“Wish I could tell you about it, but my lips are sealed.”
A faint memory desperately tried to crawl out from under the fog of her hangover. Holyfuckingwasted, they did kiss. Nineties’ jungle music had a slower beat than her heart right then.
“All right,” he sighed. “I’ve gotta get up, throw up, chug a gallon of water, and check my body for signs of rape. My buddy’s expecting us in Myrtle Beach by five.”
“Walker?”
“Yes, Blue?”
She peeked out from the sheet. “Would you find my shirt?”
The dimples on his cheeks deepened. “No can do.” Then clutching his head, he crawled over her and weaved toward the bathroom.
The door slid shut and opened back up a second later. “When we get to Myrtle, I’m buying you the skimpiest bikini I can find. Time to show off that body.”
Chapter Twelve
Bangin’
Pawley’s Island, South Carolina
“The lady doth protest too much . . .”—Shakespeare
Soundtrack: The Stray Birds, “Dream in Blue”
Walker’s friends lived just outside Myrtle Beach on a quaint island called Pawley’s. Egrets and blue herons dotted the green, reedy marshes on the western side, and white gulls and pelicans spread out over the waves on the eastern side.
Matt and Patty lived with their two children on the beach side, in a pale pink house perched on stilts.
On the beach earlier, they’d feasted on a low-country boil that Matt spent the whole day cooking. After dinner, as the evening sun sank behind the dunes, Callie sat next to the fire pit and watched a scene torn from the pages of the American Family Dream Catalogue.
Walker and his big bear of a friend Matt, built a sand leviathan with the help of Matt’s son and the family dog. A few feet away, Patty dipped her baby’s toes in the surf.
A sharp pang of longing consumed her. It’d probably always be like that—her alone, admiring someone else’s family from afar.
Patty came over with the baby. “You mind watching him? Need to fetch something inside the house.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She waved her hands. “I’m not good with kids.”
Patty plopped the baby on her lap and waltzed off. “It’s just for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Panic-stricken, Callie held him away from her with arms straight and rigid. The baby gave her a gummy grin. She smiled back and he grinned wider. She bounced him on her knee and sang.
Would you like to swing on a star?
Carry Moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a pig?
She snorted like a pig and bounced him higher. Giggling and squealing, he wrapped his tiny hands around her fingers and squeezed her heart hard. She hugged him, and the baby rooted her chest for a nipple. Fat tears tumbled from her eyes and dropped on his fuzzy head.
Patty strode toward her. Quickly, Callie wiped her face and handed the baby back.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Sand in my eye.”
A moment of understanding passed between them, and without a word, Patty sat beside her. While she nursed the baby, she asked, “How long have you and Walker worked together?”
She let out her breath. “A few months.”
“Are y’all together?”
“Are you kidding me? Hell, no!” Mentally, she cringed at how offensive that must have sounded to his good friend.
Patty probed her with a hard stare then shook her head. “Girl, I don’t know how you do it, living with him like you do. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off him.”
“Trust me, it’s not hard when he’s slept with every woman in the office.”
Patty cocked her head. “Walker? But he’s so picky. I’ve known him for ten years, and you’re the only woman we’ve ever met. I always thought he was celibate.”
Clearly, she hadn’t seen her friend in a while.
“Matt told me Walker was a geek back in high school—skinny as a bird and wore huge glasses. Matt called him awkward. Said he couldn’t pick up a girl to save his life. You believe that?”
They shifted their gazes to shirtless Walker, running down the beach as graceful as a gazelle, his chiseled body flexing and glowing in the sunset. Effortlessly, he placed Patty’s kid on his broad swimmer’s shoulders then swaggered over to them, flashing a panty-dampening dimpled smile.
“Not a damn bit awkward now,” Patty said.
“Not at all.”
“Photography is truth.”—Jean-Luc Godard
On the morning of the Fourth of July, Matt and Walker sat in their golf cart on the eighteenth hole, drinking Bloody Marys. You could swing a sponge in the air and mop the floors it was so humid.
