Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  “Oh yeah.” I grin, reaching up and tugging his head down, exploring the taste of his kiss as he pulled me closer.

  “I want to fuck you right here,” he whispers.

  “So do it.” My hands slip under his shirt, trailing over the lines of his abs, his breath catching as I get one hand into the low waist of his board shorts, my fingers encountering the curly patch of hair there.

  He chuckles and pulls my hand out, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll take care of you later. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”

  I let out a dramatic sigh, wilting against the bookshelf. “Fine. I’m closing up shop at four. Meet you on the beach?”

  He cradles my face, his gaze trailing over my features. “I’ll be there. Tonight is when you have that thing?”

  I nod. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  He grins, my playful boy back. “Then I’ll be sure to take care of you this afternoon.”

  I yank him forward. “You better.”

  He gives me a final kiss before releasing me, tossing out a carefree smile before ducking through the entrance and disappearing into the bright California sun.

  I understand that you may hate me. That you may curse me for my greed. But if I’m okay with it, and they’re okay with it, how is it anyone else’s right to judge me?

  13

  Venice Beach, CA

  CAVEFISH: [noun]

  Pale Surfer

  DANA

  I stub out my cigarette and watch the bar, listening as my coworker blabs the explicit details of last night’s blind date. I tune in occasionally, nodding politely and cracking a smile when the occasion seems to call for it. But mainly, I just watch the bar. I saw her. Stewart’s blonde princess. I was sitting here, minding my own business, sipping fresh coffee and munching on biscotti when she trotted by. Flashing a smile to a pothead who sat on the curb, she entered the bar without a second glance around. That was forty-five minutes ago.

  I light another cigarette.

  Venice Beach… it wasn’t the location I expected to find her in. From my first impression at Livello, she had seemed too upscale for this area—her glowing skin and sparkly white teeth speaking of good breeding, the dress one that appeared to be four-figure fabulous. I almost didn’t recognize her in cutoff shorts and a plaid, long-sleeved button-up, aviators perched on her head, long tanned legs ending in a pair of leather flip-flops. But it’s hard to miss a girl like her. And I’ve thought about that night too many times, replaying it over and over again in my head.

  Stewart had barely aged, one hundred percent the man I knew—save the grin on his face. That grin, the glint in his eyes… all signs of a man in love. Sadly, I didn’t have much experience with being on the receiving end of those.

  I take a sip of coffee. Yep, Venice Beach is certainly not where I expected to find her. Then again, who am I to talk about being in random places? I’m sitting here in a wool suit and sweating my ass off, all in the slim hope that I might run into Paul.

  Paul. The other man in my heart, and also MIA in my life. His absence pulls at my soul. Paul, the lost lamb of our family. What happened to Jennifer wasn’t his fault. Things happen regardless of our best intentions and precautions. Things happen, and when disaster struck, we lost him. He was always too sensitive, too caring, too loving. Quick to accept blame when it wasn’t cast on him, quick to perceive if someone was mad or if feelings were hurt. He carried the happiness of our family on his shoulders, as if his young frame could support so much pressure. And that summer was a bomb to that structure, a heavy cannonball dropped onto a frail teenager’s house of sticks.

  We should have known he wouldn’t recover. We should have known it would push him away. Now, he lives as if that event never happened. As if Jennifer, and the rest of us, never existed.

  I think the mere presence of us causes him pain. We’re nothing but a walking billboard of what used to be. So, he pretends we aren’t here and walks through life with a smile on his face.

  I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad. I’m relieved that he’s okay. In press photos, his grin stretches wide and easily. Tournament videos show that his step has a bounce in it. But I’m sad for the brother I’ve lost, one who seems like he will never return home.

  “I feel like three days is too long. If he hasn’t called by then, fuck him, you know?” Shannon shrugs, then looks to me for approval.

  I nod. “Agreed. Fuck him.”

