I square my shoulders and the wheels of my suitcase snag on large cracks of jagged asphalt the entire walk to her place. What causes those? Earthquakes? Or maybe the cliff falling slowly into the ocean? My pulse pounds at the thought.
Sure, the view here is gorgeous, just steps away from a small private beach hidden by cliffs on each side, and it’s a balmy seventy-five degrees, but the threat of a natural disaster like a rogue tsunami would make it all impossible to enjoy.
The tiny front porch is decorated in DIY wind chimes made from bottles—and not the cool vintage kind, just regular beer and soda bottles with the occasional string of seashells.
She has a row of colorful rain boots hanging from her porch, each one filled with dirt and the crispy curled-up remains of flowers. I can’t take my eyes off the flower graves, thinking the lack of life growing from them carries a sick irony of her leaving and taking the life of this place with her.
I pull my eyes away and notice my sister has an affinity for repurposing. Lots of seashells, random-sized driftwood, and an old ship’s steering wheel pepper the small beach hut porch.
Thumping up the steps I look around for the red pot the key was supposed to be hidden under. She never did carry a key, even when we were young. She said they held her down. I don’t see a red pot, or any pot. Huh . . . I squat to flip the doormat. It reads No Shoes. No Shirt. No Problem. Typical Celia. I flip it over to see if maybe the key is hidden under there, but there’s nothing. Blowing out a frustrated breath I pull my bag up close to the door where it’ll be safe while I go hunt for help.
My sister had mentioned something about a Mr. Hurtado, the man who rents these cottages and lives onsite. She warned me not to let his gray hair fool me, that he’s as fit as the guys half his age and could build a sailboat out of toothpicks and a paper napkin.
The sun is still high over the ocean, thank goodness for long summer days, but if I don’t get into my sister’s place fast I’ll have to find a hotel and I didn’t see a single one on the drive through town. Granted, I did see the OB Hostel, but judging by the crowd gathered out front and the cloud of marijuana smoke that filtered into the street, I’d rather take my chances sleeping on the beach.
I find unit one easily enough, and thankfully the sign on the door says SUPERINTENDENT with a doorbell and a handwritten note taped above it that reads Ring for assistance.
Here we go. Let the charade begin.
I’m Celia. Be Celia.
I pretend my body is made of jelly and smile like I’ve had two glasses of wine.
That should do it.
With a firm press of the bell there’s a slight buzz from inside as if the contraption is as old as the cottage itself. I contemplate ringing again, but first squint to peek through the windows only to find no movement. I chew my lip and wait some more, then ring again. Still nothing. Exhausted, I’m thinking a hotel for one night might not be a bad idea. I can tackle this in the morn—
“Holy shit!”
I whirl around at the sound of a deep voice to find a tall man wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops barreling toward me with a big smile.
“You’re back!”
I open my mouth to reply but he knocks the wind out of me when he wraps me in a bear hug. My cheek is pressed to his pec and I’m assaulted by his scent—an exotic mix of coconut and cinnamon—strange man, strange germs. My fists ball at my sides to keep from shoving him away.
His arms close tighter around me. “Hasn’t been the same here without you.”
“Um . . .” I pat his back with my fist and step away with the hope of extracting myself and thankfully he gets the hint and releases me.
His eyes narrow and he drops his arms when I step back. “Is everything okay?”
This guy is tan, his eyes a light shade of brown that match the color of his skin, and his shaggy hair is almost exactly the same color. He’s practically monochromatic and if the color had a name it would be medium buff. He’s as handsome as Ryan Gosling, and as my germophobic reaction fades my body belatedly responds to having been pressed against his well-built chest.
I clear my throat and when I try to smooth my hair it feels ten times bigger than it did just minutes ago. Great, my first encounter with a real California hot guy and I look like Roseanne Roseannadanna. “Yes.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, not really.” Come on, Sawyer, words!
“You’re different.” He doesn’t say it like it’s a compliment and even though I expect it I can’t avoid the pinch of embarrassment.
