Smooches,
Gomez
CARI AGREES TO meet me at Double Bluff beach. It’s neutral territory and private. I’m leaning against the side of the Bronco when she pulls into the parking spot next to me.
I straighten up and take a deep breath.
Then laugh.
She’s wearing a huge floppy hat and sunglass the size of china plates.
“What’s with the disguise?”
“You said meet at the beach. This is my beach hat.”
“Were you expecting sun?” I point above us to the low gray clouds threatening rain.
She has to hold onto her hat to tip her head back. “I thought it would be better if we weren’t seen together.”
“You might as well hold a sign above your head flashing ‘not from around here’ in flashing neon letters.
She dips the sunglasses to meet my eyes.
“We’re taking a walk on a beach. No one is around. If they are, they’re walking their dog or having some quiet time. Trust me. No one will pay attention to us. Lose the hat.”
She twists her mouth to the side. “I didn’t wash my hair.
“So?”
“My hair’s gross.”
“No one cares.”
She’s not budging. The way she pouts her lips reminds me of our brief kiss.
“How about a baseball cap?” Opening the door, I grab a random Whidbey Joe hat.
“I guess.” She swaps hats. “Now we’re twins.”
“You look adorable. Much better.” I push down the brim.
She shoves it back up and then tosses the other hat in her car. I notice she’s cleared out the backseat.
“You won’t need the sunglasses either. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t rain.”
“I think I’ll keep them on. Should we pick another place to talk? Like inside where we won’t get wet.”
“Getting wet doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” I lift my eyebrow in surprise at the words coming out of my mouth. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”
“Tell that to San Diego drivers. It rains and people lose their common sense.”
“I didn’t realize people who live in California by choice had any sense to begin with.” It’s a longstanding truth about islanders and most natives of Washington: we don’t like Californians, especially ones south of Humboldt.
“Your open-mindedness is impressive.” Her tone tells me it’s not.
“Good thing I don’t care what you think.” I pick up the two cups of coffee I made for our walk. A breve for me and an iced Mexican mocha for her. I’m guessing she likes her drinks sweet and candy like. “Here, I made this for you so you’ll know the joy of good coffee not a fakecuccino.”
“I liked that coffee.”
“Taste this and tell me it’s not better.” I stare into her eyes, challenging her.
She groans and takes a small sip through the straw, then immediately sips more. With a sigh, she admits, “It’s amazing. Damn you.”
My smile is smug and if I were a rooster, I’d be strutting. Instead I sweep my arm to the left. “Shall we walk?”
We meander down the sidewalk and concrete steps to the sand. A shallow tidal pool blocks our direct path to the water. As we pass a driftwood fort, I point at the crude sign next to the opening.
“No boys allowed,” she reads the sign out loud. “I should move there. Or at least steal the sign.”
“When Carter and I were young we built a fort like this on Maxwelton near our grandparents’ house.”
“Did you have a ‘no girls allowed’ sign?”
“Of course.”
“You should get a new one for the house.”
“Nah, some girls are okay.”
“Hailey told me everyone calls it the Phallus Palace.”
I kick a twig out of my way. “She says that. As far as I know, there are probably two people who refer to my house that way.”
“It’s kind of funny.”
“We might need the sign banning girls after all.”
“I’m sure she teases because she likes you and Carter. The two of you seem to have a lot of friends here.”
“You spend your whole life in one place, you’re bound to have some friends. And enemies.”
“Must’ve been nice to grow up here.”
I try to see the beach and island through her eyes. “It’s pretty okay.”
“It’s so green.”
“Everyone not from here says that.”
“Albuquerque isn’t green at all. More pink from the mountains and high desert.”
We’re walking on the hard sand closer to the water. Small waves drag against the shore. “You miss home?”
“Not really, but I do miss my family.” She stops to pick up a baby moon snail shell.
“Why not go home? Why hang out here?”
“It’s nice here. Feels like the real world is a million miles away.”
I point south at the faint straight lines of skyscrapers. “The real world is closer than you think. Seattle is right there.”
“Still. All this water separates them from us. It feels safe here.”
I wonder why the need to feel safe. It’s not the first time she’s mentioned it. Maybe she’s running from something more than the photo bullshit.
We round the edge of the bluff and lose sight of the houses on Useless Bay behind us. A container ship chugs north, heading in the same direction as us. Lucky bastards are going out to sea and truly away from civilization, and all its nonsense.
A large driftwood tree blocks our path. Its root base spirals above the water. We either turn back or go up over the two-foot-high trunk.
I hold out my hand to help Cari step up. Her fingers clasp mine as she hops on the log. In this position, she’s taller than I am. Which means I’m staring at her chest, right there at eye level. A lace pattern on her bra is visible through the thin material of her button down. I could trace the outline with my finger. Or mouth.
Distracting myself, I jump on the tree and down to the other side. Still holding my hand, she follows, landing softly on both feet.
