Page 1 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

ONE

THE ASSIGNMENT

The boat had dropped Blake off at a wooden jetty with rusting railings and a cracked white bench, half-eclipsed by the wing of a leaning coconut tree. He stepped down onto the weathered planks, his sandals tapping lightly, the sun hard on the crown of his head.

A dark-haired man with a laminated placard reading “ Mr. Blake Sinclair – Tantara Retreat ” waited nearby with a distracted smile, wiping his neck with a crumpled handkerchief.

The expression on his face told Blake he might’ve regretted taking this job.

The drive inland began with the promise of shade, but the open-air transfer van smelled of sun-hot vinyl and citronella oil.

Air conditioning, Blake noted silently, was evidently not part of the island’s charm package.

He sat with his legs neatly crossed, one hand braced on the smooth leather of his carryall.

As they rounded a curve lined with bright-flowered bougainvillea and barking roadside dogs, he caught sight of a beach.

It was wide and pale, nearly empty, but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a wall of palms. A mosquito landed on the inside of his wrist, and he swatted it with more irritation than force.

The driver said something in Thai and laughed to himself. Blake nodded reflexively, offering the kind of closed-lip smile reserved for cab drivers and bellhops, then turned back to his tablet.

By the time they pulled into the entrance of Tantara Retreat—the resort he’d been sent to scope out as a potential partner for travel tours—his shirt clung damply to the middle of his back.

The gate was hand-carved, wide open, and unmanned.

A pair of hanging chimes clinked lazily in the breeze.

The main building stood low and horizontal against a dense green backdrop, its roof thatched and uneven.

Blake stepped down from the van, the soles of his sandals crunching on fine gravel, and glanced around, expecting a porter. No one appeared.

A few minutes later, a young woman in a pale sarong finally emerged from behind a wooden screen, bowed gently, and asked if he was Mr. Sinclair.

“Yes,” he replied, adjusting the angle of his tablet under his arm. “From Aureus Escapes. You should’ve received the briefing.”

She smiled and gestured toward the reception pavilion—a wide-open room with polished floorboards, two cane fans spinning overhead, and not a single piece of glass in sight. Blake stepped inside and waited for someone to offer him a towel, a drink, even just a rehearsed compliment on his journey.

Just like earlier, no one came immediately to greet him. Just as his patience was thinning, a tall man in linen trousers appeared behind a carved desk and beamed.

“Mr. Sinclair, welcome to Ko Lanta,” he said. “We’re honored you’re here.”

The accent was Australian, the tone sincere, the handshake firm. Blake gave the usual practiced thanks. The man launched into a monologue about tides and solar power and something called “dignified barefootness,” to which Blake had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

He offered a leather-bound welcome folder. Taking it without comment, he flipped it open. The keycard was tucked beside a leaflet advertising nature hikes, moonlight paddleboarding, and “local encounters of the meaningful kind.”

“You’ll be in Villa Six,” the man added, already motioning for the staff to take Blake’s bag. “One of our favorites. Outdoor shower, private plunge pool, view of the banyan tree.”

Blake followed a smiling boy down a winding gravel path, dodging tree roots and lizards. When they reached their destination, the boy dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and left with a swift bow. Finally, alone, Blake exhaled deeply.

The villa was broad and low, all teak and glass, with gauzy curtains and a bed too large for one person.

The air inside smelled of lemongrass and dried leaves.

A ceiling fan circled slowly overhead. In the bathroom, the showerhead jutted from an open stone wall, exposed to the trees.

A pair of white robes hung beside a shallow basin carved from what looked like petrified wood.

Opening his voice-recording app, Blake made a note aloud into his tablet. “Villa well-designed. Private. Natural materials throughout. Mosquito net in place. Gecko on ceiling. Wi-Fi erratic. Authenticity teetering toward discomfort.”

He dropped onto the edge of the bed, checked his messages—eleven unread emails, four marked urgent—and let out a quiet exhale through his nose. He placed his tablet aside and grabbed the folder from earlier instead.

The villa’s welcome packet had a handwritten note tucked inside. The same Australian hand had circled the name of a café and scribbled underneath: “A real local gem. Try the lassi.” Blake stared at it. Then he folded it twice, slid it into his trouser pocket, and stood.

