by E. L. Montes
“Oh, that belongs to the contractor who’s going to be working on the guesthouse. They must’ve left it behind after Mom and I met with them yesterday.”
“Very well.” He kisses me on the cheek and turns to enter his office. “Have a good swim, sweetheart.”
Two hours. That’s how long it takes for my fingertips to wrinkle like tiny prunes. I’m drained from repeatedly swimming laps. It’s time to call it quits. Although the sun has set, the air is still muggy, and I pull myself out regretfully, wishing I could stay in the cool water a little while longer. My phone blinks on top of the towel, but I ignore it after seeing that it’s a missed call from my mother, probably checking in to see if I burned the house down. I’m sure of it.
I toss my phone aside, grab the towel, and begin drying myself off. I brush the towel over my shoulder and biceps and down toward my wrist. My wrist. My naked wrist. The bracelet is gone.
Every muscle and nerve in my body grows raw as I panic. I drop the towel and search the lounge chair anxiously. Nothing. My eyes scan over the cobblestone patio around me. Nothing. I trace my steps back to the edge of the pool. Nothing. Where can it be? I need that bracelet.
I need it.
I need it.
I need it!
I’m going to cry; my vision turns hazy as my lungs tighten in anticipation.
An item glistening at the bottom of the pool catches my attention and I blink my vision clear. I can’t make out what it is, but there’s something there. Without another thought, I dive in. My hips and legs sway as I speed down to the bottom. After a few seconds, I reach it, but it’s just a damn penny. A penny. I continue to search around, but there’s nothing else down here. I want to scream.
My lungs burn, and I can’t be certain if it’s my rage or a lack of oxygen causing the pain. How could I be so damn careless? As my mind races, my legs grow increasingly numb. Terror is setting in. I’m rapidly losing the ability to swim back up to the surface. If I could breathe, I’d be hyperventilating right now. I’m having a meltdown underwater. I can feel it; I’m about to break. I pull my legs into my chest and wrap my arms around them tightly. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve been in this situation, but it’s not. I know all too well what I need to do to calm myself down and get the hell out of here. With my eyes firmly shut, I try to focus on something blissful as I hold my breath. The silence beneath the water is soothing, peaceful even. Down here, there are no voices haunting my thoughts.
A calm, pleasant feeling finally settles over me.
And it’s taken away from me in an instant. One second I’m enjoying the silence, and the next I feel a vice-like grip around my arm tugging me upward. I break the surface, shocked and gasping for air, and swallow a mouthful of chlorine water. It burns my nostrils and lungs.
“What the hell?” I cough out. My hands and knees slam against the concrete that borders the pool.
“Are you okay?” a gruff voice huffs out.
Who?
What?
Where?
In a daze, I look up to see a man, completely drenched, leaning over with his hands on his knees. His head is hung low and his whole body rises and falls slightly as he tries to regulate his breathing. I scatter to my feet, jump back, and glare at him. “Who the hell are you?”
His head lifts and… Blue. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re a pale, misty blue with thin streaks of grey and flecks of shimmering gold surrounding the pupil. Thunder, lightning, one hell of a storm—that’s what I see when I look in his eyes. Yeah, he’s a walking storm, all right, and his hypnotizing eyes grow darker as he narrows them in annoyance.
He huffs out as he straightens, revealing broad shoulders and an over six-foot frame. “I’m Logan?” The way he says it makes it seem like I should know who he is. I raise my brows and urge him to continue. “I work with my uncle.” I shake my head again. “Reed Construction,” he finally says.
“Oh.” I wet my lips and the taste of chlorine assaults my tongue. “What are you doing here?”
His face has morphed into full annoyance at this point. “My uncle called your mom. He left his toolbox here and needs it for a project tomorrow. Your mother said she’d let you know I was on my way.”
“Oh.” That would explain the missed call. I wipe away the few soaked strands of hair plastered against my forehead. The naked wrist crossing in front of my face sidetracks me. Dammit, I need that bracelet. I turn around and walk to the edge of the pool, leaning over to scan the clear surface. There’s nothing there to see.
