Peaks of Passion: Pleasure Point Series Book One

by Jennifer Evans

  “And check out all this cool stuff I’m doing.” She ran her hand along the sofa, which was covered with a tie-dyed looking throw. “I learned how to do batik when I lived in Santa Fe. Me and a bunch of chicks would get together every Wednesday night for cheap wine and creative projects,” she enthused. “And check this out, I’m going to paint the bedroom wall this deep purple color.” She picked up a paint can. My heart beat a little harder just being around Rosalyn. When she bent over to pick up the paint can, I stared at her butt, but then turned away quickly so she wouldn’t notice.

  The apartment was filled with crystals, some rough cut like amethyst and rose quartz and some kind of silver type and others that looked like crystal balls I’d seen in movies when they showed fortune tellers, only smaller. She’d made curtains out of some of that same tie-dye looking stuff and there was a round cushion set out in one corner in front of a low table that had more crystals, feathers, incense, and a thick book with a blue cover and gold lettering that said, A Course In Miracles. The table faced the picture window that perfectly framed a humongous California oak tree.

  “That’s my altar,” she said. “I find that if I meditate every morning, my psyche is centered and it makes the day happier.”

  “Maybe I’ll try it sometime,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.

  “But hey,” she said, touching my arm. “I was wondering if you’d help me with a little creative project I have in mind.”

  “Creative project?” I was an athlete, but I said, “Sure, what’re you doing?” If it meant spending time with Rosalyn, I would try to remember what I had learned in art class.

  “Well, I was thinking that Ol’ Betsy, my car, is looking a little sad these days. What she needs is some color, so I’m planning a desert mural on one side and an ocean scene on the other. It’ll kind of center me in my travels. You know, since I lived in the desert and now I’m at the ocean?”

  I looked at her with amusement as she stood in the middle of her living room, hands on hips. I had never met anyone like Rosalyn. She had her own flamboyant style, and I could tell she didn’t care what anyone thought of her.

  “What are you going to use for paint?” I asked.

  “Oh, I got it all figured out. We’re going to get some Rustoleum, the kind that comes in a can, and I’ve already got it all sketched out. She moved to her cheap, particle-board desk that looked like it came from a garage sale, and picked up a sketch-pad. “See,” she said, handing it to me.

  I rifled through the pages. Rosalyn was quite the artist. There were sketches of landscapes, people, and even one of the ocean—an enormous wave with a tiny surfer riding down the face.

  “Hey, I like this one,” I said.

  “That’s you,” she said with a huge grin on her face.

  Rosalyn’s smile was one of the most beautiful things about her. It reminded me of that famous poster of Farrah Fawcett with her smiling at the camera and wearing a red bathing suit that my dad had tacked to the wall in our garage. I’d always tried to figure out what was so great about it, and one day I realized it was because of her smile. It was mischievous, sexy, and full of joy. That’s what Rosalyn’s smile was like.

  She flipped to the sketches for the murals on the car. “This is what I’m planning. You in?”

  “Sure.” I walked into the kitchen and poked through the cabinet beneath the sink. “You got any Ajax?” I said, moving bottles around until I found a can of Comet. “And a sponge that has one of those scrubber things on one side?”

  “What do we need that for?”

  “Because, you dummy,” I said pushing her playfully. “The car’s gotta be clean and roughed up if you want the paint to stick.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m a guy,” I said, putting extra emphasis on the word guy.

  Rosalyn smiled at me, and I felt like I was going to faint.

  I went to work on Ol’ Betsy that afternoon, Rosalyn working beside me, scrubbing and rinsing. Every now and then, her arm would graze mine, and I felt a jolt run up my spine. What was that?

  We drove to the hardware store and bought out the whole paint section, every color of the Rustoleum rainbow, from fire engine red to periwinkle blue. Rosalyn sketched the design on the car while I taped off the windows and headlights. Every day after school I’d grab a quick surf session, and then I’d race over to Rosalyn’s to help paint the car. By the end of the week, we were done.