  She started back in, and I glanced in the direction that the blonde had gone, then did another sweep of the restaurant for Paul. He lives around here somewhere. I don’t have his number, can’t find anything but a manager’s contact info on the promotional website bearing Paul’s stage name. The alias irks me, a visible sign indicating his separation from our family. Linx. It was a stupid last name, picked by a nineteen-year-old kid with more pussy and dreams than he knew what to do with.

  I exhale a burst of smoke and glance towards the beach. YouTube videos show him here—attacking waves with the same ferocity he exhibited as a kid. So, when Shannon wanted some gossip time, I suggested Venice Beach, hoping that fate would be on my side.

  I take a sip of coffee and glance at my watch, my mind bouncing off Paul and back to the surprise sighting of Stewart’s blonde. It’d been fifty-two minutes. Who sits in a bar at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon for almost an hour? I push back from the chair and Shannon pauses mid-sentence, looking at me with surprise. “Where’re you going?”

  “Just a minute,” I mutter, throwing my bag over my shoulder and zig-zagging through the crowd. I pull on the handle and step into the bar.

  A woman should be dressed properly to go into battle. But I wasn’t expecting to confront Stewart’s Barbie doll this morning. I was only hoping to see Paul, and wore an outfit he would recognize me in. While I’d dressed, I had envisioned the moment he saw me. His eyes would light up, and he’d toss an arm over my shoulder, a soft kiss placed on my cheek. And in that moment, everything would be perfect. He would understand I still love him, that I will always love him—no matter what. And he would tell me that he loves me and would invite me to be a part of his life once again.

  So I wore a suit, my normal skin. It would stand out on the boardwalk, and might cause Paul to take notice and recognize me. But now, walking into the bar filled with flip-flops and tan bodies, I wish I had at least worn my good heels. Prada would help me have the confidence to approach this woman. Prada would hold my hand and whisper in my ear that I am cool enough, hip enough, to approach this woman who is probably ten years my junior.

  My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, neon lights coming into focus, the floor beneath my heels sticky. Only two figures are at the bar, neither of which are her. The bartender, a redheaded pixie who should have worn sunscreen earlier in life, raises her chin at me. “What’cha need?”

  My palms are suddenly clammy, and I wipe them on the front of my skirt, trying to think of some plausible need for my presence. “Do you have a restroom?”

  She pops her gum with a crude, loud crack. “It’s outside, past the bookstore. Down that hall.” She points at a dingy hall, just past an open doorway with glossy paperbacks stacked on either side of the door. Curiosity makes my gaze linger and the reggae music from inside draws me closer to the hall.

  An arm snakes out the door, startling me. It is low, from the height of a small child, and pushes a heavy hardcover out the door until it bumps into an adjoining stack. I move forward, peering in, and see Stewart’s blonde sitting cross-legged on the floor, books stacked all around her. She works here. The realization that she is not a barfly is relieving. I step back, but not before her head snaps up, and our eyes meet for one terrifying moment.

  She smiles. “Please don’t leave. I can turn the music off if it bothers you.”

  “Oh no, it doesn’t bother me.” I brush aside a stray hair that’s come loose from my bun, trying to find my mindset. Why had I come looking for her? What was my ball-busting plan
of attack? Suddenly, my lack of designer shoes seems to be the least of my poor planning. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  She frowns, and it’s such a ridiculously adorable gesture that I want to throttle her. “Damn. I was hoping for a reader. It’s been crickets today.” She stands, brushing off her shorts and leaving the pile of books behind. “Want me to show you the way?”

  “No, it’s okay.” I glance around the small space. It’s just a few rows squeezed into an area lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, shiny new books squeezed next to worn paperbacks with broken spines.

  “Oooh… I know that look. What’s your weakness? Steamy billionaires with foot-long junk? Or a serial killer taking out half the women in Mississippi?” She shoots me a wicked grin.