“Nah, not really.” I force myself to relax, hoping to seem more like Cece, but afraid I’m coming off as a ragdoll. “Dude, eight weeks in Bangladesh’ll do that to a girl, and . . .” I point to the mop on my head, an awkward giggle bubbling up from my chest. “I just cut my hair so that’s—”
He hooks me behind the neck and his mouth crashes down on mine.
I part my lips to gasp and when I do his tongue slides inside. With one hand on my lower back, he presses me to him. Stranger’s tongue in my mouth! The flash of panic dissolves as his kiss turns demanding and coaxes a soft purr from my throat. My knees wobble. I grip his arms to stay steady and it’s clear this guy is no stranger to exercise.
Now, I have an average amount of experience with men, dated here and there, Mark for six months, but I have never been kissed like this. Is this a hot California guy thing? Or . . . is this the kiss of a man who’s desperately trying to get a woman to remember who he is. Or maybe, trying to get her to remember who they are together.
Guilt washes over me and I pull back, catching my breath and staring into the hopeful eyes of a man too attractive for a girl like me. For any girl, really, too tempting to be safe. “I’m so sorry.”
He cups my jaw, and God, the way he’s taking me in, the way his thumbs rub along my cheeks, is it too much to not want it to end? “Don’t be sorry. I knew when you left you’d be back when you were ready.” His lips tilt into a smoldering grin. “So . . . Bangladesh for eight weeks, huh? Where were you for the other four?”
She didn’t tell him. She just took off, leaving this guy who clearly has feelings for her to wait with no communication for her to return? I should pull his hands off my face, confess everything, but I made my sister a promise. And I don’t want to be the one to make this guy’s handsome face turn sour with my sister’s dismissal.
“Phoenix.” My voice is a high-pitched squeak, not that he seems to care.
“What’s in Phoenix?”
I blink and it takes me a second to register his question. What’s in Phoenix? Only Celia’s entire family! She knows this guy well enough for him to kiss her ’til her toes curl but he knows nothing about her.
“My family.” I bite out the two words and he drops his hands from my face. It’s possible this is how casual relationships work, they kiss and screw and never really dig too far into who the other person is. I suddenly feel naïve and desperate for a change of subject.
“Do you know where I can find Mr. Hurtado?”
He smiles, and oh my gosh, I feel it in my belly. Dimples, straight teeth, confidence. “Mr. Hurtado. Look at you, did you become a . . .” He looks at me from top to bottom. “Like a lawyer or something since you left?”
I look down at my black Ann Taylor dress. I pulled it from Celia’s closet, but now remember she bought it for our grandfather’s funeral. It’s probably a bit formal for the beach. “I just came from a . . . a funeral.”
He sucks in air through his teeth. “Bummer. After you left, Cal moved back to Ventura to be with his grandkids or something. His nephew watches the place now.”
“I need to talk to him, do you know where he is?”
“He lives down at the marina, only stops by here every few days.”
Shit.
A car horn honks and he waves over my head. “I’m headed out, but . . .” He steps in close and drops a light kiss on my lips, leaving me standing there like a gaping fish. “We’ll catch up later, okay? If you get bored come by the b
ar, I’ll buy you a welcome home drink.”
It takes everything I have to shake off the effect of his kiss. “Wait, you said ‘the marina.’ Where is that?”
“Intrepid Marina off Scott Street. He’s on Cal’s old boat.”
“Brice, hurry up!” A guy calls from the street behind me.
“I gotta go.” He winks and jogs toward the street where he hops into a mid-sized pickup truck and waves as they pull away.
I snag my phone, hit a button, and press it to my ear.
“Hey, you’ve reached Celia! I’m in astronaut school and currently studying a book on anti-gravity that I just can’t put down, so . . . leave a message!”
“You never mentioned Brice, Cece!” I whisper-yell into the phone. “He kissed me! And wow, but . . .” Instantly my cheeks flame. “It was nothing like James, let’s say that.” I huff out a breath and stare blindly at the horizon. “There wasn’t a key under the red pot and Mr. Hurtado isn’t here anymore so I’m headed to the docks to get a key from his nephew. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I love you . . . jerk.”
