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There’s a small part of me that wonders if maybe I went too far, but then I remember her reaction to my kiss. She was fully in. Her tongue battled with mine, she moaned hot into my mouth, and her h*ps pressed in against me. She may be a master at denying her feelings, but her body has a mind of its own, and it was speaking the utter truth to me.
Something’s holding her back though. Clearly, my apology didn’t work the charms I thought it would, and I could do one of two things. I could sit her down and have a talk with her, find out what has her panties in a twist again, or I could just keep wearing her down. The thought of wearing her down seems to be the logical choice, because talking to Gabby has done nothing more than resemble the biggest of wipeouts I had while surfing the Pipeline in Oahu. Having my body dragged over sharp coral reef seems less painful than having an actual conversation with her at this point.
While I ponder my Gabby dilemma, my phone starts ringing and a huge grin pops onto my face as I see who’s calling.
My best surfing buddy, John Hammer.
I answer with a, “What’s up, Shredder? Still learning how to boogie board?” This, of course, is only funny to someone in the surfing world. John is a legend on the Tour and has been my mentor for many years. He’s five years older than I am, and although he’s reaching his prime, he’s still killing it on the pro circuit.
“Hey, my man… long time, no talk to. How’s life treating you?”
“It’s good,” I tell him, even though a sudden pang of regret courses through me over retiring. All of my friends told me I was crazy. They told me the number-one rank was mine the next year, that I was committing surfing suicide by walking away.
Only John understood what drove me, and he supported my decision. We were sitting in a bar in Huntington Beach, drinking ice-cold microbrews and chowing on some chips and salsa. When I told him my plans, he just nodded and said, “I understand, dude. Family is what’s important. You do some crazy shit for love. ”
His words were comforting and slicing at the same time. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t talk to John about, and he always had my back. I knew he’d understand my need to return home, and I knew he’d never try to talk me out of it or make me feel bad.
But his words also settled like a pit in my stomach. He knew all about the ways in which I struggled the few years prior with the concept of love and the crazy things you might or might not do for it.
You see, there was a time I fashioned myself in love with his younger sister, Sasha. After John and I had become friends, he introduced me to her at a competition one day, and I fell hard. She was beautiful, smart, and she surfed. Sasha was amazingly good, competing in the junior pros and finally the women’s pro tour. She traveled the world with John and me to the various competitions, at first being a good friend and supporter to me, and then she became my lover.
I thought that my life was perfect, and I couldn’t imagine wanting anything different. Sasha and I seemed perfect for each other. We had the same career paths, we loved traveling the world together, and we burned it up between the sheets. But then Sasha took a bad spill during a practice session and dislocated her knee. It was a career-ending injury, as she was never able to make it back onto the tour.
While having something like that happen may have devastated me… having my dreams and goals crushed beyond my control, Sasha didn’t seem to mind giving up the competition. Instead, she happily followed John and me around, always being the loudest to cheer me on, and warming my bed by night. To me… life was still perfect.
Then things started to change. Sasha got tired of life on the road, and of sleeping in a different hotel every week. She started wanting to spend more time back home in Southern California and would get angry at me for needing to be on the road so much. Her travels with John and me became less and less, and the times I spent with her in California became filled with fights and tension.
I’m not sure exactly what happened, but things between us started to fall apart. It all came to a head a year ago when Sasha told me she was unhappy, and she wanted me to quit surfing. She wanted me to move to California, marry her, and give her children.
We had talked about marriage some, and it had been more or less understood that we would, indeed, get married one day. But I sure as hell wasn’t ready for it when she demanded it, and there was no way in hell I was ready to give up my career.
My refusal to meet her demands was our demise, and we had a bitter split. John walked the fence between us, understanding both of our positions. He did the best he could to be a loyal older brother and continue to be my friend. He never once let Sasha’s bitterness or my hurt mar the friendship. John was just golden that way.
When I told John that I was giving it all up to move home for my brother, I remember him whistling low through his teeth. “Sasha’s going to go apeshit when she hears that, dude. ”
I nodded, because I figured as much. Here I was… walking away at the height of my career because my felon twin was getting out of prison, but I wouldn’t give it up for her. I knew she wouldn’t be happy about that. I never did ask how she took the news when John told her. I figured I was better off not knowing.
“So,” John leads in, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m skipping the Billabong Rio Pro this month. My f**king back is acting up again. Thought I’d come visit you and check out this bar of yours. ”
Laughing, I tell him, “That would be awesome, man. I’d love to see you. When you coming in?”
“I’m going to go home and visit the ‘rents for a bit. I was thinking the week after next?”
“That would be great, John. I’m really glad. ”
We talk on the phone for a bit longer, although he carefully stays away from the subject of Sasha. Which is fine by me… my thoughts are too preoccupied with Gabby and her wily ways. I’m trying to figure out my battle plan with her, because this is a war I intend to win.
And Gabby’s the grand prize.
7
I’m a moron… and a brat.
I know this. And yet, I can’t help myself.
Hunter Markham is stuck on the yo-yo of Gabby Ward’s life. I went from treating him with disdain for the past five years, to accepting his apology and trying a bit of a truce, to hopping right back on the bitch-train with him. I know it’s not fair, yet I don’t know any other way to keep myself emotionally distanced from Hunter.