  I blush, hating the fact that I’m fighting off a smile. This is not how this is supposed to go. She shouldn’t be likable. I had expected upper crust, snooty, perfectly manicured fingers digging as far into Stewart’s money pile as they could possibly go. “Janet Evanovich.”

  “Oooh! I knew I liked you.” She jogs past me, humming along with the music as she drags a stool over to a shelf and stands, stretching up and trotting her fingers over titles. “You want the latest?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you read Stephanie Bond?”

  I watch her carefully, trying to pick up more clues. “Uhh … no.”

  She jumps off the stool, crouching down briefly and skims over a second shelf, snatching a book from the rack and tilting her head toward the register. “Anything else before I ring you up?”

  I shake my head, reaching into my jacket pocket for some cash.

  She rounds the tiny register desk and taps at the keys. In this light, I can see that she’s a natural blonde, her hair wild and windblown, the tips of her cheeks a little burnt. It’s funny, if I had seen this version of her first, I would have pictured her with Paul, but not Stewart. It was hard to pair this reggae listening beach bum with the sleek and sophisticated woman who had beamed up at Stewart.

  “If you like Evanovich, you gotta check out Bond, too.” She held up the second book. “It’s used, so I’m gonna toss it in no charge. Just ignore the worn pages. She is freakin’ awesome.” She shrugs, then stuffs it into a bright green bag. “Just check it out.”

  I smile, counting out bills and passing them over. “Thank you—I will.”

  She walks around the counter and hands me the plastic bag with a smile. “Thanks for coming in. You want me to show you to the bathroom?”

  Oh, right. My imaginary need to pee. I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the book.”

  I take a right out of the store, walking down the dim hall and lock myself in the dirty bathroom. I stand in the middle of the germ-infested space, trying not to touch anything, and wait. Two minutes later, I use a paper towel to flush the toilet and open the door handle. I avoid looking into the bookstore, walking quickly through the dark bar and back into the bright light. The high-top where I sat with Shannon is empty, a pink post-it stuck to her spot, an intense frowny face drawn on it in blue ballpoint pen. I glance around but see no sign of her. Sighing, I crumple the sticky note, dump my coffee into the trash, and cast one final look for Paul before leaving.

  14

  Venice Beach, CA

  MADISON

  For the next two years and three months, I’m sterile. Then it will be time to pull out the hormone implant in my arm and replace it with a fresh one, and I can make that humongous decision again.

  To have a baby or not have a baby.

  It was an easy decision a couple of years ago. But… I’m already waffling. In two years, I’ll probably be beside myself with the hefty choice. In a way, choosing a baby will be like choosing between my boys. It’ll be a conversation I’ll have to have with both of them, and I can already guess their stances on it.

  Stewart won’t have time for a child and will tell me so without hesitation. He’ll support any financial obligation, but anything more… I’ll be on my own.

  On the other side, Paul will ask what makes me happy. And whatever I say, he’ll go with. It’s how our relationship has always been. He does what makes me happy. It is why he accepts the fucked-up relationship dynamic that we currently have.

  While Stewart wants me to have a second man to keep me off the streets, to keep me from being lonely, to keep me in his life—Paul accepts that I have a second man because it was what he signed up for. He’d rather have half of me than none of me.

  But he didn’t always accept it so easily. The first time I brought it up, he left.

  Two years ago.

  After Paul’s and my experience under the Santa Monica Pier, we had an official first date—meat lovers pizza under the dim lights of Joe’s, cold beers downed, our bare legs brushing under the slanted brick bar top, knowing smiles paired with flirtatious looks.

  I thought that’d be it, but he persisted, getting my number and calling the next day. I played coy, but he showed up at the bookstore and feigned interest in Gillian Flynn until he snagged a second date.

  He didn’t have to work too hard. I knew who he was, had wandered down to the beach after Bip went oh-my-God-that’s-Paul-Linx crazy, spilling words like ‘surfing god’ and ‘sweetheart’ as if he was onceinalifetime special. I sat on the edge of the surf, sand sticking to my thighs, and watched him on his board, watched the speed and dare of his ride, and let my mind wander down the what-if road.