I hit END and punch my Uber app and enter the only information I have. Intrepid Marina off Scott Street.
I shove the phone in my purse, then grab my suitcase and make my way to the street to go hunt down Mr. Hurtado’s nephew.
I haven’t even been Celia for a full hour yet and already I’ve been kissed by a strange man. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up married and pregnant by mid-week.
THREE
ADEN
“Ya snag that dorado off the kelp beds?”
I peer up from fileting my catch at the dock’s fish table to see Jenkins staring at me through his one good eye, the other fogged over with cataracts.
“If you think I’m sharing my secret spot with you, old man, you’ve lost your fuckin’ mind.”
He grunts with a gargled chuckle. “My mind’s been gone for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I believe it.”
It’s true, Jenkins is old enough to be my grandfather, but living on a boat docked in a small marina I don’t have a lot of options as far as company goes, which is for the best. I have a hard enough time being around people in general. Jenkins is just as annoyed with the population as I am and prefers being alone by his craggy ole self. We’re a match made in antisocial hell.
“Mahi-mahi for dinner.” It’s not a question. Presumptuous old fart. “I’ll bring libations.”
It’s the deal we’ve had since he first limped up to my boat bitching about my music being too loud. He loves fishing, but arthritis has attacked his hands and his lack of physical movement has made him weak so I do the catching and he brings over cheap booze that I try not to drink too much of because getting drunk on cheap liquor turns me into an asshole.
I dangle the fish scraps off the dock to our resident sea lion Morpheus who snags it, swallows it, and barks for more. “Greedy little shit.” I toss him more.
“You keep feeding ’em he’ll never leave you alone.” Jenkins drops a handful of entrails into the water to be devoured by a school of surf perch.
“I like Morpheus. He’s mellow, only bitches when he’s hungry.” I tilt my head and glare at the pirate-looking old man. “Kinda like someone else I know.”
He waves me off and hobbles down the dock toward his boat. “Taught him everything he knows and shows me no respect.”
“Don’t bring your homemade rum. Last time I drank that shit I hallucinated for a week!”
“Pussy.” He grumbles and disappears into the cabin of his sailboat named Amelia Lynn after his wife who passed away a couple years before he moved into the vessel permanently. Running away from old memories, he always says.
That I understand.
I wipe my filet knife on my jeans and sheath it, then grab the two thick slabs of meat and head to my boat. The old Rampage, forty-one footer gives me just enough space to sleep and eat. It’s nothing fancy, belonged to my uncle Cal before he signed it over to me as a thank-you for taking on the management of his property over at Sunset Cliffs.
Free place to stay, slip fees are affordable, I make decent money selling my catch to the fish market, plus the small percentage I get for running the cottages, it’s the perfect life for a guy like me.
Quiet.
Secluded.
And the boat provides an easy escape when I need to.
I pull out a small charcoal grill and light the coals, then head inside to see what I have in the fridge. Great thing about selling my catch to the fish market is I can also do a trade. Fresh coleslaw, potato salad, pasta salad, pretty much anything. I grab a cold beer and pop the top, then flip on the radio and head out back to watch the sunset.
Jenkins is wobbling down the dock toward me, a bottle of cheap gin in his hands and a sway like he’s been living on water so long he’s got perpetual sea legs.
I open the back latch door to let him on board but he swats me out of the way, pushing past and mumbling a string of profanity.
He heads right inside to pour himself a drink and I flop down into a padded vinyl seat that’s worn and ripped on the edges.
When he comes back he takes the seat at the stern and we both stare at what’s left of the sun. A flicker of anxiety ticks behind my ribs. Sunset is the calm before the storm, or at least it used to be. That’s where the booze helps. Dulls the race in my pulse and tames my thoughts.
