by Tory Baker
Fox
Hot Shots, Book 1
Tory Baker
Contents
1. Fox
2. Melanie
3. Fox
4. Melanie
5. Fox
6. Melanie
7. Fox
8. Melanie
9. Fox
10. Melanie
11. Fox
12. Melanie
13. Fox
14. Melanie
15. Fox
16. Melanie
17. Fox
18. Melanie
19. Fox
20. Melanie
21. Fox
22. Melanie
Epilogue
Epilogue
What’s Next?
About the Author
Also by Tory Baker
Copyright © 2021 by Tory Baker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please respect the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials that would violate the author’s rights. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever - Jacques Yves Cousteau
1
Fox
The blaring music of “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd jars my ass into an upright position. I look at my alarm clock, seeing the time is one o’clock in the morning. I’ve barely been asleep two hours, and I know there’s no going back to sleep for me now. It’s an issue I’ve learned to live with for a couple of years now. The Navy Seals will do that to a person, even if I haven’t been active duty in years. It’s permanently ingrained in me—sleep a few hours, get up, and start the day. Today will just be one of those days. The sheets are gathered at my waist. I slide my legs off the edge of the bed, knowing I’ll need a full pot of coffee to get through today.
I stand up, stretching my naked body, my knee giving me hell this early in the morning. Another one of those parting gifts from the Seals. I guess if I didn’t want to be woken up so early in the morning, I should have closed the windows. The weather here in Kelson Beach, South Carolina, this early in the spring, it’s nothing short of amazing. Crisp cool air streaming in the early morning and late evening, the days getting into the seventies and lower eighties with the ocean air whipping around the house. It kept me from closing up my newly refinished home. A smile plays on my lips. When I first bought this place, it was more of a landing pad for during the day—one room, a kitchenette, and a small bathroom was all it consisted of. My brother, Chance, made it into the home it is today. His wife, Peyton, and our mother came in for me in the end though, decorating it. The only thing we all agreed to disagree on was my need for wanting real hardwood floors. I won that one, while they grumbled how dumb it was, saying it would get warped. I live on the beach. A hurricane could come and flatten it with one storm. If I was going all in for this place, it was going to be my way.
The curtains are floating in the breeze, something light and sheer my mother picked out. All I said I wanted was neutral tones and no unnecessary bullshit. I look out the window trying to catch a glimpse of the house next door and the singer I can feel the pain resonate off.
“Damn it,” I groan. My eyes land on a woman, her body wrapped around a guitar, blonde hair the color of the sand, flaking with iridescent colors of different shades in tones of honey falling over her face, obscuring it from my view. It’s the way her body shakes while strumming the strings. I’m betting she’s crying over a lover with the way she’s crying.
A part of me wants to go over there, check on her. The other part is telling me ‘fuck that noise’. If it’s a broken relationship, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Instead, I close my window and shut the curtains. I guess I’ll be turning the air conditioner on after all. My feet don’t want to move though, instead, I stand at the window longer than I should, my arms raised over my head, leaning against the frame, my naked body on display if she were to look over here.
“Don’t be a dumbass, Fox,” I say to my quiet house, listening to her sing a few more chords. Only then do I walk away from her. Something I’ll probably regret later on, but there’s no way I can intrude on something that’s clearly gut wrenching. I make my way into the kitchen—coffee is calling my name—and then I’ll have to finish closing the house down, turn the air conditioner on, maybe watch some television, allowing me to maybe catch a cat nap.
Today is going to be a typical Monday, not just because of the new neighbor next door, but also because of The Wet Spot surf shop I co-own with a friend, Cruz, though he’s more of a silent partner. He spends his time down on the beaches of Florida. Not sure how much longer he’ll be staying quiet though, we were talking the other day, and he asked if I’d be interested in expanding another surf shop. Crazy fucker. He’s barely home as it is. He’s still jumping out of airplanes and working for Uncle Sam.
My coffee pot sputters to an end. I grab a mug and pour myself a cup, then head to the couch. Too bad the girl from next door is from what it sounds like pouring her heart out over more music from the nineteen seventies rock, and it’s not my fucking business, at least that’s what I tell myself even though I’m itching to make my way to her. There’s something about her voice—it keeps me from closing my eyes. Instead, I sit down, drink my coffee, and listen to her.
2
Melanie
I finish the last chord of the Pink Floyd song I’m strumming my guitar to while singing the lyrics. It’s one of those songs my father grew up doing this exact same way. It’s probably also why the tears are streaming down my face, my voice has a tremble, and I am a hot fucking mess. The few glasses of wine I’ve had to ease the ache tonight aren’t helping either.
