Aruba (Bad Boys on the Beach Book 3)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter One
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter Two
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter Three
About
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Aruba
Bad Boys on the Beach Three
Kimberly Fox
Aruba
Bad Boys on the Beach Three
Tucker
By KIMBERLY FOX
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contains explicit love scenes and adult language.
18+
www.AuthorKimberlyFox.com
Copyright© 2017 by Kimberly Fox
Contents
About
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter One
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter Two
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter Three
More than just the tide is rising in Aruba!
Suntan lotion. Check.
Bikini. Check.
Bridesmaid dress. Check.
Passport. Check.
My best friend’s older brother who made my childhood a living hell? Unfortunately Check.
This destination wedding was going to be so fun.
I was having a blast until I saw him.
The cruel boy who used to pull my hair and call me names.
He’s here, but the boy is now a man.
Tucker is still pulling my hair, only this time it’s in the good way.
And he’s still calling me names, but they’re making my toes curl.
This vacation is not what I expected.
But hey, you’re supposed to get wet at the beach, right?
Aruba can be read as a standalone, but will be better enjoyed if you’ve read Cancun and Belize first!
To the head lifeguard at my kid’s pool.
Thanks for the hours of visual enjoyment this summer.
1
Julia
Day One
“You! American girl! Out!” the bus driver shouts as he glares at me through the rear-view mirror.
I gulp as all of the locals on the bus turn and look at me with blank faces. “Okay,” I squeak as I hop out of my seat and struggle to pull my huge bag down the narrow aisle.
A few of them snicker as the strap of my Louis Vuitton suitcase gets snagged on a seat.
“What happened to the tourist bus?” an older guy asks as he laughs at me. “They couldn’t fit your enormous bag in it?”
“She wants to experience the true Aruba,” another guy from the back calls out. “Complete with gum on the seats and broken air conditioning.”
The people laugh and giggle as I finally get my strap unhooked and yank my oversized suitcase up to the driver.
“I thought you were taking me to the Alanda Resort,” I say, looking out the dirty windshield of the local bus. All I see is a dirt road and dense jungle around me.
He shakes his head impatiently. “Down there,” he says, pointing to a wall of thick jungle bush. “Now out!”
“But, I thought—”
“Out!” he shouts, whipping his head back and glaring at me. I can see myself in his mirrored sunglasses. I look sweaty, stressed, tired—the opposite of what I should be feeling while on vacation.
“Okay, okay,” I mumble to myself as I drag my suitcase down the steps. I turn and look at him through the open door once I’m outside. “Excuse me, where did you say it—”
He closes the door in my face before I can finish and drives off, covering me in a disgusting cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
I already hate Aruba.
It’s hot, sticky, and way out of my price range.
I sigh as I drag my heavy suitcase down the dirt road toward the spot where the bus driver had pointed, picturing my friends hanging around the pool with drinks in their hands and hot guys at their sides.
This is the third destination wedding I’ve been to in three years. Megan was the first when she married Lucas in Cancun, Tanya was next when she said her vows to Ethan in Belize, and now it’s my best friend Cynthia’s turn. She’s marrying her hot Navy SEAL, Chase.
I’m the only single one left. Single with absolutely no prospects.
The closest thing I have to a prospect is Andy Hanson. He asked me to marry him a few weeks ago.
He’s in my kindergarten class and only five years old, but the way I’m going, I’ll be looking him up in thirteen years to see if the offer still stands.
I wipe my sweaty forehead as I turn down the dirt road that hopefully leads to the resort. I should have been in the air-conditioned luxury bus for rich tourists like everyone else in the wedding group, but all of my credit cards were maxed out along with my options.
It turns out that flying from Buffalo to Dallas, then from Dallas to Bogota, Columbia, waiting in the hot crowded airport for seven hours, and then flying from Bogota to Aruba on South America’s oldest plane is three hundred dollars cheaper than the group rate that Cynthia and Chase offered us.
Last year, I wouldn’t have thought twice about slapping down another credit card to pay for the extra luxury, but that was last year. Debtors weren’t calling me every fifteen minutes last year, my credit cards worked last year, and I wasn’t stuck living in my parent’s basement because I was evicted from my apartment. Last year was awesome.
This year sucks.
