by Kim Karr
“Maaggiiee!” I scream back, not caring who sees me or what they think.
Running toward each other the way you might see in a movie, soon enough we’re hugging and squeezing each other.
Maggie pulls back and looks me over. “I can’t believe you’re here. You look great.”
Smiling at her, I take a moment to catch my breath. “I’m here. I’m really here.”
“You’re not going to regret it. I promise you. In fact, I already have our day planned out.”
I laugh. “You made a plan?”
She grabs my hand and heads toward the escalator. “Yes, I did. Maybe I want to be a little like you,” she says proudly.
Hmmm . . . like me. Oddly enough, that makes me smile.
“I took the whole day off,” she tells me. “We’re going to go home and sleep. Once we wake up, I’ll help you unpack, because I know you won’t rest until your things are organized. Once that is done, we’re going to spend the rest of the day on the beach. And then later we’ll have dinner with Derek.”
Stepping on the escalator toward the baggage area, I look over my shoulder at her. “Derek? You’re seeing someone?”
“I’m not sure what you’d call it. We haven’t labeled it yet.”
“And when did you meet this Derek?”
She gets that dreamy look in her eye. “Just last week. We’re not serious, but I really like him. He owns a surf shop in the village, and he and his business partner loved your bracelets and necklaces. They want to talk to you about selling them.”
I step off the escalator and look for my designated baggage claim belt. “Wow. Wow,” I repeat.
Maggie follows on my heels. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Abruptly, I turn to face her. “About you seeing someone? No, why would I be? I’m happy for you.”
“No, not about that. You know I change men more often than I change my toothbrush. I’m talking about me showing Derek your work. The boxes arrived when he was over one day, and I knew he’d love your stuff. The gemstones are incredible. And I was right—he does love them.”
Spotting my assigned luggage belt, I grab her hand. “But you said he owns a surf shop.”
Her long strides are faster than mine. “Which carousel is your luggage going to be on?”
I point to number five. “That one.”
Slowing her pace, she looks over at me. “He does own a surf shop, but he sells apparel and one-of-a-kind jewelry pieces as well. He thinks he could sell out of what you already sent in two weeks’ time.”
Four very large, lone black suitcases with bright tags are all that remains on the belt. “You’re kidding me.”
Her eyes are glued to the belt. “No, I’m not. And please don’t tell me those are all yours.”
I give her one of my you know me smiles. “Yes, they are.”
She sees my face and laughs. “Makayla, they are not going to fit in my little car.”
“Sure they will—they have to. After all, your surfboard does.”
She’s shaking her head. “That gets strapped to the top.”
“Then we’ll strap them to the top if we have to,” I tell her.
Her snort worries me. “Relax. We’ll figure something out.”
My freak-out is something she’s used to. “No. No. No. We won’t figure something out. We’ll do it. We have to. What’s left of my life is in these bags.”
I mailed everything I could ahead of time, including most of my clothing and shoes. Yes, I have a lot of those. Luckily, I didn’t have to pay for most of them. Working at KVF had its advantages. The sample closet was open for employees at the end of every season. And I stocked up.
Other things precious to me are also in these suitcases. Memories of my mother, things I’ve collected over the years, my journals, my lists, my tool kits. And yes, my last raid of the sample closet on my final day.
Maggie grips my shoulders and her big blue eyes stare into my hazel ones. “You’re right; we’ll make it work. We always do.”
Relieved, I feel like I can breathe again.
And then together we hoist the suitcases off the belt, moving with them until we have all four beside us. Once we’ve loaded them onto a luggage cart, we start walking toward the parking garage.
I bite my tongue. My original plan of her pulling her compact BMW X1 luxury SUV up to the curb would have been much easier.
Two elevator rides later, we’re in short-term parking and taking turns pushing the load to her car. It’s Maggie’s turn, and while I was huffing and puffing the entire way up the inclined slope of the garage on my turn, she’s pushing it effortlessly.