“That’s some big wood.” She runs her free hand along the smooth, bleached surface of the driftwood. “So smooth and hard.”
I snort at her double-entendre. The sparkle in her eye tells me it’s intentional.
“I’ve seen bigger.”
“You have? This one has to be fifteen feet long.” She walks away.
I follow because we’re still holding hands.
“On the coast. Huge. You couldn’t jump up and over those. Some are bigger around than I am tall.”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
“And the conversation is back to wood.” She laughs and leaps over a small stream.
“Seems a safe topic for us.”
“As long as we’re talking about trees.” She swings her arm and it reminds me we’re still holding hands.
“Speaking of talking.” I squeeze her fingers.
She sighs and crosses her arms, dropping my hand. I frown at how quickly she’s shutting down.
“What do you want to know?” Her voice is as tight as her grip on her elbows.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
“I was born in Albuquerque.” She speeds up and heads for the water. “Yes, my parents are kind of hippies. Caribou is also Swahili for welcome. I’d like to think I’m named after than and not the animal. I have an older sister. Pretty normal childhood. Parents are still married. Bored yet?”
Smiling, I pull her to a stop. “Not that far back. How did we end up here? Start there.”
She blinks at me, the tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth. “Okay.”
“I took the picture from the boat, but I didn’t post it. Damien wasn’t even with me when I snapped it. He complained about his hangover and I left him behind.”
“Go on.” I could believe he had the hangover from hell after my own tequila haze the next morning.
<
br /> “When I returned to our room, he’d packed all his stuff and left mine scattered around the room. I could tell he was pissed. Before our flight I wanted to take a shower and left him alone with my phone. I’m guessing that’s when he found the picture of you.”
“Only the one?”
She confirms my suspicion with a shake of her head. “No, there were others. In my defense, every woman on every boat in the cove that afternoon probably has your ass on her phone. Or you know.” She gestures to her front.
Her inability to say dick amuses me.
“I’m not sure I do know.” I mimic her movement.
“Pictures of your . . . dick. Dick pics starring you. I’m not kidding when I say every single woman, and not so single women, and a few men were snapping pics.”
“But you’re,” I say, then correct myself, “your boyfriend is the only one to post them.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
I ignore her clarification.
She continues, ignoring my silence. “So far.”
“It’s been weeks. Don’t you think the Justice fever would have swayed them to post their pics to cash in on the frenzy?”
“Maybe. Only Damien thought to tag you as a celebrity. He’s an evil genius when it comes to shit like that.”
“You got the evil part right.” I’m still not convinced she’s not equally evil. “I don’t understand why he cared.”
“I think it was the deadly combination of insecurity and possessive caveman tendencies.”
“Aren’t women supposed to think that’s hot? Going all cavemen makes the ladies swoon by the fire.”
“Every woman has probably had the ‘take me’ fantasy, but the guy has to be confident. Insecure caveman equals a lot of grunting and chest thumping, maybe even flinging of dung, but it’s not sexy. At least not for me.”
Flinging of dung?
I feel like I should be taking notes. Like when Hailey and Diane talk and forget any guys are around listening. It’s peeking behind the veil, or under their skirts, into the secret thoughts of women.
Hailey’s words from earlier echo in my head. Being straight up with Cari will be the easiest way to deal with the situation.
“In other words, I touched what was his and he got revenge by making me the fantasy of millions of women? I see several flaws in his plan to take me down.”
Cari swallows wrong and chokes. My instinct is to help her. I pat her back and my fingers tangle in her hair. It takes a moment to untangle myself from her.
“Millions of women?”
“And men, don’t forget all the gay porn sites,” I add.
“Gay porn sites?” she whispers like we’re in church.
I nod. “Oh, yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“Who jokes about gay porn? It’s serious business.” I furrow my brow and frown, attempting to remain mature about it.
“Wow. No wonder Gomez is obsessed.”
I exhale. “He’s teasing about taking a road trip up here to visit me.”
“No way!” She pulls her sunglasses down and peers over them. “Can you imagine flamboyant Gomez hanging around Whidbey?”
“If you stand out, he’d be glow-in-the-dark obvious.”
“At least it would be easy to keep tabs on him. Isn’t that what you people do around here?”
“You people?” She’s right of course. Mom and her network of spies and gossiping ladies create a telephone tree of information faster than even social media.
“Hailey told me about an incident at the grocery store last year with Tom and Ashley. She showed me the video, too.”
Tom getting pelted with ground beef was hysterical. “Classic Tom. That video still makes me laugh.”
“This is my point. Everyone knows everyone’s business here.”
“We also keep each other’s secrets.” Like Dad. Although his drinking problem isn’t really a secret to anyone who knows him.
We reach an area with a slide of rocks and mud from the bluff. “We should turn back. Tide’s coming in and we don’t want to get stuck.”
An eagle squeaks above us right before it dives toward the water. It flies away with a pretty good-sized salmon.
