by Lexi Scott
I swallow hard and shake those thoughts out of my head, faking a sexy smile I don’t really feel, and crooking my finger to get back into the mood. Because I need to do this, now, with Ryan, so I can get Deo firmly out of my system. “Now come over here.”
He does as he’s told and hustles across the room and, within seconds, he’s got us both stripped down and his hand between my legs. It feels so damn good I couldn’t fight it even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Because the whole point of him being here is to make me forget about Deo. I switch my brain to autopilot and try not to let it wander. Ryan knows what I like, and I like that about him.
Except that the way that Ryan’s touching me is just reminding me of Deo more. And how his hands felt different. Not so rushed, but still eager as hell. Sweet and slow and perfect, like he had an internal map to parts of me I didn’t even know existed.
I push Ryan’s hand away and decide to take charge, since thinking about Deo while Ryan’s touching me is obliterating all my “forget Deo completely” goals and making me feel a sharp, ugly pain in my heart that I recognize and hate with a blind terror. I tug at the hem of Ryan’s boxers with determined purpose, then wrap my hand around the familiar length of his shaft.
Ryan is blessed. And he knows it. In fact, that’s how we hooked up originally. I had literally just gotten into town. I’d just stepped off of a plane that had been delayed three times and made an extra stop. I hadn’t slept in what felt like days, wanted to brush my teeth, and I needed to find a bathroom like, yesterday.
I hauled ass to the closest one, barged in and found Ryan, mid-zip.
He didn’t blush, or even feign embarrassment. Instead, he smiled and asked if I wanted a closer look.
I should have been appalled.
Pennsylvania Whit would have been and Just-In-California Whit was half an inch and one indignant tell-off away from driving a pointy kitten heel into his foot, but then I stopped and remembered the whole point of this trip; it was to open up, to live life and have wild, crazy experiences. And wild, crazy experiences didn’t start with an awkward date at Longhorn and end with a kiss on the front step before working up to nice, sweet sex after you catalogued all the necessary facts and information about the other person.
Wild, crazy experiences happened in the bathrooms of tiny airports in California with guys who had gorgeous faces and even more gorgeous bodies you could just tell they knew exactly how to use. I was ready to dive headfirst into that crazy, uninhibited territory and have Ryan teach me some of what he knew so well.
Well, I was almost ready.
First I backed out of the restroom, apologizing profusely, my face hot with a Pennsylvania farm-girl blush. I found the women’s bathroom and hoped the shade of red I’d turned wasn’t permanent. And then I did that cliché thing where I looked at myself in the mirror, really looked, and told myself that if I wanted this new me, this daring me who didn’t play by the rules, I had to take a chance. And, as far as wild first chances went, this gorgeous, supremely confident guy was a one in a million stroke of pure luck.
I found Ryan waiting for me outside of the tiny airport, and when he smiled at me, I didn’t bolt the way I wanted to. I took a deep, big girl breath and flashed him the sexy, come-hither smile I’d practiced for ten minutes in the grimy airport bathroom mirror.
He introduced himself, took me to lunch, then back to his place. I was so nervous, I almost backed out a dozen times, but I decided to force myself to do something uninhibited for once to kick-start my new life adventure across the damn country from my old existence. Plus that, Ryan was unlike any guy I’d ever known back home. He didn’t fumble too much with manners and stilted, awkward silences; he was direct and positive about his own abilities and charms. He actually inspired me to unleash those things in myself.
And I sincerely grew to like him as a person. Because, despite our scandalous bathroom meeting, he really isn’t a skeeze ball. He’s a genuinely nice guy. He just knows what he wants. And it’s what I want, too.
Except, as I’m holding him in my hand, all rock hard and curving up, eager for me, I don’t feel the same sense of power I normally do. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavy. I can’t quit now, obviously. So I stroke him harder, faster, and maybe a tiny bit mechanically, until he clenches his fists at his sides and moans deeply.
“Jesus you’re good at that,” he says in between pants as he cleans himself up.