Lifeguarding has gotten her in awesome shape.
Beyond ready to ask the question, I can’t hold off any longer. “Hey, was that guy talking to you earlier trying to pick you up?”
Her head darts in my direction. “You mean the guy I was talking to in the terminal just before I saw you?”
“Yes, him,” I answer. “The hot, tall, dark-haired one in the worn jeans.” The words just come out. I didn’t mean to be so descriptive.
She lets out a comically long exhale. “No, that’s Cam Waters. We work together. I would have asked him to wait around to meet you, but he had already told me he had to hurry because he had to get to work to open.”
I am finding it hard to breathe.
This isn’t happening.
Struck stupefied, I stop walking for a moment and try to comprehend what she just said. When I can lift my jaw off the floor, I catch up with her and feel the need to clarify. “Wait. You know him?”
Completely oblivious to my torment, Maggie continues to roll the cart. With her key fob in her hand, she pops her trunk as we approach her car.
I am frozen in place.
Then she stops and looks at me. Maggie is perceptive. Nothing gets by her. With a raised brow, she says, “I think the question is—how do you know him?”
The wine I had drunk so many hours ago feels like it is sloshing unpleasantly in my belly and I can’t answer her.
That doesn’t seem to bother her. “Do you know him from New York?”
Slowly, I shake my head no and walk toward her. Though technically speaking, I guess I do.
Maggie takes a step and we’re standing near each other. “Did you two meet?”
I nod, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t cover my shocked reaction.
Her speculative gaze locks on mine. “Did you . . . Was he . . . on the same plane with you?”
Not watching where I’m going, I almost walk right into a car. “Yes, he was,” I tell her, my voice so low it’s more like a squeak.
Sweeping all of this under a rug would be a great idea. Why, oh, why does my best friend have to be so perceptive? “Anndd?” she draws out.
A flush washes over me, and in the bright lights of the garage there is no hiding it.
Her eyes widen like two blue full moons. “Oh, my God, did you join the Mile High Club with Cam Waters?”
From there, I go on autopilot. I turn away and yank one of the suitcases off the cart. “No, not exactly.”
She steps in front of me and puts a halt to my movements. “Stop what you’re doing right now and spill it, Alexander.”
I skitter past her and haul another suitcase off the cart. “I first saw him last night at the club . . .”
By the time I finish telling her about last night, her shocked reaction is priceless. She can barely talk. “You . . . Wait . . . You watched . . .”
Making a show of it, I nod slowly. “And then I saw him again today on the plane, but at the time I didn’t know it was him.”
“No, wait, go back. You watched a guy getting a blow job?”
“I already told you I did.”
She flings her arms around me. “I’m so proud of you. And you are so not uptight anymore.”
Maybe just my attempt has cured me. I do kind of feel like my old self already. I was never as wild and free as Maggie, but I’d had my share of fun an
d adventures.
Breaking her hold, I focus on the size of her car and the cubic feet of suitcases. This is going to be ugly.
It takes us almost twenty minutes to get all four suitcases in the car. Only two of them fit in the trunk, and luckily one just barely fit in the backseat, but the other one had to be bungee-corded to the top. Neither of us is certain it isn’t going to fall off during the thirty-minute drive south.
I can see it now, my most flamboyant panties flying through the air. Oh, there goes the leopard print and the zebra, too. All I can do is pray everything holds tight.
It takes me much longer to tell her everything about Cam than it did to load the car. We’re in the car on the 73 by the time I finally finish my story. And my anxiety level has increased tenfold knowing that she knows him. That they work together. That there’s a chance I might see him again.
“Damn,” she says, “the universe is fucking with you. Twice in as many days. That’s crazy.”
The sun is still hours away from rising, but the sky is the most beautiful shade of purple, and I find myself once again looking out into the night. “No, I’m the crazy one for even attempting something like that, and with a guy like him.”
She sighs. “I honestly don’t know what to say. He’s not a dick. In fact, he’s a nice guy.”
