“Hey, is this yours?”
Startled out of my boredom and the mind-fuck known as memory lane, I look up and the tattooed hot guy from earlier is holding out a piece of silver jewelry. I look around for takers but see only an oblivious older man walking a dog and two dudes standing around a Hibachi singing Post Malone.
I stand up, giving him the full frontal of my old lady beach sheath and hopelessly lost expression. Why he didn’t run as far from us as possible baffles me.
“Can I see it?” It’s possibly an item from my mom’s exploded purse. She wears a charmed anklet and a toe ring from nineteen eighty-three.
“Yeah,” he says rather flatly. His abs tighten, drawing my eyes downward to those speed bumps and a tiny trail of dark hair just beneath his belly button.
As much as I’d like to keep objectifying him, I return my gaze to his face and the nice bone structure, strong and prominent, with a little bit of stubble along his jawline. Blue eyes flicker over me but probably with a whole other narrative than the one going on in my head. Damn, the man is beautiful, the kind of beautiful you stare at until he clears his throat to remind you he is breathing and I’m supposed to be looking at jewelry.
“Uh,” I blink several times trying to fix the universe, “yeah, this is my mom’s.” I touch the small turtle charm. “Thank you,” I offer as I take it from him. I look it over, not that I need to, but I need time to think. It’s not every day I’m in the presence of a guy hot enough to be a model. “You’re the guy from earlier, right? You carried our cooler. I’m Brenna, by the way.” I offer a wide smile and a hand, neither of which he reciprocates.
“I know who you are.” His curbside manner could use some work, though his deep, smooth tone is on point.
My eyebrows shoot toward my hairline. “Please don’t believe everything you read on bathroom walls.” I grin, testing to see if I can pull him out of dick mode.
Coughing an exhale to disguise what I suspect is a well-hidden sense of humor, he adjusts his expression from indifferent to curious. “Is that usually a problem?”
I shift my weight, which, in front of this god, feels like a lot more tonnage than it did when I stood up. “It’s been known to happen,” I admit. “Tends to make for awkward dates.”
His face softens considerably. “I only know you from your sister.”
I can’t think of one person outside of my mom and Uncle Rodney who can tell us apart without hearing us talk. “How can you be sure which one I am?”
He shifts, his posture less tense. “There are differences. Maybe not at first sight, but there are some.”
What differences could there be that a guy I’ve known for point-five seconds can see that people who’ve known us our entire twenty years can’t? Just as I’m about to ask, it dawns on me. When you compare the Brenna and Bristol he met today, of course we’re distinguishable.
If I didn’t have on the millennial equivalent of a muumuu, he’d be able to see Bristol and I have identical assets, we just use them differently.
“Was it the muumuu or the hair that gave me away?”
His humor surfaces and he stumbles over a laugh. “It was your vocabulary, actually.”
I smile, maybe even blush a little, though it would be hard to tell through the sunburn dominating my winter white. “I’ve been told I have a way with words.”
He pulls the T-shirt in his hand over his head and shoves his hands through the sleeves, adjusting the way it sits before he replies, “That you do.” He brushes a palm over the top of his hair, smoothing down the brown spikes left from pushing his head through a small hole. According to his lip-twitch, I’m growing on him.
I should probably call good good enough and start walking before he hates me again. Bristol isn’t returning, and my dead phone ensures I can’t call Tori or Tracy, and Toolbag Carl doesn’t get home until tomorrow. They’re my staples when Bristol forgets she has a sister. “Well, hey, thanks for the saves today.” I dangle the anklet in front of me, turtle swinging, and I point at it. “Save number two.”
Instead of making fun of my nerves, he nods. “All in a day’s work.”
I smile, sigh, and edge past him, turning back for one last look.
The blocks between Grundy Beach and the far end of Milagro Beach’s mile-long boardwalk fronting Ocean Avenue are a mixture of familiarity and unfocused oblivion as I begin my trek north. On my left: sand right up to the boardwalk with palm trees breaking up the flat, brown terrain. On my right: Ocean Avenue and the businesses that keep Milagro Beach’s tourists supplied. Shops like Griffin’s Collectibles and the touristy shop, Mutton’s Tees. Beyond that and closer to the northern end of the street are Stricker Bait, your one-stop fishing supply, and Beachwiches Sandwich Shop. Between all of that are The Seam, a sports bar my Uncle Rodney owns, a bookstore, and a small café where the locals like to sip coffee on Sunday mornings.
The roar of a motorcycle approaches from behind me, sending ripples of its rumble through my chest. Sons of Anarchy crosses my mind, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the motorcycle club type. I’ve got no tattoos, my boobs—still perky because I haven’t used my womb as a hostel yet—are downright unimpressive, and my criminal record is nonexistent.