I just shrug. My parents would be so proud. I attempt to smile, but a sudden sense of dark, unsettling regret and possible disappointment weighs down on me.
“Your turn.” He flips me onto the couch and crawls up the length of me, but his touch and weight are suddenly claustrophobic, and I don’t want him here anymore. I wriggle around out from under him.
“That’s okay,” I say all casual, like I’m passing on an hors d’oeuvre or something, even though my heart is hammering and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
He hops up off the couch too and closes the space between us. He finds that spot on my collarbone he knows I can’t resist.
He doesn’t know when my birthday is, what my favorite food is, or the fact that, before today, I’d never seen the ocean, but he does know how to turn me on like he read my body’s personal instruction manual. That used to be enough. That used to be better than enough. Now it feels robotic and soulless.
Not that this is supposed to have soul. That’s not the point. This is supposed to be about our young, hot bodies rubbing against each other in the most carnal ways. This was never about feelings or emotions. Those are messy and just screw things up. Look how they’re screwing up the perfectly good time I’m supposed to be having with Ryan.
“I got mine, and you’re the one who called me all the way over here. You’re not even going to let me make you feel good?” He nips at my neck, and it’s the strangest mix of feeling good, technically, but also cloying and too much and too little all at the same time. “That hardly seems fair.”
“It’s not a big deal, there will be other nights. I didn’t realize how beat I was.” This time, I fake a yawn. I don’t know why I’m trying to get rid of him. Letting him remind me of what we have and why it works is exactly what I need right now. I tell myself that, but I can’t stand the sight of him, and I feel like a major asshole. I just blew off my fuck-buddy. Can I go any lower?
“Whatever you say, Whit.” He pulls on his pants and checks his phone. He cracks a small smile at whatever is on the screen. I wonder if it’s another random girl somewhere. If Deo had gotten a message from a girl while we were out, I would have had to resist the urge to shatter his phone. In this case, I’m actually hoping someone else is calling Ryan away and that he’ll be distracted enough to just leave me to wallow. “If you’re sure, I guess I’ll take off then.” He gives me a cool, detached look.
I relax. He’s going. Good. Problem solved. Problem I invited over and then didn’t want to deal with solved, but still. “Yep. I’m gonna head to bed. Have fun.”
“Cool.” His phone buzzes again, and he gives it his full attention.
He doesn’t bother kissing me good-bye or anything like that. We don’t do that. He pulls his baseball cap down low on his head and a few fine, brown curls peek out the sides.
“Hey, Ryan?” I ask, just as he’s pulling the door open to leave. He glances over his shoulder, but doesn’t turn all the way around to face me. “What’s your favorite beach?”
“Huntington. They’ve got the hottest—Why?” he asks. His brows pinch together, trying to figure out my motives. Why am I trying to learn anything about him now? He looks like he may run scared at the thought of me wanting to actually get to know him.
“Just wondering. I just saw the ocean for the first time.” I don’t know why I offer this bit of information. Deo seemed so amazed by that fact, maybe I’m hoping to intrigue Ryan, too.
“No kidding. Weird,” is all that Ryan offers before walking out the door.
…
The bell above the door at Rocko’s shop jingles as I push through it, and, with that noise, I’m emotionally right there back at Deo’s mom’s house, where she’s holding my hand and dabbing her special oil on it. It’s been a long time since I felt taken care of. It was awkward and somehow, warm-feeling. I could easily see where Deo got his laid-back side, but there’s another part to him that I haven’t placed yet. I shake my head. I came here to forget about Deo. Whether Rocko wants me here or not.
“Hey, kiddo.” Rocko peers over the counter. “I thought I told you not to bother coming in today. Like I said, there’s a whole lot of nothing going on.”
The place is dead. It doesn’t look like Rocko’s done a single piece of art today. There’s no ink left out, no guns lying around. He hasn’t even bothered to turn on the typically blaring 70s rock.
It’s just quiet. And perfect. I walk through the door behind the counter and set my purse down on my desk in the little office where we keep all our files and ordering catalogs. If there’s no one in the shop, I can just do inventory prep or balance the books. The bottom line is, I’m staying.