He took a brief walk along the resort path. The pool was empty, and the beach chairs didn’t match. The breeze was strong enough to carry the scent of seaweed and overly ripe mango.

From within his satchel, Blake’s tablet buzzed again. A notification from the Aureus head office reminded him to file his first impressions by end of day. He ignored it and kept walking.

Sand clung to his sandals. The resort had beauty, certainly, but it lacked cohesion. No glossy signage, no trained smiles. No sense of polished choreography.

Still, he wasn’t ready to write it off. There were elements worth salvaging.

The villa itself had potential. The isolation might suit certain clients.

But the execution lacked control, and the more he saw, the more he felt that this place was trying to seduce him with a kind of earnest messiness he had not come prepared to meet.

Returning to his villa, he poured himself a glass of tepid filtered water, stared at the insect crawling along the bamboo windowsill, and glanced again at the note in his pocket. Sai Fa Café, it read. He retrieved his tablet, logged the café’s name for cross-reference, and added a new voice note.

“Investigate local café before excluding. Circle back to culinary angle. Professional obligation, not personal interest.”

The café sat crookedly at the edge of the bay. It was open to the breeze, its roof patched with corrugated tin and the wood faded to a color somewhere between driftwood and smoke.

Blake paused outside the entrance, tablet under one arm, eyes adjusting to the dim after the noon sun. Plastic chairs sprawled around low tables. A chalkboard leaned against the doorframe, half-erased, its faded script giving up midway through the specials.

Nothing about the place had been curated, and that in itself intrigued him.

A dog lifted its head from beneath a bench, a brindled creature with pale eyes and a chunk missing from one ear.

It stared, then yawned. Another, smaller and white, lounged on its back in a patch of shade, one paw twitching as it dreamed.

Two more dozed near the foundation, and one, dark brown, heavy-shouldered, stood sentinel by the door, tail low, head cocked in mute appraisal.

Blake stepped forward slowly.

“Friendly?” he asked aloud.

From behind the counter came a voice, dry as dust. “Sometimes. Depends on the heat.”

Blake glanced up. The man behind the counter was barefoot with dark hair pulled into a loose bun, his face half-obscured by a low shelf and a drying rack full of tin cups.

He moved with a quiet economy, slicing something green onto a wooden board.

His tank top was frayed at the shoulders, and his skin shone faintly where the sunlight reached in.

The brown dog padded closer. Blake crouched.

“This one has opinions.”

“That’s Geng,” the voice replied. “Pretends to like strangers. Then bites them.”

“I’ll consider myself warned,” Blake said, lowering his hand. Geng sniffed, sneezed, then turned and trotted away.

The man emerged more fully now, brushing coriander from his hands with a stained towel. He was lean, narrow-hipped, with strong forearms and a tired sort of stillness about him. His hair was knotted loosely, and a silver bangle flashed at his wrist.

“You want something?”

Blake straightened. “I heard the lassi was good.”

“It is.”

A pause. The man didn’t elaborate.

Blake waited. When nothing more came, he nodded once and moved to a nearby table. The dogs watched but didn’t follow. The heat pressed at his temples. Somewhere inland, a rooster crowed.

He sat.

The man vanished into the back without further comment. A radio clicked on, too softly to follow the words, and something metallic clanged.

Blake adjusted the angle of his chair. He’d worn his second-best linen shirt, no watch, a pair of sandals with scuffs he usually polished out. On the table, he placed the tablet facedown. He didn’t open it.

He didn’t need the pitch deck yet. First, he had to know if this place had what Leon called “narrative texture.” The kind that wealthy clients liked to feel they’d discovered themselves.

No signage, no social media. Just a beach, a shack, and a sense of exclusivity disguised as accident. He had an eye for that kind of thing.

But this place didn’t feel quite like the others.

The man returned with a metal tumbler beaded with condensation. No straw, no garnish. Just pale gold lassi, thick enough to eat with a spoon.

“Thanks,” Blake said.

The man nodded once, then leaned on the counter.

The silence held.

Blake sipped. The drink was extraordinary. Bright and rich, the mango fully ripe but not overdone, the yoghurt smooth and just sour enough to make his tongue ache. No sugar bomb. No attempt to impress. Just... right.