I slap a mosquito the size of a hummingbird, crushing him on my arm as I walk up to the booth with the two security guards inside. They’re watching an old episode of Home Improvement in Spanish. They look annoyed t
hat I’m interrupting it.
“Yes?” the one standing up asks as he stares at me.
“I have a reservation here.” I pull the booking paper out of my purse and offer it to him.
He just stands there with his hands on his hips, not taking the paper. “Where is your bus?”
“I took the local bus from the airport,” I say, slapping another bug on my sweaty neck. “It was cheaper.”
“The guests always come in on a bus.”
I huff out a breath as I raise my arms and make a show of looking around me. “Well, I’m all out of buses.”
I’m all out of buses, I’m all out of money, and I’m all out of giving any fucks. I’m hot, tired, annoyed, and if this guy doesn’t lift up that goddamned bar soon, I’m going to go all Tim Allen on his ass.
The guy sitting down laughs at the TV and the one interrogating me turns to see what Jonathan Taylor Thomas shenanigans he missed.
Fuck this.
I duck under the yellow bar and curse under my breath as I charge up the road to the resort.
“Hey!” the security guard shouts as he runs out of the booth and follows me.
I just ignore him as he walks alongside me, squawking something into his radio.
“Yeah, call your friends,” I say, gritting my teeth as I charge down the road. You’re going to fucking need them with the way I’m feeling right now.
The path turns, and the gorgeous resort finally comes into view. I would stop to admire the intricately carved wooden walls, the high straw ceilings, and spectacular gardens with the huge tropical flowers if I wasn’t about to get arrested any second now.
I arrive at the marble steps, and three more security guards come rushing out of the lobby. They stand in front of me like a sweaty wall, blocking my path to free drinks, beach, pool, shitty buffet food, and my best friend’s wedding. They’re going to need more than three security guards to stop me from getting to all of that.
An older Dutch man comes rushing out and smiles as he approaches me. He’s wearing dress pants and a buttoned-up shirt over his tanned skin. “Can I help you, Miss?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, raising my chin in the air. “You can call off these goons. I thought Alanda was a resort not a prison. What kind of welcome is this?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, clasping his hands together and bowing his head. “Our guests always come in on a bus.”
“I did come in on a bus,” I snap back. I have the receipt of fifty cents to prove it. I hand him my reservation paper and he nods as he looks it over.
He says something to the security guards in a language I don’t understand and they all walk away, looking disinterested. I turn back and give the original security guard a dirty look before he turns and hurries back to catch the end of Home Improvement.
“I see you’re in the Taylor-Connor wedding group,” he says, smiling at me. “The rest of the guests arrived before lunchtime.”
Good for them. I was sitting in an airport in Colombia.
“Julia!” Megan calls out from the lobby. “She’s over here, guys!”
I grin as Cynthia and Megan come rushing down the stairs in nothing but bikinis with sarongs wrapped around their waists. I meet them half way up the stairs, and they swallow my tired body in a hug.
“We’ve been waiting for you here all day,” Cynthia says after kissing my temple.
I take the white slushy drink out of her hand and drink half of it in one gulp. “I got here as fast as I could,” I say, grimacing as the brain freeze hits me.
“How was Colombia?” Megan asks with a chuckle.
“Hot. Crowded. A kid with chocolate on his fingers touched my Dolce & Gabbana dress.” My jaw clenches just thinking about it. I hate that kid.
“I’ll never understand how flying past Aruba and then doubling back on another plane would be cheaper than flying direct,” Cynthia says, shaking her head.
I sigh. “I don’t know, but it is.”
“We could have covered the difference for you,” she whispers. “We really wouldn’t have minded.”
“I got here, didn’t I?” I say, hoping she’ll drop the subject. I may have negative seventy-six thousand dollars in credit card debt, but I’m not about to take charity from my best friend and her soon-to-be husband.
“Miss Cynthia,” the Dutch man says, smiling as he walks over. “I’ll check Miss Julia in immediately while you all catch up.”
“Thank you, Lars,” Cynthia says, smiling back at him. “He’s the owner of the resort,” she says when he’s gone with my paper. “He’s been great.”
“Julia!” Tanya calls out as she waddles down the steps toward us. She’s seven months pregnant and looking absolutely stunning. “Sorry, I had to go pee. For the thirty-sixth time since I got here.”