“I know, but I didn’t have much else to do. I can at least place our ink orders while that thirty-percent-off sale is going on. Where is that coupon code?”
“What happened with Divo?” he asks, ignoring my attempts at efficient distraction.
I pull my hair back away from my face, like I’m going to put it in a ponytail, before remembering once again that I hacked it all off the night before I moved here. I still haven’t gotten used to this blunt bob. Gone are the long waves that I loved. This haircut says I’m fierce. Unapproachable. This haircut says don’t get too close, because I’m no good for you.
This haircut says I ruin people.
I laugh at Rocko’s lame attempt at a joke. “Deo. His name is Deo.”
Rocko nods and cracks a smile. I’m pretty sure he knew his name.
“Right. Well, why don’t you kids go enjoy this sunshine? On second thought, why don’t you kids go catch a bite or see a nice movie? I want your guy to stay away from the sun and the water. I don’t want that tat fading before it even has a chance to heal right, and he seems like the type that doesn’t respect the rules.”
You have no idea.
“Deo isn’t my guy. We aren’t even friends or anything, Rocko.” I dig through my desk drawer. Mostly as a distraction to keep myself from thinking about how damn good Deo’s lips and arms felt…
Rocko pulls his funky tortoiseshell eyeglasses down on his nose so that he’s peering at me over the tops of them. “Listen, kid, these glasses are purely a fashion statement. I’m not blind. I know what I saw the other night.”
“What are you talking about?” I recoil, positive he can read my very inappropriate mind.
“The way you were looking at him, like you wanted him to be looking at you. And the way he was about to jump off that table mid-tat when he thought you were leaving before he was done. Don’t get me wrong, he also looked like he wanted to bend you over that couch out there—”
“Rocko!” Pennsylvania Whit is dying.
“Come on, kid. I know you aren’t scrambling to get out of here at night with your phone going off like crazy to go home to your DVR. You’re up to no good. And that’s all good, because you’re nineteen. I’d be worried if you weren’t up to no good at your age.”
Rocko smiles smugly, obviously feeling like he’s got me all pegged. And I guess, maybe he does.
He leans back in his chair and props his feet up on my desk. I knock his heavy black boots off.
“Manners,” I say under my breath. I’m only half-joking.
“See, it’s stuff like that, though, that confuses the hell out of me. Like that tat you drew for Divo—”
“Deo, and I didn’t draw it for him.”
“There’s something more to you than the sexy makeup and heels.”
“Rocko, I could so nail your ass for sexual harassment, you know that right?” This time, I’m totally joking. I love the free and fearless banter I have with Rocko. It’s one of the most real things I have.
“So, tell me, kid, what else is going on in that pretty little head of yours?”
I haven’t even started talking yet. But I turn to him, knowing that this time, I will. It’s time, and really, I won’t find a better listener, or anyone less judgmental than Rocko.
Chapter Nine
DEO
It’s only been a couple of days since my fallout with Whit, but I’ve already driven Cohen crazy with my whining. Now I’ve moved on to torturing my other friends.
Cara is applying a coat of shiny purple nail polish to my toenails while I lie back on my stale-smelling sheets and count the cobwebs that have multiplied like crazy fuckers on the ceiling above my Scarface poster. It’s been a little too dark to notice them lately, but Cara fixed the light problem with one snap of the sagging roller shade. She also tossed my iPod in my dresser drawer next to my bong and under my rolling papers to stop Robert Johnson’s incessant, broken-hearted wail.
“You’re harshing my mellow, Sunshine,” I gripe, wiggling my toes and making her click her tongue when she paints the side of my foot.
Cara glares at me and swishes her strawberry blond hair over her shoulder, so she can paint with more precision, but all that long hair is tickling my knee now. “You can’t just hole up in here and listen to the world’s most depressing music on repeat all day while you get high,” she informs me cheerily.
“Robert Johnson happens to be a blues genius. And I’m not high,” I protest, sitting up on my elbow.