I’m not angry with him anymore. I swear it. His apology gave me peace, and the fact that he regretted the way he treated me truly soothed the hurt away. But when we were sitting on the beach, side by side, and he confessed the reason he returned was to help Brody, I knew, without a doubt, that I was only minutes away from falling helplessly back in love with the man.
He is dangerous, and I am like an adrenaline junkie.
I know myself. I know that I would seek his danger, that my heart would open up wide for him, and then at some point, I would get hurt. I would get hurt ten times worse than what I ever felt at the tender age of eighteen, when all of my young and innocent fantasies were crushed. It would hurt more now because I had a greater appreciation of what I stood to lose.
As I sat on the beach the rest of the day, watching Hunter interact with Casey and Brody, I felt my heart thumping in yearning to have him look at me that way, to treat me as if I were treasured. It would be so easy for me to fall there again.
Except… I vowed to myself I wasn’t going to let it happen. I was going to distance myself from Hunter, and I was going to move on with my life. The only way I knew how to do that, with even any hope for success, was to go back to the tried-and-true method of showing Hunter my inner-bitch. It had worked well for me for five years—it would work well for me again.
It was nothing for me to lapse back into my role. Sure, for every snide word or catty remark, I would have to school my features so he’d never guess that I really wanted to throw my arms around him.
And it was working fine, too.
&n
bsp; Until that jackass had to go and kiss me.
And gosh, just the memory of that kiss is succeeding in chasing away the bone-cracking coldness that has overtaken my body with shivers.
Because I’m stuck on the side of the road in a driving rainstorm that’s plummeted the temperature down twenty degrees in the last ten minutes. When my old Ford conked out while I was running errands Thursday morning, I popped the hood and stood up on the front bumper, fiddling around with the various wires and gadgets on the engine. I didn’t have a freakin’ clue what I was doing. I might be able to build an armoire out of a few scraps of lumber, but I knew shit about engines and what made them work. I was hoping something had just rattled loose, and I’d be able to tighten it back up again.
It wasn’t five minutes after I started messing around with the engine that the sky decided to open up and pour freezing rain down upon me. I was soaked in less than twenty seconds, and my resolve to figure out the problem increased out of desperation. I doubled my efforts to rattle around different parts of the engine, intermittently jumping back in the truck to turn the ignition.
I got nothing.
On my third such attempt to climb back up on the bumper to work my magic, I heard, “What in the hell are you doing, Gabby?”
Spinning around, I lose my balance and hop off the bumper, straight into a huge puddle, which now coats the bottoms of my soaked jeans with mud. Wiping a wet lock of hair out of my eyes, I peer through the driving rain and see Hunter stalking up toward me, his Jeep parked just ahead of my truck.
“What does it look like?” I grumble, lifting my leg up to climb back on the bumper.
Hunter’s arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me off, setting me carefully beside the puddle. “Let me look,” he says, and I let him… because I clearly know shit about engines.
After he pokes around a minute, he climbs into my truck and tries to start it. I hear the faint clicking noise that I had heard before, but nothing else.
When he gets back out, he grabs my elbow and starts leading me back to his Jeep. “Your battery’s dead. ”
Pulling my arm away, I stop, and he turns to look at me. “Thanks. But I’ll just call a tow truck. ”
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, and grabs my elbow again, pushing me once more toward his Jeep. “I can take you to buy a battery and install it faster than you can even get a tow truck out here. ”
I start to argue but the minute my mouth opens, my teeth start chattering so hard I’m afraid I might end up making an emergency visit to Dr. Kevin Zulekis to fix the cracks in my molars. I capitulate and gratefully step up into the passenger seat while he holds the door open for me.
When Hunter gets in the driver’s seat, he turns the ignition and immediately cranks up the heat. “You’re going to be lucky you don’t get pneumonia,” he admonishes.
I want to answer him with a smart-ass response, just so he knows that I’m still in uber-bitch mode, but my teeth are clacking violently and I can’t even get words out of my mouth.
Hunter pulls out onto the roadway, but it’s slow driving. He’s silent, but that’s fine by me. I lean forward and try to catch as much of the hot air that’s blowing out of his vents as possible. I figure about some time mid-summer, I’ll finally get warm again.
When Hunter turns off the main road, I glance over to ask him where he’s going. He anticipates my question though and says, “I’m taking you to my house to get you dried off. It’s closer than yours, and I don’t want you getting sick and dying on me before you finish the remodel. ”
I start to argue with him but another round of shivers racks my body, and it would just take too much effort. Within minutes, we’ve arrived at his oceanfront cottage and I look up at it in surprise. It’s a classic stilt home with light gray shingles and a wraparound porch. I’m surprised because it’s actually quite small. I just assumed Hunter would buy something big and ostentatious, because I know he has money practically seeping out of his pores. Yeah, being a professional surfer might seem like a lot of fun and games, but with the hard work and dedication came big rewards. Between his professional sponsorships and prize monies of upward of four-hundred thousand per first place finish, Hunter had the cash to throw around. At least, that’s what Casey told me.
On the Rocks Page 10
