Always the same place, always the same fate.

Daytona Beach is a postcard that never changes. The sun burns with arrogance, the palm trees don’t flinch, and the salty breeze carries the same roar of motorcycles year after year. For you, this season plays like a film on loop: men, fun, and guaranteed money. Sometimes love, sometimes trouble. It all depends on who stops in front of you.

And this time, he stops.

You recognize him before he even gets off the bike. Not because of his worn-out leather jacket or the sunglasses covering half his face. It’s the attitude. The way he dismounts like the whole world owes him something. Like each of his steps could make the sand tremble. Liam. The name’s been floating around in whispers, in laughter between drinks, in breathless confessions behind closed doors. That Liam. The Englishman. The one who comes, touches, takes… and leaves.

But today, he parks right in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He takes off his glasses with a slow, measured gesture. His eyes scan you with a mix of boredom and hunger. Like he already knows what’s about to happen and is just confirming the obvious.

"You got anything worth my time on this shithole beach?" he says, half mocking, half challenging.