  The day we finished, Rosalyn walked out to the driveway where we’d been working, with two ice-cold glasses of lemonade as I stripped off the final pieces of masking tape from Ol’ Betsy. When she saw the unveiling, both of her hands flew to her mouth, and she dropped the glasses onto the ground.

  “Jax,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “It’s gorgeous.” Then she raced over and hugged me. Her body was soft, feminine, and she smelled like heaven. She let go of me and twirled around in circles right there in the middle of the driveway, laughing, her arms outstretched. Her gauzy skirt flowed around her body so high that I saw her lacy underwear. “Let’s celebrate!”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  She smiled that devastating smile and said, “What else? A surf session.”

  I couldn’t wait to see Rosalyn in a wetsuit again.

  Rosalyn

  Jax was turning out to be okay. He was helpful, fun, and he knew his way around a toolbox. I was touched by how hard he’d worked on Ol’ Betsy. I wanted to show my appreciation by surfing at Sunset Cliffs with him, although I knew the waves there were probably too advanced for me. Jax loved that surf spot and I wanted to make him happy.

  The guy lived and breathed surfing. I was used to seeing him jet past my apartment on his skateboard, his wetsuit pulled down around his waist, surfboard tucked under his arm, blond hair blowing in the breeze.

  We stood at the beige cliffs, verdant ice plant vines trailing jungle-like down the boulders, the ocean air bracingly cool. A few surfers dotted the ocean, their Neoprene-clad bodies making them look like seals. Jax shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon. “Looks like the waves are small. You’re not ready for the bigger stuff yet.” We walked to the edge, boards tucked under our arms.

  “How do we get down there?” I asked.

  “The rope. I’ll help you.” A salt-cured rope about eight-feet long with knots tied at regular intervals had been attached to the side of the cliff.

  Were we supposed to jump the final three feet to the sand? “I’m not as fragile as I look.” When I looked down, I felt dizzy. Why had I suggested this? I took a deep breath.

  “I’ve done this hundreds of times, but you’re a virgin. I mean—” He blushed. “You’ve never gone down the rope.”

  “I know what you meant,” I said, concealing a grin.

  Jax said, “I’ll go down first, then you hand me your board, and I’ll help you.” There were a bunch of surfers hanging around the beach, and seeing one of his surfing buddies, Jax yelled, “Hey, Tommy, give me a hand.” A dark-haired kid jogged toward the edge of the cliff, and Jax handed his surfboard down the side of the cliff to his waiting friend who set it on the sand. “Thanks, man.” Jax climbed down the rope with athletic surety and jumped the last few feet. Then, I handed him my board, and he held his hand out to help me down.

  “Careful.” His hands were on my leg, my hip, my waist, then my hand, assisting me patiently. “Okay, jump.”

  I vaulted to the beach, with a laugh. “How adventurous. This is fun.”

  Jax speared his surfboard into the sand, and then we entered the water, the cool Pacific Ocean caressing our skin. Jax said, “Okay, we’ll do like we did last time. I’ll stand next to you and wait for waves then push you in.” I positioned myself prone on my board, and was it my imagination, or were Jax’s hands getting a little too close to my butt?

  “I probably shouldn’t have you out here. Local’s are pretty protective of this spot.” He smiled big and said, “But they’ll have to deal with the King Of S
unset Cliffs.”

  “And who would that be?”

  He put both arms out, flexing his biceps. “Who else? Now, concentrate, Rip-It-Up Rosalyn, ‘cause here comes the wave of the day.” He pushed me into the small wave. “Stand up!” he yelled. When I did, it was like floating in heaven. Being in the ocean was better than meditating. It was almost better than sex. I paddled back to Jax.

  “Awesome, dudette,” he said, slapping me five. “You looked just like a fairy on that wave.”

  “Can we do it again?”

