Klaue was a fucking pretentious asshole with a grocery list full of unredeemable qualities. He was a useless piece of shit and the only reason Erik hadn’t killed him yet was for the sake of using him to finally storm Wakanda and take the throne that was rightfully his.

Being a part of Klaue’s crew landed Erik in a lot of different situations in a lot of different places. The Netherlands, Thailand, Korea. Even Detroit, Michigan for some time. But now he finds himself checking into the superbly uppity Ocean Eden Bay resort on the beautiful isle of Jamaica.

The goddamn place even had its own private beach within walking distance of the resort’s outdoor bar. It was lavish. Absolutely decked out with flowing palm trees surrounding the entirety of the property, a full service spa, a nightclub, beach volleyball and the largest pool anyone would ever see in their damn life. And Erik was to be stationed here for a week to hunt down a Jamaican connect who’d decided it was a great idea to flip on a deal with Klaue. And he made it Erik’s job to handle.

At least the spot was nice. Filled to the brim with all different shades and colors of beautiful people from all over. Especially out at the pool bar where Erik had situated himself, adorned in a pair of army green linen shorts and a cream colored linen button down with the first few top buttons undone, the bronze skin of his chest just peeking through. The keloids dotting his pectorals, reminders of who he is and what he does.

Sipping on his drink that’s way too sweet, his nose scrunches up and the corner of his lip lifts. That’s what he gets for trying new shit. He waves over the bartender and places a new order when his eyes drift in boredom and he spots you.

Strutting up to the bar dressed in a swimsuit that did wonders for you, hands resting on the wooden countertop like you’d been pregaming since eleven that morning. And looking fine as fuck. Clearly you were another guest of the resort but he figured you had to be a model or something with all those good looks.