by Rose, Emery
“I don’t need fucking help. Least of all from her.”
“Stop being a stubborn ass.”
“Since when are you okay about accepting handouts?”
“Sometimes you have to swallow your pride. This is one of those times,” he said calmly, like we weren’t talking about tens of thousands of dollars.
Un-fucking-believable. He was calmly cleaning the deck, not upset in the least that Remy St. Clair had paid our bills.
“Maybe you’re okay with it, but I’m not accepting her money.”
“What are you going to do? Throw it back in her face?”
That’s exactly what I was going to do. I didn’t want her pity. Or her guilt money. Or whatever the hell it was.
“Did you ever stop to think it will make her feel better? Are you really going to take that away from her? You’re not the only one who lost something. She lost you. And the girl didn’t have a lot to begin with. She was dealt a shit hand, but she never complained. Never sat around feeling sorry for herself. She loved you, still does. So, for once in your life, don’t be a stubborn ass about this. Accept it graciously. And get on with your life.”
Get on with my life. Like it’s so easy to do that. The huge chip on my shoulder and all the baggage I was carting around was weighing me down. I was sinking under the weight of it all. Some days I felt like I was drowning. My dad was dying and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Paying the bills had made me feel some small sense of control, like at least I could contribute. Try to put a dent in the massive debt I owed this man.
Now she’d gone and taken that away from me. Might as well chop off my fucking balls and call it a day.
“I don’t need a babysitter or a nurse. I don’t need you sitting around, watching over me every night.”
Didn’t he get it? I needed to be there for him the way he had always been there for me. Who was the stubborn ass now?
“When I’m about to die, I’ll let you know. Until then, go do something meaningful. Or fun. Hell if I know. Just do something. I’m still alive and so are you. Start acting like it.”
I stared at my father. The fuck? I scratched the back of my neck, still staring at him. He raised his brows, daring me to argue with him. Instead, I walked away. I had nothing left to say.
After I’d gotten out of prison last year, I’d been selfish. I’d driven up the coast, wanting to get away from John Hart and Costa del Rey, and the memories that came with being here. I rented a room above an old lady’s garage in Bodega Bay. I was her handyman, taking care of chores she couldn’t do anymore. Fixed her leaky pipes and repaired her front porch. Mowed her lawn. Bought her groceries. I surfed on rocky beaches, in the wild water of NorCal. It was the coldest summer I’d ever spent. I met a girl. The lady’s granddaughter. A blonde pixie of a girl who looked nothing like Remy St. Clair. She was kind and she was good, and I was trying to reinvent myself. Trying to forget.
She told me she loved me. I couldn’t say it back.
Then I got the call from the hospital, and I returned home.
There was a big difference between living and just surviving. I used to know how to live. I used to be pretty damn good at it.
* * *
“Now we’re talking,” my dad said, a big smile on his face as I stapled the plastic sheeting to the wood frame around the shaping bay I’d built in the garage. The fluorescent lights hung at waist level to highlight any imperfections, and my new tools lined the shelves—electric planer, block plane, surform, various grits of sandpaper.
“You’ve lost your parking spot.”
“Small price to pay.”
“Yeah, well, reserve that judgment until you see the finished product. It might be shit.”
“It might be. But if it is, you can make another surfboard. And that one will be better. What are you thinking?” he asked as I set the EPS foam blank on the shaping stand.
“A seven-foot-six. Thick nose, low rocker, pintail.”
My dad nodded his approval. “Good on the small, mushy waves but easily maneuverable on the bigger, steeper days.”
“That’s the idea.”
He knew who the board was for without having to ask.
Over the next week, I devoted all my free time to shaping, glassing, and finning that surfboard. I lost all track of time, sometimes not stopping until two in the morning. I did so much sanding, the inside of the shaping bay looked like a snow globe. The perfectionist in me wouldn’t stand for hills, bumps or dips. It had to be a smooth, solid curve from tip to tail. It took me six hours to shape the board. At least a hundred times, I ran my hand along the rail, then sanded. Ran my hand along the rail, more sanding.
Shaping was a skill and an art form, I’d come to learn. It was also highly addictive. By the time I finished glassing the board, I was hooked, and already thinking about the next board I wanted to make.
31
Shane
On Saturday morning, I was leaning against the back of my Jeep, waiting for Remy. She jogged into the parking lot and slowed to a walk, stopping in front of me.
“Why aren’t you out there already?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“If you’re going to argue, you’ll be wasting your breath.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her. Her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, her hands planted on her hips, chest heaving from the exertion of running. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the style accentuating her sculpted cheekbones. What was it about Remy that made her so beautiful it knocked the breath out of your lungs just to look at her? The camera loved her. She was a chameleon. When I’d looked at some of her photos in magazines, I’d barely recognized her.
Over the years, she’d only gotten more beautiful, if that was possible. More polished. More refined. Even her running clothes looked like designer items, her running shoes top of the line. When she had shown up at the demolition site, she looked like she’d just stepped off a catwalk. The guys I worked with were still talking about her. Her ass. Her mile-long legs. Her tits. Her everything. It still stirred up the beast in me. Made me jealous of any man who wasn’t me, for even looking at her.