Walker wiped the sweat off the back of his neck and watched a blue heron tiptoe around the green. He sighed. “Man, I’ve missed this.”
“No golf in Manhattan?” Matt asked.
“I’m talking about the South. I miss the heat and the beach. The way the air smells like magnolia instead of garbage. I’ve gotta move back here.”
“I’d be happy as hell if you did,” Matt said. He took a drink then added, “Callie’s sure a pretty little thing. Sweet too.”
“Sweet’s not quite the word I’d use to describe her.”
“What? You don’t like her?”
“She’s all right.”
“All right? She’s finer than frog hair.” Matt narrowed his eyes. “Aw, you do! Look at you! You’re blushing.” He pinched Walker’s cheek. “Bet you’re just dying to see those sexy blue eyes glaze over when she comes. Oh, Walker! Deeper! Harder!” He bucked his hips in the air.
“Jesus man, don’t talk about her like that. She’s my friend.”
Matt quit the air-fucking and laughed. “So I take it you haven’t hit that yet?”
No. Unfortunately, he hadn’t hit that yet. But even if he had, he wouldn’t tell his friend. What happened in the bedroom with her, or anyone else for that matter, was none of his business.
But he did humor Matt with the swinger story.
Matt repeated the events. “So had you not been drugged by the swingers’ pink donut poison, you wouldn’t have kissed her? Am I getting that right? Because she’s your buddy? Correct?”
Yeah, he didn’t believe it either.
“Well, when it happens”—Matt said— “because there’s no way it won’t when you’re all snuggled up like a bug in a rug in that camper—just make sure you’re careful. You don’t want to end up like me. Married with kids, never having sex because you’re too tired to do anything but lie in bed and watch TV.”
Walker swigged down the rest of his drink, hoping his shock was hidden behind the cup. He couldn’t decide which was worse. Spending every night watching TV in bed? Or spending every night watching TV in bed . . . and not having sex? Both sounded downright awful.
“Don’t get me wrong,” his friend clarified. “I love my wife and kids, but sometimes I miss being single. Marriage is hard work and children are exhausting.”
The confession stirred up a heap of disappointment in Walker’s gut. Patty and Matt were his role models—the perfect example of a happy marriage. One day he’d hoped he’d have a relationship like theirs. And hearing his friend wasn’t happy destroyed that hope in one punch.
Not that it mattered. He hadn’t even come close to meeting the right woman. After all, where would he find someone creative, funny, passionate, AND sexy? Or someone easy to live with? Someone like Callie, but who actually liked him?
Maybe he needed to lower his expectations. Or maybe marriage just wasn’t for him.
He pushed aside his moody thoughts and gripped his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll get better, man. It’s probably just a rough patch. Maybe when the kids get older . . .”
Matt tugged his ear and gave him a short nod. “Yeah, probably.” He sounded doubtful.
Walker didn’t blame him. He wasn’t really co
nvinced either.
Quiet as a one-handed golf clap, the friends stared out at the green until the sun blistered heat on their skin.
His buddy perked up. “Ready to lose this game?”
“S’pose so,” he replied. Even if he was losing at golf, he was still winning the game just by staying single.
Boat parade, Pawley’s Island, SC
Soundtrack: Elvis Presley, “Island of Love”
That drowsy afternoon, heat waves spiraled off the asphalt. Islanders, decked out in red, white, and blue regalia, waited impatiently for the Fourth of July parade to begin.
The largest water fight in the Carolina’s also took place along the parade route, and so every grandpa, baby, aunt, and uncle had a least one bucket of ammo—i.e. bucket of water—beside them.
Locals spent months preparing for the parade—making homemade water guns, creating costumes, and decorating boat floats. Pretty much overkill, considering all that hard work would be destroyed in approximately thirty-five minutes.
Guilty of first-degree overkill, Matt and Patty had won the best float three-years in the running. The year before though, they’d lost to a group of seventy-something women dressed up like pageant contestants, donning bikinis, sashes, and crowns.