Thinking about my father, the memories surrounding the two of us. A single dad at the age of twenty-three, taking care of a daughter on his own, it was unheard of where I grew up. My grandparents passed when he was younger, which led us to a family of two. He didn’t have women traipsing in and out of our lives, which I’m sure had something to do with the damage my womb donor inflicted on us both. Of course, he went on a few dates, but none he brought home. Even after I graduated high school and college, he still never brought anyone home. And yes, I was living at home and still do at the age of twenty-five. Now, though, it’s just me in that empty house, surrounded by everything that encompassed him, Mitch Parsons, an old soul who loved me and rock and roll. That’s why I’m here, at the beach, trying to escape the memories, to breathe some life into my body and mind. To heal some of the hurt and anger I’m facing. He wasn’t supposed to pass away so young and so suddenly.
A fucking brain aneurysm rupturing at the age of forty-eight. Who would have ever guessed that? I would have never in my wildest imagination thought something like this would happen to him, hell, happen to me. My dad was meant to walk me down the aisle, give me away, watch over my children, be a proud grandpop. Now, all of that is gone, and a piece of my heart is gone with him.
I sing the same song over and over, for what has to be going on an hour. I’ll be lucky to have a voice tomorrow. Not that it matters. I’m here by myself, renting this beach house month to month until I figure out just how to cope and deal with everything Dad left behind, and I do mean everything. The house, his cars, the investment portfolio that blew my mind. If I could get him back for just
one more day, I’d give everything away. I’m a daddy’s girl through and through. Though he may have passed a month ago, the ache still hasn’t eased from my chest.
When I finish the last chord of the song, I rest the guitar beside me in the empty chair. The tears never stop coming, they continuously fall as I sit back in the lounge chair looking up at the dark sky. Stars are illuminating it, along with the moon. Surrounded by the smell of the ocean air, the noise in the background as the waves reach the shoreline, I should be at peace here. Instead, I’m wallowing in my emotions. I’m going to give myself one week, then I’m going to attempt to put my big girl panties on and learn to at least breathe again, if not learn to live. My father would hate to see me this way right now, but it’s the only way I know how to survive. I could be eating my way through the pain or snorting cocaine, another side effect my mother decided to leave us for, besides the bass player in some punk rock band. At least that’s what she said when she had the balls to show up at my father’s funeral. Rain was pouring down, so I was holding an umbrella in my hand, about to say my final goodbyes, when she had to interrupt that by talking about herself.
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew what she was after. But I ignored her, kissed my fingertips before placing them on the casket, and told my daddy I loved him. Then I walked the fuck away from my biological mother while she was still talking. I was pissed, my heart strings being pulled each and every way, but there was no way I’d make a scene in front of the hundreds of people who showed up to pay their respects.
The next day, she had the nerve to show up on my doorstep. I was still in my pajamas at well past noon, my eyes a puffed-up mess, nose red, and a splotchy face. Harsh words were said then, the cops were called by me, and she was escorted away. I thought that would be the last of it, but apparently, when your dad is a singer-songwriter for a few well-to-do rock bands, it brings out the crazy in people. Thank goodness my father had his shit together and his lawyers at the ready. It helped when she continued to come around. It also made me realize I may never escape her brand of crazy. Another reason why I’m here, at the beach, and alone in this crazy fucked-up world, mad at God, and a list of many other things. I take one last cleansing breath, stand up, grab my guitar, and head inside for the remainder of the night, already knowing sleep won’t come easy to me.
3
Fox
“God damn son of a bitch,” I growl after stubbing my toe on the deck. Chance still hasn’t had the time to fix it. I could probably do it myself, but then I’d have no deck, and who knows how long it would take me. I’m exhausted as all fucking get out, never having had a chance to fall back asleep after the middle-of-the-night escapades last night. Sure, I dozed off, but then something would startle me awake. If it weren’t for the moon still in the sky, I would have gotten up, piddled around the house before I start my morning run.
“Broken-hearted woman mourning a man, singing all hours of the night,” I grumble as I put myself through my morning stretches. When I started my path to recovering from my injuries, the doctor warned me it could take well over a year to get back to my normal routine, and that was just because I had basically a brand-new knee, certain things could trigger a relapse and land me back in rehab. That word alone still makes me shiver. It was a long journey for me. I put the work in, in and out of the office. Sometimes, my knee will act up, but for the most part it’s better than it was before it got shattered to pieces.
“Sorry about that.” I’m knocked out of my thoughts down memory lane by the woman with the voice. Damn, does she have a voice. She’s standing against her deck railing, a mug of something in her hands, hair that covered her face and body from my view last night pulled back in some low side ponytail, giving way to an angelic face, bright green eyes, soft smile, smooth tan skin, and a knockout of a body.
If this woman was crying over a man who left her, he’s surely not worth her time. “Ignore me. I’m a bear in the morning. You okay?” I set aside my attitude because she looks like she could use someone more than she did last night. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.
“Probably not. I didn’t realize it had gotten that late. To be honest, I’m kind of just processing things right now.” She shrugs her shoulders, causing me to look down at the expanse of skin across her chest. Once I realize my eyes are going right to her tits, I move them back up. This woman doesn’t need some guy she doesn’t know gawking at her, even in the clothes she’s barely wearing.
