Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Studio

  Sam sat in the makeup trailer, staring at her natural-disaster face, freshly washed and hideous.

  A bleached blonde pushed a makeup cart into the trailer. She wore blue, sparkly lipstick. Seeing as this grown woman looked like she’d overdosed on manga, Sam wasn’t sure she trusted her judgment.

  Miss Blue Lips parked the cart beside Sam and bit the end of an eyeshadow brush. She hooked a finger under Sam’s chin and turned her face side to side. “Look what we have here. Gonna be tricky, but I think I can fix you up. Never a dull day at the studios. I haven’t seen a sunburn this bad since I drank a bottle of Jack Daniels and woke up bare-assed slung over a donkey in Mexico.” She laughed at herself. “Spring break sophomore year. Man, I miss my college days.” She scrambled around in a drawer on the cart. “I’ll be gentle. By the way, I’m Colleen.”

  “Sam.”

  Colleen bent over in her skin-tight, black leggings and skull-printed tank top, giving Sam a Grade-A view of a calligraphy tramp-stamp that read—Please Use Other Door. At least the girl had some standards. Colleen pulled out a tube of some sort of mint green paste, squirted a glob on her finger, and came at Sam.

  Sam pulled away. “What is that stuff, toothpaste?”

  Colleen lifted a pierced brow. “It’s just a base. The green will cancel out the red tones in your face then I’ll cover it up with foundation. Trust me.”

  That was the problem. Sam didn’t trust her, but seeing as she made the big bucks doing makeup at a movie studio, Sam closed her eyes and said, “Fine. Just so we’re clear, if it looks stupid, I’m wiping it off.”

  “If it looks stupid? Coming from a woman walking around like this?” Colleen snickered. “You’re lucky they hired me today. Otherwise, Rolando would be doing your makeup, and he’d make you look like a drag queen.” Miss Blue Lips slathered minty goop on Sam’s face. It didn’t smell minty, though. It smelled more like old-lady-cold-cream.

  Mazy entered the makeup trailer, decked out like a movie star with intense smoky eyes, spiked red hair, and a slinky black mini dress. Her killer, studded-black-pumps were hot.

  “Holy shit, Mazy. You look badass.”

  Mazy spun and shook her hips. She patted the makeup artist on the back and said, “This woman wields magic. I can’t wait to see how you turn out. What did you bring to wear?”

  Sam pointed to her suitcase in the corner. “It’s in the suitcase. I brought two outfits. I wasn’t sure which one was best.”

  Leah entered the room in a robe and hot curlers. “Hey, girls.”

  Mazy pulled out the two outfits Sam had packed and held them up. “Hey, Leah. We have a choice between silver cocktail dress and a white, halter jumpsuit.”

  “Jumpsuit.” Colleen announced her selection without even looking at the choices. “White shows up well on screen, and silver will make you resemble a baked potato wrapped in aluminum foil. Plus, with your long legs, blonde hair, and tan skin, the white will make you look like a goddess on film. Think Marilyn Monroe and Lana Turner. What instrument do you play?”

  “Double Bass.”

  “Definitely the jumpsuit. Wow, I can almost see it now. You should let me pull your hair up to show off your back and neck.”

  Leah nodded yes quickly and repeatedly like a bobble head that belonged on a dashboard. “Go for it. You’ll be stunning.” She placed a hand on her hot curlers and glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to my trailer and finish getting ready. Have y’all seen Kendal?”

  Mazy pulled a pair of sticks out her stick-bag. “She’s already warming up on set, and she looks fierce. I almost didn’t recognize her.”

  When the four ladies gathered on set, they gawked at each other. Leah wore a red chiffon dress that floated in the breeze of an enormous fan planted directly in front of her, causing her dark hair to whip around her supermodel face. Kendal had on a black and white panel dress that accentuated her hourglass figure, making her waist appear to be cinched by a corset. Her hair had been straightened, and she had on fire-engine-red lipstick. This was the best they had all looked, ever. Leah had one of the camera guys take some still shots so she could use the photos in future promos.