“They didn’t even decorate their doggone boat,” Matt said, still licking his wounds. “It was just old women in swimsuits, sitting on stupid chairs.”
Patty chimed in. “Last year, I found out one lady’s husband was a judge. Boy, I was fit to be tied. Wanda Jenkins, bless her heart, she looked like one big varicose vein in that white bikini.”
Matt nodded. “After that, we blackballed Ernie Jenkins and added a new parade committee bylaw that states judges can’t cast a vote on relatives’ floats. Of course it’s awful hard to find folks around here who aren’t related.”
Ah, the simplicity of small-town life—no gangs or shootings—only crooked parade judges and incest.
In view of last year’s trophy robbery, Matt and Patty went all out with their Elvis Blue Hawaii theme. They built a giant paper maché Elvis bust and attached it to the bow like a mermaid on a Viking ship.
They filled the boat trailer with real, not fake, real palm trees and sand, to make it look like they were shipwrecked on an island. Matt even built a grass-covered tiki bar in the back of the boat with totems that breathed fire out of their mouths.
Before the parade, their team finalized last-minute details. Patty dressed her little boy in Hawaiian shorts. Walker draped inflatable pineapples over the sides of the boat. Matt filled water buckets, mixed blue cocktails, and doled out sandwiches.
Callie tied on her grass skirt, tightened her Carmen Miranda fruit hat, and slathered on thousand-proof sunblock so she wouldn’t turn as pink as the string bikini Walker had forced her to buy. Next, she taped a plastic parrot on her shoulder.
Though the bird definitely added an extra dash of silly, the comedic value of her costume paled in comparison to Walker’s and Matt’s.
Walker wore a coconut bra, tight baby-blue retro swim trunks, and a captain’s hat like the one Elvis wore. Minus the bra, he looked exactly like a fifties’ movie star.
His enormous friend stuffed himself in a tiny white polyester short jumpsuit, unzipped down to his navel. The outfit cut his junk in half and gave him a frontal wedgie.
Walker teased him about it relentlessly. “Sorry, Vagina Dick, didn’t see you there.”
“Hand me that bag of ice, Moose Knuckles.”
“Ew, get your beef curtains away from me.”
“Your dick looks like a ninja boot.”
“Is it easier sitting down when you have two assess?”
All afternoon, he made his friend’s smashed schlong the butt-dick of all his jokes.
Five minutes before go-time, Matt outlined the parade rules. “Fire your weapons at everyone—kids, grandmas, the handicapped. I don’t care who it is—show no mercy! And I want to see some enthusiasm. Holler, yell, scream, go cray-cray. Ladies, flash the judges if you have to. Do whatever it takes to win that trophy.”
A foghorn sounded. Matt clapped his hands loudly and cranked up the Elvis soundtrack to a deafening volume. “Showtime, everyone!”
Patty’s parents, in charge of towing the boat through town, jumped in the truck with the baby, and the float rolled forward.
“Take no prisoners,” Matt yelled then sprayed the crowd with a contraption strapped to his back. While he was going Full Metal Jacket on everyone, a kid pegged him in the nuts with a water balloon.
Callie roared and Walker shot a stream of water into her open mouth. She coughed and sputtered and tossed a balloon grenade at his face. He ducked, and it splattered across Patty’s face instead. Patty retaliated by nailing her in the back with a wet sponge ball.
The island turned into a water war-zone.
A toothless old man shot her boob with a pump gun. She screeched and Walker sprayed the other. In return, she squirted his crotch. For half the parade they fought each other. Then a hostile gang of pre-teen boys fired upon Walker.
He blasted Matt’s water cannon in their faces. “I’m gonna take you out, you Lord of the Flies son’s-of-bitches!”
“Give me that thing,” she said and hit them again.
At the end of the parade, the float passed the judges’ table, and Matt set off a water bomb and gyrated his junk to “Rock-A Hula Baby.” A judge, dressed like Uncle Sam, turned on the fire hose and gunned Matt flat on his back.