Still staring out the window, I jerk my head toward her, appalled. “Did you hear anything that I told you? The blow job in the bar last night with whomever he was with, the way he treated her, and then the almost bathroom fucking with me. He’s anything but a nice guy, Mags.”
A weighted silence falls between us and neither of us looks at the other. “I know him pretty well, Makayla,” she finally says. “Sure, he screws around once in a while, but nothing like his roommate. Now Brooklyn James, he’s a true man-slut.”
My head whips in her direction and my stomach takes another turn for the worse. “Wait! Isn’t Brooklyn the guy you told me about who starred in that MTV show, Chasing the Sun?”
Her hands are gripping the wheel pretty tightly. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s Cam’s best friend from New York, Keen Masters’, younger brother, or half brother, I think. I’m not really sure how that situation goes.”
My pulse starts pounding. My ears begin to ring. There’s no air in this car. I’m not quite sure I can breathe. Once I open the window, I turn in her direction. “Maggie?”
She looks over at me with a smirk on her face. “Yes, Makayla?”
The devil in two different Converse sneakers is whom I’m narrowing my gaze on. “Doesn’t Brooklyn live next door to you?”
As if all innocence, she nods. “Yeah, and Cam, too. I told you about them. Remember?”
My eyes narrow. “I remember you telling me all about Brooklyn and how he decided to give himself a year to figure his life out after he graduated from UCLA. You told me he was trying to write a screenplay. That he wants to work behind the camera, not in front of it. You told me a lot about him. But you never mentioned he had a roommate.”
She shrugs. “I could have sworn I did. Cam moved in almost six months ago. Like I said, he’s cool. We hang out all the time.”
Staring over at her in complete disbelief, I am struck mute.
Cam is her neighbor, which now makes him my neighbor.
My neighbor.
They hang out!
Oh, shit.
MAKAYLA
TO SEE IT IN PERSON is like seeing it for the first time.
The little tropical-themed bungalow that belonged to Maggie’s grandmother has been transformed into a beautiful, sophisticated beach home. The flamingo wallpaper is gone and the once mauve walls are all painted a stark white, which sets off the dark furniture perfectly. The matching pink carpets of the nineties have been pulled up to reveal beautiful hardwood floors.
Right on Pacific Coast Highway, and a block from the heart of the Village, this place is beyond magnificent. Situated on a street-to-beach lot, a double carport now occupies the empty space we used to play in as kids and provides a little privacy from the road. The old garage that served as the front of the house has been demolished and replaced with an extended outdoor living space downstairs and a new bedroom and bath upstairs, complete with a balcony overlooking the town and a small side window looking toward the water.
That is my room. Maggie took her grandmother’s room downstairs in the back, which has beautiful French doors that open to a magnificent view of the beach.
The place itself is small. Enough for us, though. Just under one thousand square feet inside, it’s still bigger than my apartment in New York City. The best part is the outdoor living space and the view; they are both to die for. Beyond the short breaker wall is the white crystal-like beach and the ever blue of the Pacific Ocean.
What more could a girl ask for?
Running my hand over the shiny black granite in the galley kitchen, I look around again in awe. Franke farm sink, Sub-Zero refrigerator, Wolf cooktop and oven. Everything is new. The only thing that is the same as before is the solid wood flooring beneath my bare feet. When Maggie told me her mother had remodeled the place with intention to help her sell it before Maggie decided to move back here last year, I never imagined it would look like this. Katherine lives in LA and never wanted to move back to Laguna; that’s why the bungalow was left to Maggie.
Maggie’s mother, like Maggie, was an only child raised by a single mother. Maggie’s grandmother’s family had come from money made during the California Gold Rush, a time when loose gold nuggets could be picked off the ground. The money had survived generation after generation, but for this generation it has almost run dry. This bungalow is the last of the wealth for the May family. Luckily, Maggie’s mother has a great job and earns a good living.