“Some days, we’re the eagle. Some days, we’re the fish.”
I smile at her analogy. “I’m pretty much the fish since I met you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You have all the power. You swooped down and snatched mine away with your talons.”
“No way. You’re the one who got in the bar fight with Damien.”
“What’s the story with that guy? If I remember he called you his fiancée.”
She makes a retching sound. “He was delusional.”
“How did you meet Prince Charming?” I can’t believe any woman could be duped into thinking he was a nice guy. I’d labeled him an asshole within fifteen seconds. She’d have to be pretty stupid and Cari didn’t come across as dumb.
Snarky, reactive, impulsive. Definitely.
Beautiful. That’s the worst of it.
“We hooked up on Tinder. He was nice, nicer than most of the jerks I’d met on there before. I kept it casual for the first several months, then next thing I knew he wanted me to move in with him, was going to invest in my photography business and blog, started talking about shopping for a ring, and planning a destination wedding.
“I knew it was too much too soon, but after being single for a couple years, and all those horrible other dates, he seemed like a keeper.”
“No warning bells?”
“Not until Mexico. It was our six month meetaversary.”
“Meet a what?”
“Six months from when you meet the person you’re dating.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Big thing.”
Huh.
“Okay, carry on.”
“I had some clues before Cabo, but everything clicked when we were down there. For a guy who claimed to be on his way to being a self-made real estate billionaire, he wouldn’t even upgrade our seats in coach to premium.”
Raising an eyebrow, I gesture for her to continue.
With a sigh, she explains, “The final strike was he started calling me his fiancée, but he didn’t have a ring. Or propose. He’d mentioned a three carat cushion-cut he’d put on hold, but I never saw it. When we got back to San Diego, his whole house of lies fell apart. The condo in La Jolla he claimed was his was a long term dog sitting gig.”
“He faked the dogs?”
“The dogs were real, only they weren’t his. Made sense why the Yorkie always growled at him. “
“So not a millionaire real estate mogul?”
“Not even close. More like a junior agent without a license.”
“Maybe I should sue him?”
“What’s that going to get you? A 2004 Honda Civic and some secondhand designer men’s wear.”
I remember the gleaming gold on his wrist as his fist flew toward my face. “What about the Rolex?”
“Fake.”
“I still want to sue him for being an asshole.”
A smile fights to break free, but she presses her lips together. Looking resigned, she says, “There’s no way to prove he took the photo. It was my photo stream and my phone.”
“I hope the Yorkie bites him in the balls.”
“He’d have to have them for that to happen.”
We both laugh and the tension between us lessens a tiny fraction.
“Did you break up with him because of me?”
“Yes and no. The drunken bar fight could not have been less appealing.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t start it. He did. He was drunk and angry-possessive that night. Two of my least favorite things in a man. I decided to break up with him when we got back to San Diego. Then the boat and pics and his jerky behavior the next day happened. He had the nerve to break up with me in Cabo. Then he changed his seat and stuck me in a middle seat between two
hungover hipsters.”
“A Yorkie bite to the balls isn’t terrible enough for this guy. Maybe you could feed him to the hippos at the zoo.”
“The worst of it is he messed with my reputation online.” She picks up a flat rock and rubs her thumb over its smooth surface as we walk.
“Your reputation? Ha!” I shoot her a dirty look.
“You’ll be fine. You’re a guy. The rules are different.”
“Easier for you to say. Not your ass defining your life.”
“Man ass is different. If I posted my own ass, I’d be just another Kim Kardashian wannabe. I built my Instagram page for years, cultivating my style and growing my followers. Nothing says inspirational photos and quotes about women’s power like your naked ass.”
“It’s glorious and inspirational according to Gomez.”
“I deleted the pic as soon as my phone exploded with notifications when we landed. Didn’t matter. The screen shots and shares were out there. And once something is out there . . .”
“It lasts forever. Why shut down your account then? Let all the new traffic see your other work.”
“Sounds good in theory. You didn’t see the comments. You know how they can be the lowest level of humanity.”
“I avoid social media. What did they say?”
“Almost every one of them something disgusting about asses, with links to porn sites. I couldn’t delete them quick enough to keep up. Easier to lock down the whole thing and walk away.”
“Can you start a new account?”
“I thought about that, but the moment the trolls make the connection, they’ll be ruthless again.”
“Maybe they’ll move onto a new troll target.”
She shrugs and throws her rock in the water. “It’s a good thing you don’t read online comments.”
“I have. When the world thought I was Justice, I thought some of them were really funny. Great puns. Then I saw a couple on Gomez. Nope. Closed it down and haven’t read them again.”
“You have amazing willpower.”
“They don’t know me. Why should their opinion matter? Opinions are like asses. Everyone has one.”
“Apparently some matter more than others.”
“It’s really not that special.”
“Tell that to the masses.”
I need to change the course of this conversation. Talking about my ass is my least favorite subject.
Anything but Love (Wingmen #3) Page 14