I wanted her all to myself. Always had. Probably always would. But there was no place in my life for her now.
Why did you have to return to my world and turn it upside down again, Remy? Why do you make me want you all over again?
Remy averted her head, showing me her profile, also perfection. She was looking in the direction of the ocean even though we couldn’t see it from here. “Where have you been?”
“Busy.”
“Too busy to surf?” Her gaze returned to my face, her dark brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’ve been surfing. Just not here.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Shane, I don’t want… if you’re not surfing here because of me, I won’t come here anymore. I’ll just—”
“I have something for you.”
“You… what is it?”
I took the boards off the roof rack—mine and the one I’d made for her. Yesterday after work, I’d tested it down at the pier. It was nothing compared to the money she’d shelled out, but it was something I could give to her. And lo and behold, I’d found something I enjoyed doing.
“You bought me a surfboard?” She studied the board—turquoise with black stripes.
“I didn’t buy it.”
“You didn’t…” I flipped the board to the other side—glossy white with a signature: Firefly. Her mouth formed a comical O and her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Shane. This is…” Tears filled her eyes and she held a hand over her heart. “It’s so beautiful.”
I huffed out a laugh. “It’s my first attempt. Beautiful is a stretch but hopefully it will—”
Before the words were out of my mouth, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. My hands found their way to her waist and upper back. Closing my eyes, I inhaled her scent. She didn’t smell like green apple shampo
o and summer rain anymore. But she smelled good. So fucking good. And she felt so right in my arms.
“Thank you.” Clearing her throat, she released me and took a step back. “Sorry. I’m all sweaty.”
I ran my hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together. “No problem,” I said gruffly.
She ran the palm of her hand over the surfboard and I was jealous of an inanimate object. “It’s so smooth. So perfect. I’m just… I can’t believe you did this for me, Shane. It means so much to me. You give me the best presents.” Her voice was soft, and she lifted her eyes to mine, all her emotions on full display. My chest tightened, and I took a deep breath. I hadn’t expected such an emotional reaction, on her part or mine.
“It’s just a surfboard.”
“It’s so much more than a surfboard but okay, we’ll go with that. So, does this mean I get to surf with you?” Her eyes lit up as if the prospect of that was thrilling. The funny part was that she could have bought herself a board. She could have bought a Firewire or any damn board she wanted but she hadn’t.
“The ocean doesn’t belong to me, Remy. You’re free to surf whenever and wherever you want.”
She rocked back on her heels, her hands clasped behind her back. “I guess I was waiting for an invitation.”
“That’s not like you.”
She flinched at my words that had come out sounding harsher than I’d intended but she recovered quickly and plastered on a fake smile. “I guess that’s the new me.”
The new Remy stripped down to a white bikini right in front of me. The new Shane had the same reaction as the old Shane. My dick appreciated the view. My fingers itched to untie the strings, freeing her breasts from the triangles of fabric.
Millions of people had seen her in a bikini. Sad fuck that I was, I knew she’d been in the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. But I couldn’t even look at her in a bikini without getting hard. Without dying to touch every inch of her skin with my lips, and my mouth, and my teeth. Her skin. I could still remember the silky softness of it. The way her body had yielded to mine. The sound of her soft moans and whimpers.
She stuffed her running clothes and sneakers into her backpack and I locked it in the Jeep.
“I can carry my own board.”
I shrugged one shoulder in response and carried both boards. We were silent on the walk along the trail, down the stairs and to the water’s edge. Her toenails were painted a blush pink color that matched her fingernails. The soft, pretty nail color was disconcerting. She always wore dark polish.
“I haven’t surfed since I left Costa del Rey,” she admitted.
“Why not?”
“Because… surfing…” She let out a breath and shook her head, her gaze on the ocean. “I just didn’t.”
Because of me. She hadn’t surfed because it reminded her of me. “Do you still remember how to paddle out?”
“I know how to paddle out,” she scoffed.
“I don’t know… those spaghetti arms are no match for these waves.”
“These spaghetti arms? Ha.” She made a muscle, all proud of herself. I laughed at her and she rolled her eyes. “Are we surfing or comparing muscles?”
“There’s no comparison.” I grinned and paddled out, leaving her to her own devices. That was how she was at her best. Her most resourceful. She needed to be challenged, to be told she couldn’t do something, only to show everyone that she could and twice as good as everyone else.
I glanced over my shoulder, chuckling at the determined look on her face as she tried to paddle out to where I was, the waves intent on beating her back to shore. Straddling my board, I watched her duck-dive, relief flooding through my body when her head bobbed up, a smile on her face. That’s my girl. She caught up to me and we floated on our boards for a while. It was a perfect day for surfing. Light winds. A west onshore breeze and that little bit of crumble on the lip that makes it easy to attack for airs, yet still clean on the face for carves.