“He’s not worth it, not worth the amount of tears you’re shedding,” I tell her.
“I’d beg to differ, but it’s not really your business. I’ll try not to ruin another night of yours.” The mysterious neighbor turns on her heel, flinging her hair over her shoulder, throwing her attitude back at me. What she doesn’t realize is the view she’s leaving me with, elegant shoulders, squared in stature, an hourglass shape, her ass bouncing with every step, giving way to her shapely legs and bare feet. All of that wrapped up in some kind of silk top and bottoms. If she were my woman, I’d have my say about what she wore, even if it was while on the back porch of a house. There are too many wandering fucking eyes.
I finish going through my paces, working on my legs this time, then I set out in a slow jog down to the shoreline. Most times, I have earbuds playing for background noise, but because it’s so early in the day and the beach is dead, I figure I’ll use the waves as my background instead.
My mind goes blank as I start out at a light jog. It’s the one thing that stops all the noise rattling around in my head. No work, no house issues, nothing but my feet pounding the sand beneath them. By the time the sun is really up in the sky, beating my sweaty body, I’m in a full run. The only thing that interrupts my run is when my watch beeps, letting me know I’ve completed my first mile. My goal is only two miles today, so I turn around and head home, already hoping for a glimpse of the spitfire that has taken residence next door, and apparently also in my fucking head. Too bad she seems to have more baggage than I’m prepared to deal with. That shit is not for me. It’s why I’ve remained single all these years. It’s easier that way. Footloose and fancy free is apparently how I’m meant to be, and it hasn’t failed me yet.
4
Melanie
“Is it too early to drink?” I ramble around the empty space after my run-in with Sir Dickhead. As if he has any right to judge me. I bet if he knew the half of it, he’d be groveling on his knees.
I bypass the champagne along with the orange juice, knowing I’m not going to drink this morning. It’s a figure of speech. Nothing says misery like drowning yourself in alcohol at sunrise. Not like it really matters since sleeping didn’t happen, again. God bless my dad’s friend and attorney. He tried to get me in to see a therapist or even a doctor to help prescribe me something to help me get sleep. The only problem with that is my intolerance to medicine, because when I do take it, I’m out for a solid forty-eight hours. I mean, sure, that could be a good thing, but not when you’re alone at a beach house with not a friend around. Even if the neighbor is ridiculously hot. I didn’t mind the view he was giving me one-bit, dark hair, shaved on the sides, longer on the top, his eyes that see far too much are also dark, almost black, a few days’ growth of stubble on his jaw, giving him that sexy rugged bad-boy appeal.
That was only the beginning. He didn’t see me checking him out while he was stretching, his muscular back giving way to a firm backside, and when I made my presence known, let’s just say there was a reason my nipples tightened with need. He was drop-dead gorgeous, the whole freaking package, until he opened his mouth. Then it was all over. I had no problem turning around and leaving him with his mouth hanging open.
So, that’s why I’m forgoing the mimosas, marching up the staircase, and am going to scrounge together some semblance of a bathing suit. That is if I packed one. Knowing my luck, I forgot to pack one. I’ve already been to the store too many times in the few days I’ve been here. Apparently, I thought it was okay to not pack the necessities
, you know, like panties, a toothbrush, and body wash. I really am a freaking mess. That’s why when I dig through my still packed suitcase, I’m shit out of luck in the bathing suit department.
“Whelp, I guess that cancels out the plans to laze around in the sun all day.” Instead, I throw on a pair of panties, shorts, a tank top sans bra—because hello, built-in shelf bra, which is the best thing a woman must have invented—scrub my face and teeth, not bothering with brushing my hair and just fluffing up the top so it doesn’t look so flat against my skull, and then do the same to the bottom. A baseball cap and flip flops complete my look. Then I grab my bag. Even the rumble of my stomach isn’t going to stop me from going shopping today. I could eat before I go out, but who wants to do that when it’s a gorgeous day outside? Okay, I take that back. I’m more than likely going to stop at the local coffee shop to grab more caffeine and something to eat, because that’s the only thing I seem to be living on these days. The sun is calling my name, and if I have any luck at all, a lounge chair on the beach, the sun, and the surf crashing in the distance will lull me into a much-needed nap, since sleeping at night isn’t happening.
I walk out the door, loving the keypad as a lock instead of a key. It’s so much more user friendly. A part of me is wondering if I shouldn’t box everything up back home in California. The thought that I would be getting rid of a piece of my father makes me tremble with a drowning feeling, so I shut it down completely. Though going back there at this point in time won’t be happening either. For now, I’ll stay in South Carolina, be a tourist, and pump money into their economy by checking out all the local shops, because, you know, that whole lack of packing issue, and then, of course, food. This small tourist town is full of hidden gems with amazing food to eat your way through while shopping. And that’s what I’m set out to do this early in the morning.