As the motorcycle rolls up beside me, I keep my eyes straight ahead and count the palm trees between me and the next intersection.
“Did your car break down?” Looking at me from behind mirrored aviators is my beach Adonis, though he doesn’t know he’s mine yet.
“No. Bristol didn’t come back, and I’m too shy to put out.”
“Did you just say, ‘put out’?”
I nod, trying not to laugh, but his horrified expression doesn’t make it easy. “Cash, grass, or ass, right?”
“Doesn’t Uber take credit?” It’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or playing along. I laugh anyway.
“I have ass, a McDonald’s gift card, and two bucks.” Of those, I really only have ass on me. I left everything but my dead phone in the Silver Stallion.
He laughs, shaking his head like he doesn’t know how to take me. “I can give you a ride.”
I stop abruptly and face him as he brings the bike to a stop with his feet. He peers at me expecting an answer. “I was kidding about putting out.”
“Wasn’t even on my radar.” He offers a lopsided grin that under any other circumstances would probably have me dropping my panties, but I’m thinking it’s best not to do that on the busiest thoroughfare in Milagro Beach. “No offense, but I can get my own ass without having to pick it up off the street.”
“Yeah, I can see how that might not be a problem for you.”
He sets his sunglasses on the top of his head and eyes me as I cringe through the aftermath of my unfiltered honesty.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m in a dress.”
“Tuck it between your legs.”
“I take it you’ve done this before?”
“Not me personally, but yeah, it’s come up a time or two for others.”
“Did they survive?”
“I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Wasn’t even on my radar.”
He unstraps a helmet from the seat behind him, and holds it out to me. “Yes or no?” He revs the bike and it roars, rumbling everything in the vicinity.
In my family, I’m the sensible one. Sensible, meaning if the stove is hot, I leave it alone. In my family of knee-jerk reactions and blatant disregard, it’s not hard to be more responsible. I know my options, and I choose between them. This time, I don’t want to be sensible. I want to throw caution to the wind and take the ride with the hottest potential serial killer the central California coast has ever seen. Bristol would. My mom would. So I go with my heart instead of my head, top my head with the helmet, climb on the bike, and clutch him like we’re flying down the highway at speeds greater than eighty. Just in case he is a serial killer, it’s best for him not to know where I sleep, so I give him directions to The Sea
m.
He smells of heat and cologne, and not the kind you buy at Walmart, but the good kind that comes from Nordstrom’s. I sniff his T-shirt right where his collar touches his neck and decide right then and there that if he is a serial killer, there are worse ways to go.
Two-and-a-half minutes later we’re coasting into a parallel spot in front of The Seam. At this time of day Ocean Avenue isn’t congested and parking is a breeze, which means my time wrapped around him comes to a close much too soon for a girl just discovering her vagina has more than one emotion.
The breath I take is flavored with the remnants of kettle corn from a street vendor nearby, and the sigh I release is tinged with something akin to remorse. I’ll most likely never get to do this again. I’m either going to be a single cat lady or married to an asshole who cheats on me. My upbringing doesn’t allow for much else, though I’d hoped for one really good romantic tale to tell before I’m settled in with an audience of orange bobtailed cats.
I climb off the bike with embarrassing difficulty and face him, nerves buzzing as I hand him back his helmet. “Thank you.” My grin defies my nerves. “I would offer you my McDonald’s card, but with your body, it’s unlikely you’ll use it.” His eyebrows settle high, and his lips sample a curvature but fall short of an actual smile.
“I was kind of hoping you’d change your mind and put out.”
“Will you settle for a beer? You’re sure to get head that way.”
He laughs, a reaction I should probably bask in as I don’t think it happens often. “I wouldn’t be a guy if I refused that.”
CHAPTER THREE
My Uncle Rodney, who is actually my mom’s uncle and the only father figure in my life, greets me with a halfhearted wave while he sets a mug in front of Mr. Davidson, a Seam regular. I would usually take a seat in one of the empty booths with the fruit leather-red vinyl, but tonight, I hit the bar.
“Hi, Uncle Rodney.” I sound a bit more solemn than intended, but before I can correct it, his light green eyes collide with the beach Adonis beside me and I’m forced to switch gears.
Uncle Rodney’s face lights up like it does when he’s watching baseball. He’s a smiley guy anyway, but he seems downright giddy looking across the bar at us. I can’t tell if he’s checking him out because he thinks he’s my date or if he’s flirting. It’s a bit odd for a guy who didn’t bat an eyelash at Diane Sawyer when she popped in two years ago. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, or should I ask him for his I.D.?”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I offer, thinking maybe he was just sizing him up instead of flirting. Everyone looks young to Uncle Rodney, so he cards everybody unless they look like him, which is to say mostly gray with smile wrinkles around the mouth, a beer gut he calls a small paunch, and an occasional ear hair he announces like it’s bingo. “This is, uh…” I can’t finish my sentence because I don’t have the info.