  “Sure, but you’re going to have to paddle for your own waves pretty soon. Now get ready.” I lay on the board again, and when I glanced at Jax, his eyes were staring at my butt. He quickly looked away, swallowing hard. I smiled. I told myself Jax was no more than a teenager with raging hormones.

  After he’d been pushing me into waves for a while, I told him I was ready to try it on my own. “I’m only letting you do this because the waves are small,” he said. He instructed me on how to position myself on the board, to look over my shoulder for when the wave was building, and how to time everything exactly right so that when I paddled hard the wave would pick me up. Jax watched me carefully until I finally convinced him to get his board so we could surf together.

  It was magic. Surfing with Jax was like being with a best friend on a Saturday morning when I was a kid and all we wanted to do was run outside and play till the sun set. He never took his eyes off me. Even when he rode waves of his own, he’d glance over his shoulder to check on me.

  “You okay?” he said, paddling up to where I sat on my surfboard.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because … you’re a girl.”

  “You mean woman.” I scooped up some ocean water and threw it in his face. “And don’t you forget it.”

  We surfed in the healing Pacific, a few of the locals giving me appraising glances. It looked like they weren’t used to newbies in the lineup.

  After our surf session, Jax helped me up the rope.

  “That was fun!” I said.

  Jax smiled a shy smile. “Told you it would be.”

  As we walked home that day, happy from the endorphins of the workout, we spotted a crumbling old house marked for demolition. It was a decaying place that was eventually torn down to make way for one of those fancy multimillion dollar houses built along the cliff.

  “Let’s go check it out,” I said. “No one’s around.”

  Jax stopped walking. “Why do you want to do that?” His brows pulled in.

  “Because, bonehead, they might’ve left something cool inside.”

  “But it says no trespassing.” He pointed to the sign tacked on a chain-link fence.

  I faced him, hands on hips. “That doesn’t say no trespassing.”

  “Yes, it does. It says right there—”

  “Don’t you know anything? That means welcome. Now give me a boost, and let’s climb over the fence.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Stop being a wuss,” I said. When I saw the shocked look on his face I almost laughed. “Come on babe, help me up.”

  He set his surfboard down reluctantly and made a foothold with his hands. “But if we get caught—”

  “We’re not going to get caught.”

  He helped me over the low fence, my feet scrambling up the links in the fence. I pulled myself up and over and jumped the few feet to the other side. Jax stood on the other side. “Come on, what’re you waiting for?”

  Jax glanced over his shoulder, and when it looked as if he felt satisfied no one was watching, he climbed then sprang over the fence.

  “Woo-hoo!” I held my arms over my head. “Let’s get to work.”

  We peeked inside the windows, running quickly from one to the next.

  “Nothing but a bunch of trash,” Jax said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I peered through one dusty window and hit the jackpot. “Jax, come check this out!” My hands shielded my eyes from the sun so I could get a better look inside. “There’s a really cool painting leaned up against that wall.”

  He stood next to me, and we looked inside. There, like a gift from the garage sale Gods was a canvas of what looked like an original oil painting of a dramatic sunset.

  I tried unlocking the two doors, running from one to the other. “Damn, they’re all locked.” I saw an open window. “Come on, give me a boost, and let’s see if I can fit through that window.”

  “Rosalyn, I don’t think we should—”

  I turned to face him, hands on hips. “Jax Priest, where is your sense of adventure?”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “It’s a great idea! Now, make a foothold with your hands and help me up to the window.”

  “But what if we get caught?” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Nobody’s around. Now, are you my partner-in-crime or not?”

  He made a foothold with his hands, and I expertly hopped up until my crotch was nearly in his face. “Damn, it’s too high.” I put my hands on his shoulders for leverage, then jumped back down. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. We wait till it gets dark then we come back and smash one of the ground-floor windows with a brick.”

  The horrified look on his face was so comical I almost laughed.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  “Yes it is. Just call your mom and tell her you’re staying for dinner. Then we come back tonight. Nobody’s going to care. They’re getting ready to trash the place anyway. If we don’t do it now, then when? God, it breaks my heart to think someone’s artwork is going to end up in a heap of rubble. C’mon, tell me you’ll do it.”