With the exception of the rollercoaster picture night, she’d never laughed so hard in her life. Her cheeks hurt. Her ribs ached. And her voice had gone hoarse.
But beyond the big smile on her face, in the space between her heart and throat, a wistful sort of ache grew. So many things she’d missed out over the years—beach parties, parades, cookouts, and boating. She’d had more fun with Walker in the last few weeks, than she’d had in the last twenty-seven years of her life.
Her sabbatical from the real world wouldn’t last forever though. But in the meantime, she’d savor every last second of it.
All the boats launched after the parade, and as the flotilla made its way down the narrow channel, swarms of people cheered from restaurant patios along the inlet.
Once they arrived in the bay, everyone anchored and the real party began. The Islanders tied together rafts, tubes, blown-up bars, and baby pools, and swam back and forth, sharing food, drinks, and laughs like a big, happy family.
Walker crossed his arms, showcasing his beautiful inked biceps, and leaned against the captain’s chair, looking like a male swimsuit model. A drop of sweat trickled down his treasure trail. He slid his mirrored aviators down his nose and said, “Whatcha staring at, Bluebell?”
She jerked her gaze away. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t look that way to me,” he said, his voice a tad deeper.
God, she was burning up. And it wasn’t from the sun. What she really needed was a cold shower, but a lukewarm ocean would have to suffice. She dove off the back of the boat and scampered on a raft the size of a queen mattress.
As she floated peacefully and watched the surviving orange sliver of light fade beyond the horizon, it felt as though her soul were smiling. Days like that inspired poetry—odes to the last twenty-four hours.
Someone cannonballed off the back of the boat, causing a giant wave. Walker surfaced next to her.
“You almost capsized me,” she cried, clinging to the rocking vessel.
“Definitely one of my finest cannonballs ever.” He tossed his leg over the raft and slid off. “Christ, this sunscreen’s making me slipperier than a greased eel.”
Throughout his multiple attempts, she laughed hysterically. Finally, he made it on and flopped beside her.
Their gazes fused as they caught their breath. His spiky lashes slowly fanned his sun-bronzed cheek. A piece of seaweed stuck to his shoulder. Using it as an excuse to touch him, she brushed off the kelp and let her fingers linger on his cool skin. The move struck a matc
h, and his stare turned heated.
“You got some sun.” He stroked her cheek with back of his knuckles. The tingles remained long after his hand lowered.
A boom thundered in the distance, and brilliant sparks rained over the ocean. Walker snaked an arm under her and folded her into his wet warmth. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shut her up with a kiss.
Another firework went off while he glided his tongue around her lips. “Mmm.” He pulled her bottom lip between his teeth. “You taste like peach pie.”
And he tasted like salted coconut. She wanted to consume him.
He slid aside the top of her suit. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day.”
She panted. “What?”
He answered her question by tonguing her swollen nipple.
“Oh, wow!”
“That feel good?”
“Yesss.” She raked her fingers down his back. Swoosh, bang, crackle—her body lit up with the fireworks and sang “God Bless America.”
His fingers swept shocks across the waistband of her suit. Inviting him to go lower, she dropped one leg off the raft. The ocean licked her foot while he bit her neck. She held her breath and rolled her hips, rocking the raft dangerously.
“That your secret spot?” he asked, smiling against her lips. His erection rubbed against her leg. Just the memory of what it looked like made her melt.
She ground into his hardness. “Is that yours?”
“Careful,” he said, his accent thick and buttery. “Keep doing that, and it’s gonna go off like a bottle rocket.”
Only Walker could make a bad simile and cream her panties at the same time.
Soon the oohs and ahhs and bangs ceased, and the only sounds left were the waves lapping and their lips smacking.
He circled the fabric over her clit, disintegrating her willpower. Oh, no! She was being dragged into his manwhore vortex! Deep in her reserves, she found a smidgen of strength and grabbed his hand. “Not there.”
Given the way he jerked back, you’d have thought she’d slapped him.
Road-Tripped Page 11
