff found nothing the next morning. No photo, no figure, no fingerprints. But Mallory knew the man in the gray shirt wouldn’t stop until he erased the line between admiration and possession. A line she feared she could no longer see.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Poolside Chic: How to Perfect Your Neon Green Bikini Look
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