  A couple of hours of playing, and they were done. It took them longer to get made up than to do the actual gig.

  As Sam packed up, a slender woman in a business-like, gray dress with brown hair cut into a sleek bob approached her. She said, “Excuse me. I’m Josephine Bennet, executive producer.” She extended her hand.

  Sam shook it. “Sam Carlisle.”

  Josephine smiled, revealing an unexpected set of braces that gave her otherwise mature facade a hint of teen playfulness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re awesome on that bass. I was blown away. Listen, I have a friend who is looking for a studio bassist, and I was wondering if you were available.”

  Holy crap. Studio musicians made decent money. Heck yeah, she was available. “I’m pretty sure I can squeeze in some studio time around my other obligations.”

  Josephine did a fist pump. “I’m so glad. I think you’re exactly what the project he’s working on needs. Give me your card, and I’ll have him call you.”

  “Sounds good.” Score. Gigs equaled money, and money was just what she needed. She’d be out of that house before the six weeks were up.

  AFTER A COUPLE of sets at Reel to Real Good, Sam pulled into her driveway at one in the morning. Home sweet temporary home. Her bass felt heavier than normal as she lugged it up the stairs—thump,thump,thump. The flicker from the television reflected in the living room window, which meant—Papa Bear was still awake. Darn. Goldilocks really wanted to sneak past him and find the bed that fit just right. She turned the doorknob, and hoped she wouldn’t be greeted by a grizzly.

  BROCK HEARD THUMPING outside, and he went to the window. Sam was dragging her bass up the stairs. His first instinct was to go out and help her. Because of the frigid vibes between them, he hesitated. She’d been getting along without his help for years. She could make do a little longer.

  When she entered the laundry room, he got a good look at her. His mouth fell open. She could’ve been a beauty queen. A slinky white outfit skimmed her luscious body. With her hair piled high on her head, her neck appeared swanlike and tantalizingly kissable.

  She looked up at him with a shadow of uncertainty darkening her haunting blue eyes. Her face showed no signs of sunburn. She was a living Barbie. Holy hell.

  He found himself moving toward her as if pulled by magnets. He placed his hands on her bass and said, “So that’s what has gouged the stair treads, the wheels of your bass case. I’ve been trying to figure out what caused those peculiar divots.”

  He mentally kicked himself for being an arse. Couldn’t he think of something better to say?

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll save up some money and pitch in for repairs to your precious treads.”

  “I didn’t mean… no, that’s not what I was trying to say.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and silently counted to three. “I was just curious. I don’t mind. You don’t owe me anything.” He was blowing this big time. “You look beautiful.” There. Finally, something worth saying, even if it was weak.

  She fidgeted and blushed. “Thank you. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  His shoulders deflated back down into their normal position. “No. No, I was just watching a bit of telly.”

  She smiled. “Telly. Cute.”

  He despised the word “cute”. Cute applied to puppies and dollies, not him. Nothing about him was cute.

  She turned and slid her bass into the corner. Everything inside him went rigid. Her outfit was backless. He got a full view of her sinfully bare, whiskey-colored skin, from the nape of her neck to her spine, all the way down to those two succulent dimples on her lower back. He moved closer to her. She smelled like flowers with a hint of intoxicating musk. He wanted to nibble on her neck. Instead, he bit his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood.

&n
bsp; She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you need something?” Her voice was low and sultry.

  He could live with her invading his privacy. Yep. He was over it. In fact, he was ready to bare it all to her right now.

  “I’m sorry I acted foolishly last night. I’m guarded about my personal life, especially my poetry. It’s common for men from my country to write poetry. It’s not that I’m concerned I’ll be labeled a sissy. The thing is…that notebook is a sort of diary, and I choose which—“

  She shushed him. “I’m the one who should apologize. I had no business reading your work without permission. Listen, I want you to know that I didn’t go into your room with the intention of snooping. I really was looking for Princess.”

  “I know. She’d apparently gotten locked in my closet.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He hadn’t intended on telling her, but since she asked, “Your cat left a present for me in my suitcase. A rather putrid gift.”