  Jax was such a good person, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble, but what harm would there be in a little adventure? I put my arm around him. “Come on, sweetie. It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay, Roz, you got yourself a partner.”

  “Yay!” We shook on it.

  We found a brick and set it next to the window, then climbed the fence and hightailed it out of there.

  That night, after we’d eaten brown rice and steamed broccoli with soy sauce in front of the TV and watched Friends, we set out. I dressed in black, which was easy because I had a collection of black yoga clothes, and Jax, wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, extra clothing from the backpack he always carried.

  “Here, take this,” I said, handing him a flashlight before we left my apartment.

  We made our way over the fence and through scratchy weeds trying to contain our giggles.

  I faced him in the moonlight. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll hold the flashlight while you smash the window. Then you hop in and grab the painting.”

  Once Jax decided that he was in on my little caper, there was a new enthusiasm about him. The two of us stood in front of the window, an expectant look on Jax’s face. He pulled back then swung hard with the brick, raining shards of glass over his Vans.

  “Jeez, you didn’t have to swing so hard,” I said, trying to hold back my laughter. “Now get in there quick.”

  He moved a few pieces of glass away from the frame and expertly lifted himself up and in.

  “Careful! Don’t cut yourself.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, now you’re worried about me.” He ran in like lightning, grabbed the painting, and handed it to me, then hoisted himself out the window.

  I shined the flashlight on the painting. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Do you mind?” he said. “I need a little light here.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Spaggiari.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Oh never mind. He’s a famous bank robber. I’ll tell you later.” I handed him the painting. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  We ran the four blocks home, flushed with excitement from our caper. I cranked up some Led Zeppelin and grabbed a cloth out of the kitchen. I handed the cloth to Jax, and while he wiped down the painting I d
anced around the living room, singing along with Robert Plant as he belted out “Communication Breakdown.”

  “Isn’t it gorgeous? Let’s hang it right here.” I indicated a bare spot on the living room wall.

  He was already getting the red toolbox out of my utility closet.

  Jax was sweet, helpful, caring, and as it turned out, always down for any of my adventures. Maybe it was wrong of me to involve him in my juvenile pranks.

  But he was quickly becoming my best friend.

  Jax

  Rosalyn had been in Point Loma for a couple of months and she and I were hanging out together a lot. I couldn’t wait to get home from school, do my homework, nab a surf session, then skate over to Rosalyn’s and help her with chores or projects around the house.

  One Sunday, she begged me to go to the movies with her. “I’d hang out with your mom more, but she’s always with your dad. Good thing I’ve got you.” She had the newspaper open to the entertainment section. “Hey! How about this one?” She pointed to an advertisement with a black and white panorama of a bunch of trees in the forest set against the backdrop of a darkening sky, a woman wearing a knit cap, her green eyes opened in horror visible on the movie poster. “The Blair Witch Project,” she said. “That looks pretty good.”

  “Don’t you know anything?” I turned the page on the newspaper. “That movie’s totally fake. Bunch of teenagers got a cheap camcorder and ran around in the woods in Arkansas or somewhere and pretended like they were in a haunted forest. “It’s stupid. Hey, how about this one?” I pointed to the movie poster for Charlie’s Angels.

  She punched me in the arm. “You only want to see that movie because Cameron Diaz is in it.”

  We finally agreed on Fight Club, and it was one of the best movies either of us had seen in awhile—a really cool twist ending. I had a hard time concentrating on the movie though, because Rosalyn, who shared a large bucket of hot, buttered popcorn with me, kept leaning over, brushing her boob and arm against me every time she grabbed a handful of popcorn. My eyes strayed to Rosalyn’s pretty feet up on the seat in front of us, her faded blue jeans with the hole in the knee, her low-cut tank top, and the way she’d throw her head back and laugh every time something on the screen was funny. And she smelled heavenly. I shifted in my seat.