I pinch my eyes closed, hoping to push back the incoming assault, and down the rest of my beer in wide-mouth gulps.
“You thinkin’ ’bout ’em?” Jenkins is the only person who knows the shit that runs through my head on an endless reel.
The poisonous thoughts build up over time and if I don’t spit them out they’ll eventually kill me. They almost have before.
“Can’t do nothin’ ’bout those boys. They made their choice.”
It should’ve been me.
I grunt to let him know I hear him, even if I don’t totally agree.
“I’m gonna grab another beer.” I push to stand. “Need anything?”
He sips his gin by way of answer.
Once inside I brace my hands on the countertop, breathing through the annoyance I’m feeling at my weakness. I never know what triggers the thoughts to morph into panic, how I can go from staring at the sunset to seeing the mutilated bodies of my brothers and the rising anxiety that makes my hands shake and chest ache.
Three months I’ve been out. It seems impossible, but the terror and paranoia are happening more frequently.
I snag another cold beer, pop the top, and throw back half of it when Jenkins’s cackle filters in through the open door.
“Colt, getchur ass out here, you gotta see this.”
I cross the room to the back deck fully expecting to see Morpheus sneaking fish out of the bait tank. Jenkins points down the dock and I freeze at the sight.
A woman.
Hey, I’ve seen my fair share, most in various stages of undress even, but this particular woman has my lips pulling up on either side.
“What is she doing?”
He laughs and the sound turns into a cough. “She’s trying to reach through the gate to get it open.”
There’s a locked gate at the top of the dock so only residents and boat owners can get in with a code. But on the inside there’s a button that releases the lock when leaving, and even though the thing is a good three feet from the gate, it isn’t stopping this woman from reaching her arm through the metal poles all the way to her shoulder.
“Ten bucks says she gets in.”
“Stupid bet, old man, there’s no way she’s getting it.” I shake his hand and we watch with amusement as she refuses to give up. “She’s gonna dislocate her shoulder if she’s not careful.” He wheeze-laughs. “Oh boy, she’s got a stick now.”
“What the hell is she doing with that?”
This is the most entertained I’ve been since Jenkins tried to turn seagulls into messenger birds using live sardines as treats.
>
Who is this lady and what does she want so badly on this dock that she’s willing to make an ass out of herself to get it?
Maybe she’s a rep from one of the big yacht companies. They always hire young, beautiful women who don’t know their ass from their tits when it comes to boats, but the rich suits don’t give a shit. They’ll buy anything from a pretty face and a hot body who’ll bootlick ’em. But this girl lacks the confidence of a yacht broker. And now that I look harder . . . Nah, she might be in a dress, but the high neckline doesn’t show an ounce of cleavage and the skirt nearly touches her shins. Maybe she works for the bank? My smile falls. Fuck, this could be about Cal’s property.
Now I’m really hoping she doesn’t get it.
“Here comes Macky.” Jenkins holds out his wrinkly old hand and opens his gnarled fingers as much as they’ll allow, which isn’t much. “You owe me ten.”
I sneer as Macky, the pervert, opens the gate for the woman like he’s a damn doorman to the Playboy mansion. She says something and I don’t miss how he checks out her ass as she passes him through the gate. At the bottom of the slant plank she says something that gets his attention.
With my hip propped on the edge of the boat I watch in horror as he nods and points directly at me. Fuck.
Her lips move and he smiles, then she makes her way toward us.
“She’s comin’ over here, Colt.” There’s humor in the old man’s voice. “Whoa, she’s not too steady on them shoes, though.” He laughs again and coughs and cracks up some more.
I’d laugh at her lumbering down the dock because he’s right, she’s far from steady and looks completely out of place, but the blood in my veins is heating with the incoming threat.
Her eyes narrow on the back of my boat and disgust wrinkles her nose. Then she raises her gaze to the tattered American flag flying just over my head.
“There something I can help you with, sweetheart?”
She glares up at me at my calling her a pet name, which makes me grin.
“Nauti Nancy?”
Wrecked Page 4