Taking a few moments to absorb all the changes in the house, I can’t help but think how vastly different this place is from Manhattan. For once, change isn’t causing me to break out in hives.
I’m more than okay with it.
Moving forward the only way I know how . . . without regret.
After unpacking and napping for a few hours once we’d arrived from the airport, Maggie insisted we go to the beach. Although I was nowhere near done setting up my room, I gave in and went. The day was warm and sunny, and I wanted to feel the heat on my skin and the sand between my toes. And maybe, just maybe, I hoped to get a glimpse of a certain lifeguard on duty. We walked for miles. Every time we passed a lifeguard tower, I snuck a quick glance at the guy in red shorts and a white T-shirt, but not a single one was Cam.
By the time we got back, and horsed around by dousing each other with the hose on the side of the house like we used to do as kids, I had needed some more sleep, and so did Maggie. Feeling beyond exhausted, I went from the doorway of my new room to the bed in a few steps. I shed my dress and dove onto the soft mattress with its mound of white covers and pillows. Smiling under the sheets, I looked around. I had a blank canvas to decorate and make my own—all in due time.
Yet even though I was tired, I tossed and turned.
Images of Cam floated through my mind.
I wondered if it was only because I knew that eventually I’d see him again. He was my neighbor, after all.
Sleep wasn’t forthcoming. It was seldom easy for me, but this time it was because memories of Cam were causing that ache he had created so many hours ago to throb, almost painfully.
I wished I’d already bought that vibrator Maggie had put on the list. I could use it right about now. My hand would have to do. I wasn’t sure if Maggie was asleep, though, and what if the bed squeaked? I gave half a second’s thought to embarrassment and tossed it aside for the sake of finding relief.
The bottom line? I was horny.
The memory of Cam Waters’ groan slid over me and traveled somewhere deep inside me right down to my clit. I didn’t do this often, but I knew how to make it quick. Having a roommate for so many years taught me that.
Turning to my side, my fingers circled my hard nub a
nd I plunged one inside to fuck myself. Sweat slid down the line of my spine and rested just above my buttocks. Then it trickled down a little farther, and it felt so much like a tongue licking along my skin, it put me close to the blissful edge of climax. I shifted ever so slightly against my hand, once, twice, three times.
Sweet tension curled inside my belly. Before I could blink, my sex tightened and my body tensed. Soon, I found myself tipping over faster than ever at the thought of being the reason Cam had made the sounds he had.
I shook in silence and then turned farther to bury my face in the pillow and stifle my own moans. Boneless and sated, after that, sleep found me.
The house was quiet when I woke and once I’d showered, I unpacked enough to find something to wear to meet Maggie’s we don’t have a label guy. Uncertain if the upcoming night air would be chilly, I went with a simple white KVF wrap dress with silver sandals. Once I’d dressed, dabbed some makeup on, and blow-dried my hair, I snuck out onto the balcony. Looking one way, then the other and back, I spent more than fifteen minutes staring at the house to my left and the other to my right.
Which did Cam live in?
Maggie’s being coy and deliberately not talking about him. Okay, so maybe not coy exactly. I might have said to her, “I don’t want to talk about him.” And then added, “Ever again.”
The bitch of it is, I’m super curious and for the life of me, I can’t tell which house he lives in. Eventually, I’ll break down and ask, but for now I’m going to enjoy a glass of spiked lemonade on one of the lounges on the patio that overlooks the water and wait for the sun to set or Maggie to wake up, whichever comes first.
Slipping off my sandals, I settle in the chair. I wish I had my book, but as luck would have it, I left it, along with my iPod, on the plane. Yes, me, Miss Organized, did that. In my defense, all I cared about at the time was getting the hell out of Dodge. I checked with the airport and neither was found. I’ve added these purchases to my to do list. The iPod will have to wait, but I’ll go to the store some time next week and buy another copy of Summer’s Ménage, if only to pretend it’s Cam reading it to me.