Discouraged, I turn back to the wet man. “What the hell was all that about?” I snap, nudging my head toward the pool.
“I saved your life,” he says irritably.
Saved my life? Is he kidding? I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “You nearly killed me. Because of you, I swallowed a gallon of water. I could’ve drowned.”
Lance or Logan—whoever the hell he is—reaches into the pool and pulls out a floating red baseball cap with a blue letter P stitched in the center of it. Clearly a Phillies fan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The worn cap twists in his hands as he drains the water from the fabric. “You were under there for almost three minutes. I jump in, save your life, and this is the thanks I get?”
He shakes his head and tosses the baseball cap over it. It isn’t until he reaches for the edge of his white T-shirt that I notice his arms—arms that are fully sketched in dark artistry. I try to make out some of the images, but they bend and twist with others, making it impossible to decipher what’s what without staring. My eyes shift away from his tattoos and take in his physique. As he wrings his drenched shirt out in front of him, I catch a glimpse of a toned stomach. His wet clothes mold to every muscle of his impressive shape. Even so, it doesn’t matter if he’s good-looking or not. I’m still annoyed. “I didn’t need saving,” I mumble.
His head kicks back as he snorts. “Yeah, I’ll remember that next time. Can I just grab the toolbox and be on my way?”
Right. The toolbox. Which is in the house. After one last scan of the pool and surrounding grounds, I glare at him and walk to the lounge chair. I toss on my cover-up, grab the towel and my phone, and lead him to the foyer. The only sound accompanying us is the squishing of my flip-flops along the marble floors. I throw my hand out, indicating the completely out-of-place toolbox sitting on the table. “Here it is.”
His fingers grip the handle and he lifts it to his side easily. “Can I exit through here?” He points at the double doors. “My truck’s parked out front.”
“Yep.” I walk over and open it for him. As he’s walking through the door, I hear a car pull up the driveway. At first I think it’s my parents, but once I see the familiar black sedan my heart starts to race.
Shit.
“Wait. Lance, come here.” I grip his bicep. My fingers curl around the hard, toned muscle. The car door slams. My anxiety level’s spiking, and I pull him closer to me.
Blue eyes wildly scan my face and look down at my death grip. He gives me a look, a this-woman-is-crazy look. “What are you doing?” He jerks his arm in an effort to pull away.
“Hold me—no—kiss me,” I urge, yanking his arm to force him down. Unfortunately, he’s not budging. What. The. Hell. My foot stomps once to the ground as if I’m having a five-year-old tantrum.
“What? You’re a psycho,” he says.
“No, please. Just please, Lance.” I quickly glance over and see Matthew exiting his car.
Lance shrugs off my grip. “First of all, my name is Logan. L-O-G-A-N. Logan. Second, I’m not holding you, and I’m most definitely not kissing you.”
Dammit, he’s one of those. The good-looking ones always are. “Okay. I get that you’re gay and all—”
A sharp raised brow cuts me off. “I’m far from gay.”
Oh my God, Matthew is now making his way up the pathway. My attention back on Logan, I slam my hands to my hips, surely giving the impression that I’m younger th
an my twenty-one years of age. “Okay, well prove it,” I challenge.
“You’re kidding?” he asks, but I’m pretty sure my expression tells him I’m anything but. His lips curl into a lopsided grin as he considers this test I’ve given him. Blue eyes slowly and seductively roam my face. He takes me in as if he’s trying to figure me out. News flash, buddy, no one has ever figured me out. Logan’s stare drops to my mouth, lingering, and then a sense of dominance clouds over his features. I’m surprised. His stare is enticing, flirtatious, and goddamn sexy as all hell.
He sucks his bottom lip in, slightly scraping his flesh against his teeth with a seductive grin. That’s hot. Yes, I’ve officially lost my mind. He places the toolbox down. Then, in the blink of an eye, he reaches his arm around my waist, hauls me in, and slams his lips to mine. Urgent, hard, and quick drives of his tongue steal all thoughts from my mind. I quickly inhale and my hand finds its way up and around his neck. He’s a good kisser. He tastes like an apple-flavored Jolly Rancher, which is usually the one flavor I ditch in the pack; after this it may become a favorite. I think a moan just vibrated through me. Get your act together, Jenna. You’ve been kissed before. Our tongues begin to settle into a slow rhythm with long, soft strokes.