She trailed her hand through the water. “I’ve missed you. I missed us.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say to that? I missed you like a missing limb.
“I never got to tell you how sorry I was. I never got to tell you—”
“There’s no point in dredging up ancient history. It’s over. There’s nothing to talk about.” I clenched my jaw. “Subject closed. Don’t bring it up again.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Are there any topics we can discuss? You’re so damn prickly.”
“How about all the money you spent? You want to talk about that? I don’t want your charity.”
“It’s not charity. How many times did you do the same for me and Dylan? How many times did you buy us groceries and pay our utilities, so they didn’t get shut off? This was no different.”
“It’s a hell of a lot different.” I watched a bead of water trail down the sun-kissed skin of her lower back and disappear inside her bikini bottom.
“Why? Why is it different?”
I scoffed. “Because I’m a man.”
She laughed. “Oh my god, you’re such an ass. Talk about a double standard.”
“Less talk, more surfing. The next wave has your name on it.”
“I just want to float and find my Zen.” She closed her eyes and folded her hands as if in prayer. “You take it.”
“Nope.” Jarring her from her meditation, I turned her board around and gave it a shove. “Go! Paddle hard.”
She lay on her belly and paddled for the wave—it was shaping up to be a four-foot to overhead on the outside peak. The lines were long, and it wasn’t too big that it was closing out. But she hesitated, just that moment of indecision, and that cost her. The wave passed right under her before she popped-up, pushing the tail of the board up and the nose down. She was too far forward and did a nosedive into the ocean. I watched until she emerged and winced as the next wave slammed over her head. Retrieving her board and getting it underneath her, she paddled back out to me.
“That wasn’t pretty,” she said when she joined me, shaking water out of her ears. “It was fun though.”
“Yeah?” I laughed.
Her face broke into a big smile and I read the joy on her face. “So much fun.”
“Crazy girl.”
“I need to keep my weight back, right? And I should have popped up sooner.”
“Look at you, critiquing yourself.”
“I learned from the best.” She gave me a big exaggerated wink and I chuckled. Being out here with her, surfing together again, made me forget my problems for a while. It was too easy to fall back into the way things used to be, but I knew I couldn’t do that.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, eying the same wave I was. Her eyes sparkled, her face lit up with a smile. This was the Remy I had imagined on my darkest days. The picture I carried in my memory. Seven years older but her smile, the real one that wasn’t for the cameras, hadn’t changed. She nudged my arm. “Go!”
* * *
After a couple hours of riding waves, she was starting to find her rhythm and her confidence again. I paddled back out to her and she gave me a big smile. “You’ve still got the magic.”
“You know it, Firefly.”
She gave me a soft smile at the use of her old nickname. I’d said it without thinking, slipping back into another time and place.
Surfing with Remy was one thing. Anything more would ruin me. I didn’t for a minute believe that she would be happy to stay in Costa del Rey. Or that I could fit into her life now. She had gone on to bigger things. Her world had expanded. She was loaded with money, could go anywhere and do anything she damn well pleased. Once she figured out what she wanted to do next, she’d be gone. Even if she did stay in Costa del Rey, she was too far out of my reach now.
I shook my head, spraying her with droplets of water from my hair. She laughed and tried to shove me off my board, but I held my ground. “Watch yourself, sweet lips or you’ll be drinking ocean water
.”
“I’m holding steady. You can’t knock me off my board.”
I laughed. “It would take zero effort to knock you off that board.”
She raised her brows in challenge. “Prove it.”
“I’m thirty years old, not thirteen,” I scoffed.
“You’re practically a senior citizen. You probably don’t have the same strength you used to.”
My hand darted out and I flipped her board. She tumbled into the water and came up sputtering, pushing her hair out of her face.
“You play dirty,” she said, laughing as she got the board underneath her again.
I winked. “And if memory serves… you loved it.”
Her laughter died, and she stared at me for a few seconds, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. I averted my gaze. Why had I said that? I stifled a groan.
We surfed for another hour until it got too crowded to get in a decent ride. Remy chose to leave when I did, and we stood side by side at the outdoor showers, rinsing away the saltwater. We toweled off next to my Jeep, and I secured our boards to the roof. This part, surfing and all that went with it, felt so familiar.
“Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” Which was how this whole damn thing had started nine years ago.
“I can run home.”
I sighed, sensing her hesitation. She wanted a ride, otherwise she would have taken off already instead of standing in the parking lot. “Get in.”
She climbed into the passenger seat and directed me to Dylan’s house. She was still shit at giving directions.
“Oh. You were supposed to turn left back there,” she said, pointing back at the street we’d just driven past.
I rolled my eyes and turned around in someone’s driveway, hanging the next right. Eventually, after a series of wrong turns, we reached our destination—Dylan’s two-story Spanish-style house. I’d always liked this neighborhood with its views of the hills, the canyon, and the sea. The guy was only twenty-five and he’d gone from nothing to everything. The St. Clair twins had conquered the world. Good for them.