  Sam’s face turned red, and she closed her eyes. “Oh no. I’m sorry. She’s never done anything like that before.”

  He touched her arm. “It’s okay. At first I thought she did it because she disliked me, but then I decided she’d probably been trapped in there or something. Cats aren’t my thing, but—“

  “Are you allergic?

  “No. I’m…” She smiled up at him, and the awkwardness between them evaporated. He lost his train of thought as he gazed into her eyes.

  She placed her hand on the center of his chest and parted her lips—those luscious, glistening, pink….

  He inclined his head toward hers, and she didn’t retreat. He slowly closed the distance between their mouths, searching her eyes for permission. She tilted her face up to his, and he kissed her.

  At first, he held his lips softly on hers until her hand slithered up his chest and neck and into his hair.

  He opened his mouth, and she mirrored his action. He slowly painted her lips with his tongue and dipped it into her warm, plush mouth. A soft moan poured out of her as he plunged his tongue deeper, searching the origin of her moans, wanting to hear more.

  He didn’t know exactly when he’d grabbed her and pulled her close, but he felt the silk of her skin beneath his fingers that roved up and down her supple back, gliding over every exposed inch of her arching spine, all the way down to the satin of her garment. The slick, smoothness of the fabric, the curve of her hip. He squeezed a handful of her pliable round bottom, and she moaned again.

  He wanted to bury himself deep inside her. He’d kissed women before, but none had ever made him feel like this, like his head was spinning and floating simultaneously.

  He pressed her against the wall, and she lifted her leg. Grabbing her behind the knee, he ground his pelvis against her soft mound.

  She pushed him back, her eyes wild. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

  He staggered backward, and she ran past him. He heard stomping up the stairs followed by a slamming door that reverberated through the house.

  There was no fricking way she was a lesbian.

  Had he pushed things too far? Apparently so. He placed his forearm against the wall and lowered his head to his fist, panting, desire pulsating down his hardened length. Bloody Hell. Had he ruined his chances with her?

  Everything in his body said he’d not gone far enough. She’d given him the look. The “kiss me” look. Had she not wanted it?

  Her moans replayed in his mind. The way she’d lifted her leg and invited him into that sacred space between her thighs. She’d wanted it.

  He let out a shuddering breath, her scent lingering, tormenting him. He had the urge to climb those stairs and take her, long and hard, devouring every speck of her mouth-watering body, but she’d run away from him. That was a no. He listened to no.

  He shuffled into the kitchen and got a beer. All he had been able to find on the island was far from what he’d call beer. It was more like piss in a bottle. He longed for an extra special bitter, maybe a good ole lager or cider. This pale yellow excuse for ale would have to do. He downed it in one long chug, trying to absorb the alcohol and ignore the taste, or lack there of. He tossed the empty bottle into the trash and retrieved another, then stalked out to the sea. A cold shower wouldn’t be enough tonight. He needed a mighty ocean to slap some sense into his head.

  Peeling away clothes and staring at the moonlight playing peek-a-boo in the water, he ached for Sam. He plowed his way past the breakers. Frigid waves crashed around his thighs. The majestic beach house seemed to be looking down its pier like a disapproving father looking down his nose at a son who’d behaved inappropriately.

  Sam’s bedroom light came on, but no silhouette appeared in her window. Moments later, the light went out.

  He faced the darkness of the undulating Atlantic and dove beneath its inky surface, praying the healing waters of the sea would alleviate his longing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ostrich

  Dizzy from the kiss, Sam sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. She’d done the very thing she told herself she wouldn’t. Why had she been so weak? Gazing into his eyes, feeling his look of desire washing over her, standing so close to him. She was a goner. Yes, damn it. She’d wanted Brock to kiss her. She’d wanted it bad. But she hadn’t expected to feel such overwhelming emotion from that one kiss. She was a grown woman and should know a kiss wasn’t a huge deal. But this felt like a huge deal. Humongous.

  He was such a nice guy. She’d never been with a really nice guy before.