Lost momentarily in the sensation of our kiss, I feel his hand cup my ass, securing me in his sturdy hold. His soft lips, molding perfectly with mine, and the strong, confident movements of his talented tongue more than prove to me that Logan, Larry, Lance—whatever his name is—most certainly is not gay. Far. From. It. His fingers tighten on my ass when he pulls me in closer, and a groan vibrating up from his chest causes a throbbing pull deep down within me.
Someone clearing their throat for a second time registers through my daze. For a split second I feel a bit reluctant to pull away from the kiss. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Logan feels the same way. That is, until I see his expression. Our eyes lock briefly before mine break away. He looks angry. His forehead is wrinkled and his lips, so adept at kissing me just moments ago, now form a thin line. Then he turns to face Matthew.
I swallow, slightly shake my fuzzy head to compose myself, and turn as well. “Matthew.” I force a smile. “How are you?”
Matthew awkwardly reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “I’m good. I’ve been trying to reach you.” He glances over at Logan. “Hey, man. I’m Matt.” He reaches out and offers his hand.
Logan takes it. “Logan,” he answers smoothly, but it seems like there’s a hint of irritation in his voice.
There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence as I try to clear the kiss—a kiss I can’t believe I forced—from my still foggy mind. I attempt but fail to utter a freaking word. Finally, I blurt out, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been really busy. And I meant to call you, but I lost track and…”
Matthew lifts his hand, palm facing me. “No need to explain. I understand.” Disappointment clearly written all over his face, he continues charmingly, “Well, I see that you’re busy, so I’ll leave you to your day. Take care.” He nods, turns around, and walks back down the pathway.
Relief. As guilty as I feel, a rush of relief seeps through me. Matthew, son of the Cunninghams, and I were set up by my mother before Brooke’s death. Though I think Matthew is a really sweet guy, I refuse to date anyone my mother tries to set me up with. No, thanks.
A chuckle from beside me forces my attention back to Logan, the talented kisser. He shakes his head in a disapproving way. “Poor guy. I feel kinda bad for him, and I don’t even know who the hell he is, other than that his name is Matthew. So what’d you? Break his heart?”
Screw him. He doesn’t know me from a can of paint. How dare he judge me? “You don’t know me. You can go now.”
“Gladly.” Logan reaches down and grabs the toolbox. He straightens, takes a step forward, and then quickly turns back around. “Oh, and Jenny—”
“Jenna. J-E-N-N-A,” I correct him, placing a hand on my hip.
“That’s right, Jenna. Hmm.” He lets my name sink in for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s stirring up judgments by placing me on some type of stereotypical list of his. “Anyhow, you’re welcome.”
I cross my arms underneath my breasts; he glances down at them, and back at me. “For?” I ask.
“For saving your ass.” He lifts two fingers. “Twice I might add.” He winks, turns his back to me, and before I can respond, he’s walking down the path. I watch him closely. He strides in a powerful and self-assured manner, only slowing when he reaches his truck to place the toolbox in the back. Then he hops in the driver side, looks over at me, and flashes a genuine smile with a slight nod of his head. I fight with all the strength I have not to smile back at him. He chuckles, shaking his head at me, then nods one last time. His truck roars to life, and then he speeds off.
A Truck. Tats. And a cocky attitude.
Typical.
Where the hell is Charlie?
I lean back against the booth and enjoy the rest of my beer. Our redheaded waitress serves us our food. She must be new. There’s no way I’d have missed those large swollen tits and that ass, rounded so perfectly in those skin-tight jeans. Santino wastes no time removing the top bun to his sandwich. He grabs a handful of fries from the basket and piles them on top of his burger. He points at another basket. “Can I have two of your onion rings?” he asks Bryson, who hasn’t had a chance to even touch his own food yet.