  What if I went on a second, then third, then fourth date?

  What about Stewart?

  What about his idea of a second boyfriend?

  Could I bring up that scenario? And if I did, how would Paul respond?

  I watched him, admired the flex of muscles as he emerged from the gully of a wave, his gaze catching on me, recognition in his eyes. Then he waved, the smile broadening, and I waved, and I knew I would have to try.

  I broached the subject on our fourth date. At that point, I was already a little too attached to his quick smile and always-ready cock. I waited until after sex, when we were stretched out on his bed, his hand running gently down the line of my back, the room quiet, save our contented breaths.

  “Bring many girls here?” I teased.

  He reached over, dragging me atop him until my head rested on his chest, my bare breasts on his stomach. “Not since I met you.”

  “Well, that’s an impressive feat,” I joked. “Seeing as we’ve screwed in this bed … What? Three of the last four days?” I pushed up and crawled forward, straddling him. “So… there aren’t any girlfriend’s clothes hanging in that closet?” I tilted my head to the door—an accordion-style set that was half-blue, half-white.

  He stretched back his arms, locking them behind his head and studied me, his face serious. “Why would you be here if I had a girlfriend?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she’s busy. Out of town.” His gaze follows me, staying on my face. “Maybe she doesn’t care.”

  “I wouldn’t be with someone if they didn’t care,” he said softly.

  I’d been tracing the lines of his chest, his shoulder muscles enhanced by his position. I refocused my attention on his eyes, struggling to broach the unspeakable topic. “Because, I have someone…”

  His abs tensed underneath me, his expression growing wary.

  “Someone I date—it’s not an exclusive thing.” I rushed out the words, watching his features relax a bit. “He doesn’t care. I mean, he cares, but he doesn’t mind me dating other people. He’s too busy for a full-time relationship.”

  “And?”

  I grimaced and pulled the band-aid off with one, painful rip, anxious to get it off and move the hell on. “This guy, he’s a part of my life. I love him. I just wanted to put it out there. I don’t know what you’re looking for, if it’s a fuck buddy or—”

  “I want a relationship,” he interrupted me, his expression unreadable, and I fidgeted slightly on his hips.

  It was too early to ask him the question, but I was alread
y there, and he was waiting. Waiting while I was treading water, trying to figure out whether to dive deeper or swim for shore. Wondering if Stewart was worth this headache, while knowing, before my mouth even opened, that he was. “With me? I know it’s early to ask that, but—”

  “Yes. I want a relationship with you.” His voice was quiet but firm, his hands sliding up my thighs. He looked at me as if he was completely in control of his emotions, utterly sure of the words coming out of his mouth. I yearned for that resolution, for that decision-making ability that he seemed to so cavalierly hold.

  “I’m not available,” I whispered. “Not fully. I do want a relationship with you. And it’d be exclusive … except for him. If we dated, he would still be in my life. That’s something you’d have to be okay with.”

  His face darkened, his hands tightening slightly on my skin. “You’d date both of us?”

  I nodded silently, unable to look away from the train wreck that was occurring between our eyes. “I love him,” I said simply.

  I did.

  I had fallen for Stewart quickly, despite the gaps of time that kept us apart, despite the little that I saw of him. He just… stayed with me. And it felt like every man I was with, every other touch I felt, was just a hollow substitute until I could have him again. Until Paul. Paul’s touch, Paul’s smile, had tugged at me in a new way. And I desperately hoped, as I straddled him in that rundown duplex, a siren sounding one street over, that he would understand. And… that he would agree.

  He didn’t agree. I could see the fight on his face, the inner turmoil pulling him this way or that. He sighed and sat up, our positions changing. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he pulled me tightly to him, crushing my breasts against the muscle of his chest, and planted a soft kiss on my neck. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Madd.”