She blinks her big, sky-blue eyes slowly. “Really? Why not? Too lazy to go out and hunt for more product?”
“You don’t happen to have any you’d like to share, do you?” I make a kissy face at her and she tries to hide her smile by shaking her head.
She tugs out a little chip hanging on a cord from under her yellow sundress. “Deo, you know I’m sober now. Six months in a week.”
I lie back on my pillow and sigh. “When did we all get so damn mature and boring?”
“Not we,” she corrects. “I got mature and grew up. You’re still a little boy who wants to get high and surf and do nothing with your life.” There isn’t a single ounce of malice in her words. Cara is like a surf-bunny Buddha. I irritate her sometimes, but she kind of respects that I do my thing.
Unless my thing is begging her to come over and then being a whiny little bitch who wants to be entertained.
“I don’t do nothing.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Actually, there’s something we could do right now. C’mon, Sunshine. Nothing lifts the mood like an orgasm.”
She twists the cap back on the nail polish and looks at me closely. “I don’t sleep with broken-hearted guys. It’s too pathetic.”
“I’m not broken-hearted,” I insist. “I’m just in a slump. Which I’d have such an easier time getting out of if you’d take off that dress. I feel like I have to wear sunglasses when I look at it.”
“Wow, you’re so charming, how could I even consider saying no?” she asks drily. “Look, we’ve been buds forever, Deo, and I treasure that. And when we were more than buds? That was also awesome. But times are changing. We’re growing up. Well, some of us are.” She puts her hands up to her face. I look at her with confusion. She picks up the bottle of nail polish and holds it like she’s on a cheesy advertisement poster. I wrinkle my forehead. “Deo! You noticed the color of my dress, but not this?”
I sit up against the headboard and look at her hands. Among the silver sparkling rings is a particular one with a deep green gemstone on her all-important left ring finger. “Uh, is that supposed to be an engagement ring?”
I feel a little light-headed. Cara, my old surf buddy, my sexy tomboy friend with benefits, is getting married? Married?
Married!
What’s next? An office job? A mortgage? A couple of kids and a white picket fence?
She throws her hands in the air. “It is a
n engagement ring. I didn’t want a blood diamond, so we opted for a fair-trade stone.” She looks down at it, her face droopy with disappointment, and I feel like a huge jerk-off.
I can pretend all I want that Cara getting hitched means she’s taking the first step to becoming old and boring, but I know that’s bullshit. Cara will always be cool as hell, and so will her millions of naked bambinos, and her rainbow-splattered picket fence. She’ll have a dude who loves her by her side, and she’ll follow her passion, doing her art or whatever. And me? I’ll probably just stay in this twin bed at my grandpa’s house till the cobwebs cocoon my body and I die alone.
The full extent of my loserdom smashes into me like a freight train. I’m so consumed by the shitty state of my life, I almost don’t notice Sunshine staring at her hands, her mouth twisted like she’s gonna cry. What the hell is it with girls crying around me lately? What kind of sociopath am I to bring the tears on?
“Hey, it’s really nice,” I say. She doesn’t look up. “Sunshine?” She glances at me. “Seriously. It’s beautiful. And I’m happy for you. I’m happy you’re sober, I’m happy the pottery thing is taking off, and I’m happy for the lucky bastard who conned you into marrying him. Tell that punk I’ll beat his face in if he doesn’t treat you right.”
She falls onto me, her warm, sun-dried sheet smell surrounding me as she hugs tight. “Thank you. So much. I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I thought you might be upset.” She pulls back and looks at me, those blue eyes shiny with tears.
I snort. “Upset? Me? I love you. I want to see you happy. If this fair-trade-ring-buying douchehole makes you happy, you have my blessing. C’mon, you know all that.”
She twists the ring on her finger. “I really am happy, Deo. And I wish…” She looks up and licks her lips. “I wish you could find someone for yourself. I know what we had was just fun. But I really think you’re amazing. And I know the right person is out there for you. Somewhere. I know she’s going to make you so happy. Maybe it’s this girl, right now.”