“Go ahead,” Bryson mutters, and he drops his head against his hand. I squint my eyes at my cousin, speculating on what could possibly be wrong with him. He seems out of sorts, lost in his own thoughts. Without hesitation, Santino reaches across and grabs three rings, instead of the two he asked for, and piles them on top of the fries. Then he drowns the entire loaded sandwich with ketchup.
“Anything else, guys?” the redhead asks us, but her eyes are glued on me. She leans over the table, her tits centimeters from my face, and reaches for the empty beer bottles. There’s plenty of space for her to maneuver around, yet she chooses to lean toward the very left side of the booth, right where I’m seated. She smells nice. Like clean linen and not the flowery-fruity shit most women overuse.
“I’ll take another beer. Thanks,” Bryson responds dejectedly.
“Me too,” I add. My eyes focus in on the two melons stuffed behind her black fitted, deep-cut shirt. The name of the bar, Wasted, stretches across her chest in big, bold white letters, and I let my stare linger for a few seconds. After all, she’s giving me a peep show. When I drag my eyes back to hers, she smiles shyly. She’s playing the innocent role now. There’s something to be said about a woman that plays bashful, especially when she throws her tits in your face. Lucky for her, I enjoy a good chase, so I play along by flashing a smile and giving her a wink.
She flings her hair off her shoulder, smiles coyly again, and then sways her hips as she leaves to grab our beers. “She so wants you bad, dude,” Santino blurts out with a mouthful of his loaded burger.
I ignore his remark by turning my attention to my cousin, who’s been sulking the entire twenty minutes since we arrived at the bar. “What the hell’s your problem?” I finally ask him. Bryson looks up. His lips twitch as if he’s going to speak, but he just shakes his head as a way to say, “Nothing.” But I know my cousin. Very well. “It’s that bitch again, isn’t it?”
He scoffs, “Seriously, Logan? Stop calling her a bitch.” He goes into full protective mode over the girl he’s been dating for the past year.
The waitress brings back our beers, but I pay her no attention. All of my focus is on Bryson now. Before I respond, I take a long pull of my beer, drinking down patience. “In my book she is.”
His nostrils flare. “Look. I know she can sometimes be a bit tough to handle, but don’t disrespect her. It’s bad enough she realizes that no one likes her.”
“What I don’t fuckin’ understand is why you choose to protect her.” I lean in over the table, squaring my shoulders, trying to keep the anger from distorting my
features. “She’s a bitch, Bry. She treats you like shit all the time. She talks down to you and cheats on you. Then after, she cries for forgiveness and you take her back like a little bitch. And then she does it all over again. That, my cousin, is what I consider a mega-bitch.”
“She must have a golden pussy,” Santino interjects. His face twists in shock, like he can’t believe he actually said that out loud. Bryson glares at him.
If she does, it’s a wide, golden, disease-infected pussy, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t touch her even if someone threatened to torch my dick until it incinerated and there were nothing left of it but ashes. I know it’d hurt like fucking hell, but I’d sacrifice my precious dick so it would never be near her. I wouldn’t care if we were the last two people on earth and the only way to save the fucking planet were to reproduce. My dick would not be touching her. Get the hint? I just don’t understand why, out of all the people I know, Bryson continues to put up with her bullshit. She’s no good, and my cousin deserves better.
“If we don’t change the subject, I’m leaving,” Bryson says in a pissy tone. He can be such a damn girl sometimes.
The last thing I want to do is piss him off. We’re family. Sure, we’ve fought lots of times growing up. Even roughed each other up here and there. But for some reason, Bryson has this strong infatuation with Mega Bitch. The last time we had it out over her, he didn’t speak to me for months. And we work together, so imagine how fucking awkward that was for everyone else. Especially Santino, who’s close friends with the both of us.
“Fine,” I say, but then I decide I can’t just leave it as is. “Let me say one more thing.” Bryson rolls his eyes but nods for me to go on and get it over with. “Mark my words. I will never be that strung out over a girl. Ever.”
Bryson shakes his head. “Whatever, man. It’ll happen to you sooner or later. And when it does, I’m going to have front-row seats as you pour out your little Logan heart for all to see.”
