Some Body to Love
The New World of SwapTech
chapter 4
by
deleted_user
The villa screamed money. Whitewashed walls, infinity pool bleeding into the Pacific, beds the size of small countries. The kind of place where privacy went to die and thirst traps were born.
Bruce arrived first. The sun caught his shoulders as he stepped out of the limo—six-foot-five of carved obsidian muscle, tank top straining against the inverted triangle of his torso. He didn’t walk; he prowled. “Gonna win this,” he told the camera, flashbulb grin perfect. “Simple as that.”
Polly clicked onto the terrace ten minutes later, six-inch heels stabbing the marble. Her waist cinched to 22 inches, 32DDs leading the charge like figureheads on a yacht. Platinum hair swung heavy and false down her back.
She scanned Bruce immediately, calculating the value of his watch against the size of his deltoids.
“Hi,” she breathed, voice high and airy. “I’m The Brand.”
Bruce’s eyes dropped to her chest. “I see that.”
Ken stumbled out third, tripping on the gravel path. At five-seven, he craned his neck up at Bruce, techwear straps flapping in the breeze. His undercut was crisp, silver streaks catching the light, but his hands wouldn’t stop twitching.
“According to market analysis,” he said, pushing his rectangular glasses up his nose, “initial impressions correlate 73% with final pairings—”
“Cool shoes, short king,” Polly interrupted, already bored.
Alejandra exploded through the doors next. Five-three of pure voltage, neon acrylic nails flashing as she adjusted her bikini top. Her abs rippled; her biceps cut hard lines against olive skin.
“Dios mío, it’s hot as hell,” she announced, thick curls bouncing. She zeroed in on Bruce immediately, territorial as a wolf. “You. You’re big. I like big.”
Bruce puffed his chest. Polly’s eyes narrowed to slits.
Walt emerged from the shadows of the cabana, linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal a gym-carved chest that cost more than most cars. 48 but waxed smooth as a baby, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back executive-tight.
He clapped Bruce on the shoulder with a patronizing squeeze. “Easy there, sport. Save it for the game.”
He turned to Ruth—who’d slipped in unnoticed, tiny at four-foot-eleven in an oversized hoodie—and winked. “You look like you need a drink, little one. Daddy’s buying.”
Ruth’s auburn-tipped bangs shadowed her eyes. “I’m a surgical resident,” she said quietly. “I’ve handled literal guts. Keep your hands to yourself.”
Zelda sauntered in last from the west wing, six-one and skeletal in avant-garde black, phone held aloft to capture her own entrance. She filmed Bruce’s biceps, then Ken’s sneakers, then Polly’s exaggerated hourglass. “Content,” she muttered, Slavic cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She blew a kiss to no one in particular.
Javi arrived with the sunset, boots crunching gravel. Six-two, lean muscle moving under sun-bronzed skin, beat-up Stetson casting his sharp jawline in shadow. He tipped his hat at the women. “Ma’am,” he said to Alejandra.
She blinked. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Respect is respect,” Javi drawled, calloused hands opening the terrace door for her. His scarred forearm flexed.
Alejandra looked him up and down, then Bruce. Options.
Charlie lumbered in sweating, graphic tee stained with what might have been lunch. At 390 pounds, he filled the doorway, greasy ponytail swinging. “Who’s ready to get railed?” he bellowed, then belched. He elbowed Ken hard enough to knock the smaller man sideways. “Crypto bro! Still HOLDing?”
“Please don’t touch me,” Ken whispered.
Svetlana entered like winter arriving. Five-nine, platinum hair ice-blue under the lights, 34D-24-36 wrapped in white linen that probably cost a grand. She didn’t greet anyone. She assessed—cataloging Bruce’s NBA ink, Polly’s surgical enhancements, Walt’s watch tan line. Competition. All of them.
Laurel crept in behind her, nearly invisible in a vintage cardigan that swallowed her soft, slender frame. She pushed thick-rimmed glasses up her nose, holding a book like a shield. She found a corner chaise and sat, observing Walt’s negging and Charlie’s sweating with the detached interest of a scientist.
Magnus shattered the tension by breaking the garden gate. Six-four, 240 pounds of Viking bear, blonde braid swinging against his runed back. His beard beads clicked as he moved. He took one look at Ruth—who was visibly calculating how to escape Walt’s hovering—and produced a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re overheating,” he rumbled in accented English, offering it to her dinner-plate hands gentle as a giant.
Ruth stared up, up, up. “You’re... big.”
“I am Magnus. I believe in destiny,” he said. “Also, I am polyamorous. Just so we are honest.”
“Oh thank God,” Zelda said from behind her phone. “Finally, someone interesting.”
The host’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Welcome to Some Body to Love. Now you might think you’re here because you’re wealthy. And you are certainly here because of your... assets. But this game is just beginning.”
Bruce cracked his knuckles. Polly sized up Magnus’s handkerchief—vintage linen, expensive—and recalculated her strategy. Walt poured himself scotch, ignoring the side-eye from Javi, who was staring holes through anyone who looked at Alejandra.
"When you're ready for the real games to begin, come on back to the backyard," the host said.
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January 29
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