  For him, that kiss might be nothing more than lust put into action. They’d only known each other for two days. What else could it mean for him? She’d told him she was gay, and like most men, he probably had fantasies about being with two women.

  Lust was temporary. If she cooled things off and kept her distance, she could accept that he was a temporary presence in her life without being devastated. If she kissed him again, or slept with him, devastation was inevitable. She had the history to prove it.

  Besides, he’d most likely assume her cowardly avoidance was due to an internal struggle she had concerning her relationship with Mazy or her sexuality in general. That’s how she’d play it anyway.

  Her biggest challenge was going to be avoiding him while sleeping in a room directly across the hall from his. Odds were not in her favor.

  SAM AND MAZY were breaking down the sound equipment at the Hungry Possum, a nearby restaurant just over the drawbridge, when Colleen, the makeup artist, approached them. “Hey, dollar drafts at Provisions tonight, fundraiser for the animal shelter. Come on out, if you feel like partying.”

  Mazy said, “Sounds good to me. How about you, Sam?”

  “I’d love to. After the week I’ve had, I could use a drink.”

  Sam had being working studio gigs around her private lesson schedule and picking up freelancing jobs with a few other area bands in addition to playing with Bikini Quartet. A couple more weeks like this and she’d have enough money to move.

  That night, she and Mazy had been hired to fill in for the bass and drummer with Inked Religion, an alternative rock band.

  BROCK SET HIS alarm for one A.M. So he’d be sure to be awake when Sam came home. She’d been avoiding him since their kiss. He was determined to confront her once and for all. Giving her space wasn’t working. Either she was really gay and wasn’t into him, or she was bi and conflicted because she was already in a relationship. Mazy seemed like a nice enough girl, but damn, if Sam and Mazy were really “together” wouldn’t they be spending the night with one another?

  Adult relationships usually included sleep-overs on a regular basis. He wasn’t well versed in lesbian relationships, but he had all ideas the same held true. The thing that really seemed odd was the fact Sam and Mazy didn’t even kiss in front of him. He’d never seen them so much as hold hands. And Sam talked on the phone to Leah far more than she talked to Mazy.

  The whole thing confused the hell out of him, and he was ti
red of it. He’d force himself to stay up ’til sunrise if he needed to, but he was going to leave Sam no choice but to face him. For now, he’d grab and drink and go work in the yard, plant the roses he’d purchased. He needed to do something physical or he’d turn to mush

  He opened the fridge. A twelve pack of Red Dragon Bitter from the Beckonshire Brewery sat on the top shelf with a note attached. He’d never been so happy to see beer in his life.

  The note read:

  Brock,

  I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I don’t want you to think I don’t like you. I do. Very much. You’re a fantastic guy. I’m just really mixed up right now.

  You mentioned you hate American beer, so I did some searching on Crystal Cove and found a place that specializes in imports. I hope this beer is the kind you like. The guy who sold it to me said it’d bring a smile to your face. I hope he was right. I wish I could do more to show you how grateful I am that you’re letting me stay here.

  You’ve been so nice. I’m not used to men being so nice. That’s no excuse for the way I’ve pulled away, but consider this beer a peace offering. If you like it, I’ll keep it stocked in the fridge for you.

  Sincerely,

  Sam

  He couldn’t stop smiling. Red Dragon was one of his favorites. It wasn’t cheap either. That’s Sam, full of surprises. And this time, he was thrilled. He opened a beer and savored it with his eyes closed.

  MAZY SLID HER cymbals in the back of her purple hearse. “That’s the last of it. Let’s go back to my place and lock our stuff up in the garage then take my motorcycle to Provisions.”

  Sam liked the idea of securing the equipment. “Sounds good to me. I don’t really want to pull up to the bar in a hearse anyway.”

  “Watch your mouth. This is the coolest ride ever. Who else has a pimped out hearse with tie-dyed seat covers? Come on. It’s rockin’.” Mazy patted the hood of her hearse like she was patting the head of a good ole dog.

  “It’s weird. I know you like weird, but let’s face it—a pimped out hearse with morbid bumper stickers is kind of twisted.” Sam laughed. “But it suits you.”