I try to give her a hug, but my arms can barely reach her body with her huge stomach between us. “How did it go on the plane?” I ask. Tanya is terrified of flying.
“How do you think?” she asks with a shrug. “I had airsickness mixed with pregnancy sickness. I spent most of the flight crying in the bathroom.”
Sounds like my flight, minus the puking.
“Well, we’re all here now,” I say, plastering a smile onto my sweaty face. I am the maid of honor on this trip, and it’s my duty to make sure the party runs smoothly. “Let’s get this wedding week started!”
The owner, Lars, comes back with the key cards to my room. He hands them to me and then takes my suitcase to have it brought up to my room. “I apologize for the way security acted,” he says, bowing his head. “I upgraded you to a beachfront room.”
“Is it going to cost extra?” I ask, holding my breath.
“Not a penny extra,” he says, motioning us into the resort with his arm. “It’s on me.”
“Thank you, Lars,” Cynthia says as we head inside.
“What happened with security?” Megan asks as we pass a gorgeous marble fountain. “Did they get a little too frisky when they patted you down?”
“No, I’m sweaty and gross,” I say, swallowing hard when I see the pool in the distance. It looks so wet and cool and refreshing. “They wouldn’t let me in, let alone touch me.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel bad for you,” Tanya says, looking me up and down with a sigh. “I would kill to be as sweaty and gross as you right now. I’m like that in an air-conditioned room. Out here, I have sweat pooled up in cracks I didn’t even know I had.”
“You look beautiful, Tanya,” Cynthia says as she slides her arm over her shoulders. “You’re having a baby. What can be more beautiful than that?”
Tanya lets out a sigh as she waddles beside us. “I don’t know. Maybe a woman who doesn’t let out half the water in the pool when she gets in.”
“You shouldn’t be complaining, Tanya,” Megan says with a grin. “You always wanted bigger tits and now you have them. They’re huge.”
All four of us laugh as we look at Tanya’s breasts. They have grown significantly since she’s gotten pregnant. The clasp on her bikini top is hanging on for dear life.
“They hurt my back,” she says, looking miserable. “I don’t know how Sofia Vergara does it. If I had boobs like hers, my back would look like a question mark.”
“I’ll help you carry them,” Megan says with a mischievous grin. “If you let me stick my face in there and motorboat them.”
Tanya laughs. Megan is always good at making her best friend laugh. “I didn’t realize you liked big boobs so much.”
Megan grins. “I like big boobs and I cannot lie,” she raps like a nerdy Sir Mix-a-Lot. “You other bitches can’t deny.”
Tanya joins in for the next line:
“That when a preggers waddles by,
poking hard nipples in your eye,
with boobs that look as veiny as a map of Shanghai,
you get sprung.”
“All right,” I say, interrupting them with a wave of my hand. “Can I get some alcohol in me before you turn this wedding
vacation into a no-talent talent show?”
Megan and Tanya both narrow their eyes on me. “Don’t ever interrupt us mid-jam again,” Megan warns.
“So not cool,” Tanya says, shaking her head.
“How about you two go practice by the pool?” Cynthia says, pulling me away from them. “I’ll walk Julia up to her room.”
“Good idea,” Megan says with an evil stare. “I wouldn’t want to have to pop a cap up in here.” They both start throwing up gang signs at me with their hands as they walk away.
I laugh. The only gang those two could join with their flowered bikinis and complete lack of street skills is The Get Along Gang.
Megan leans into Tanya as they turn around. “We’re going to miss the show,” she whispers. “I want to see her freak out.” I’m not meant to hear that, but I do.
Cynthia is stiff and tense with an uncomfortable smile on her face. She heard them too.
“What is she talking about?” I ask, staring at my best friend. “What am I going to freak out about?” I gasp. “Am I sharing a room with Tanya’s Aunt Ophelia?”
I had brought a boyfriend to Tanya’s wedding in Belize and Cynthia was forced to stay in a room with Tanya’s perv of an aunt. She had porn playing on the TV the entire week and offered to share her extensive collection of dildos and vibrators. It’s not like Cynthia to get even like this, but with my bad luck lately, I wouldn’t count it out.
“Don’t worry,” she says, shaking her head. “Ophelia is not here. You heard Lars. You have a beautiful beachfront room all to yourself.”