Blake smiled before he meant to. “I’m Blake.”

“Kit.”

They didn’t shake hands. Another dog approached, mottled grey and white, with an old limp and a tongue that hung always to one side.

Kit nodded toward it. “That’s Dusty. He came with the building.”

“And the others?”

“Chili, the brown streaky one, likes attention. Mango’s the small white one. Miso’s under the fridge. Geng, you met.”

Blake looked down. Mango, true to form, had inched closer, one paw tucked under, eyes wary.

“They all yours?”

“They’re here,” Kit said, as though that answered it.

Blake took another sip, then set the tumbler down carefully. He looked around, he stood out in an otherwise homogeneous group. “You don’t get many walk-ins.”

“I don’t advertise.”

“Why not?”

Kit tilted his head. “You think I want tourists climbing over Mango to get a photo of their smoothie?”

Blake let out a low laugh. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

A soft breeze stirred the paper napkins. Somewhere behind the café, something sizzled on a pan. Kit didn’t move to check it.

Blake rested his arms on the table, watching him. “What made you start this place?”

Kit picked up a cloth and began wiping a clean counter. “The last owner left. The dogs wouldn’t leave.”

“So you just stayed.”

Kit looked up then, finally meeting Blake’s gaze for more than a second. His eyes were darker than they first seemed, and Blake thought he could almost see something swirling behind them. “Some people leave. Some don’t.”

Blake held that look longer than he meant to. He nodded, once, unsure what he was agreeing to.

Kit turned back to the counter. “If you’re going to write, don’t mention the dogs.”

“I’m not writing yet.”

“Yet,” Kit repeated. “But you will.”

Blake didn’t reply.

He finished the lassi slowly, reluctant to leave though he had no reason to stay. Kit busied himself with tidying other tables, and the dogs had settled again, their breathing syncopated with the fan’s steady whirr. Somewhere in the back, a pot rattled on a low flame. Kit didn’t speak again.

When Blake finally stood, he left a note beside the tumbler along with some cash. Kit didn’t reach for it.

As Blake stepped outside, Geng gave a soft chuff. Chili opened one eye. Mango did not stir.

The road back to the resort was dusty and uneven. He walked it slowly, phone and tablet untouched in his satchel.

He would need to speak to Leon soon. There was something here. Not just for the report. Something else.

He didn’t look back. But he would return.

Kit wiped the counter again, though there was nothing left to clean. The glass that the man—Blake—had used left a faint ring of condensation that caught the light like a thumbprint. It would fade in a minute, maybe two. He didn’t know why he hadn’t already wiped it away.

Blake was tall. Not stiff, not slouched, balanced. Shirt sleeves rolled, not neatly, not careless. A plain outfit, but chosen. As if he’d stood in front of the mirror that morning longer than he meant to.

Kit noticed his hands. Clean, with long fingers and a way of holding things like they were all breakable. He had crouched by Geng without hesitation and spoken to him with real voice, not a tourist’s coo. Geng didn’t try to bite his hand off, and that said something.

He watched. Quietly, without needing to be invited. Not like a journalist, Kit had met a few, but like someone used to moving through places alone. Someone who expected not to be noticed but noticed everything in turn.

Kit had felt it. The attention. The kind of awareness that crept under the skin if you let it. When he was at the stove, when he turned his head. When he said almost nothing. The man had watched him as if silence itself were a kind of reply.

Kit hadn’t intended to answer his questions.

He rarely did. Most people filled the café with too much voice, too much wanting.

But this one had kept it spare. Careful.

And when Kit warned him about Geng, Blake had smiled, genuinely.

It had been a dry joke, but something in Kit had sparked when he responded so carefully.

He should have felt cautious. Or annoyed. Another foreigner looking for some curated escape, some hidden corner to photograph and name. But this one hadn’t brought a camera. And hadn’t tried to name anything. He seemed like he didn’t quite know why he was here.

Kit’s fingers brushed the ring on the counter again.

When the door opened an hour later, he didn’t mean to look up. But he did. And he couldn’t explain the disappointment he felt when it wasn’t him.