“Vance.” Hot Guy from the beach saves me from looking like a careless idiot and reaches across the bar to shake Uncle Rodney’s hand.
Upon hearing his name for the first time, I feel like I need to say it out loud, let it roll off my tongue once. “Vance, meet my Uncle Rodney.”
Uncle Rodney smiles and shakes his hand vigorously. I worry he’s going to kiss him, but he pulls his hand back and spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to The Seam,” he says proudly, lips locked in a prideful perma-grin.
Vance smiles, eyes alight with the same genuine emotion. “Great place you have here.” He looks around, seeming to admire the décor as much, if not more so, than Uncle Rodney who eats, breathes, and shits Renegades baseball. “Awesome name, too.”
“Yeah,” Uncle Rodney says all breathy. “It’s all about the balls in sports,” he laughs. “I breathe that red seam.”
It takes a few good seconds to register what they’re talking about, and even then, I’m not sure we’re not talking about testicles. “Wait! What?” I’m totally confused and stare between the two of them for a quick explanation. “The Seam’s name is about a baseball?”
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Brenna. What did you think ‘The Seam’ meant?”
“Uh, a seam, but not like a seam on a baseball.”
“What can I get you?” Uncle Rodney, still shaking his head, looks proud to ask, like he’s offering him something of value.
“Something on tap would be great.” Vance takes a seat on the barstool in front of him and looks at me to follow suit, but I’m too anxious to sit, so I remain standing beside him, arms propped on the bar.
It takes Uncle Rodney less than two seconds to get Vance his beer and run off again to assist a couple at a table.
Without Uncle Rodney to keep his interest, Vance sips his beer while looking around the bar. The baseball theme throughout is comprehensive and extends back to when the San Jose Renegades were known as the Sacramento Renegades. I don’t know when they switched, but it was before I was born.
I point to the mirror behind the bar with “The Seam” etched in red lettering across the middle of its glass. “That makes so much more sense now.”
“I bet. Probably just looked like a sign before tonight.” He sips and looks at me. “I take it you’re not a fan?”
“I’m a fan of Uncle Rodney, which makes me a fan of the SJRs.”
“The SJRs?”
“San Jose Renegades.”
A half-smile forms before he sips, and I ponder his discretionary silence.
“They don’t call them that, do they?”
“No.”
“Huh, maybe they should. It’s a lot shorter.”
“Do you call the Dodgers the LADs or the Giants the SFGs?”
I laugh and put my finger up to my lips. “Shh, those names are banned in here.”
The door to the bar flies open, and Bristol’s voice precedes her. “Uncle Rodney, I’m going to need those mob contacts of yours.” She barrels through the door a second after her voice, and proceeds, arms swaying at her sides, to the bar.
She goes straight for the bat beneath the bar where Uncle Rodney has always kept it and stands upright, bat in hand, eyes full of mad determination that changes on a dime when she notices me. “Oh, hey, what are you doing here?” She should be surprised seeing as she was supposed to pick me up at the beach. But her eyes dart back and forth between me and Vance before settling on him while she processes. “Hey! You’re that guy from the beach.”
“And you’re putting that back where you got it from.” Uncle Rodney yanks the bat from Bristol’s grasp while she’s happily distracted by Vance. “What the hell do you need it for anyway?” Bat in hand, he’s behind the bar staring at Bristol and waiting on her explanation, though he hasn’t yet denied mob affiliation.
I stare at her too, waiting on details she’s too distracted by Vance to give. “What happened between the time you left me stranded at the beach and now?”
Tearing her eyes away from Vance to look at me, she replies. “Mom is staying with him.”
I don’t know if I should be celebrating another day when the revolving door of men isn’t circulating, or shaking my mom for settling for a man she should have sent back through it. After all these years she’s still looking for love in all the wrong people, but at least unlike Bristol, she still believes in it.
“That doesn’t explain the bat.”
“I’m going to bust her knees. Maybe if she can’t get on them, she’ll stop begging shitty men to stay.” Bristol, always dramatic, doesn’t see men in any capacity other than monetary and sexual convenience, so she doesn’t understand why mom can’t let go, or for that matter, continues trying.
“And Uncle Rodney’s mob contacts?”
“I don’t have mob contacts.” It’s a denial delivered with a shake of his head and a mirthful grin.
Bristol pointedly looks at him. “You said you had mob contacts.”
His eyebrows sink, pinching in real close. “Which should have been a deterrent, not a resource.”
The three of us look at
him, each expecting a different explanation from him. Uncle Rodney growls, wipes down the counter in front of him and, losing his battle, smiles. “I told her that when she was thirteen to keep her from running away with Ol’ What’s-His-Name, Barry’s kid.”
Bristol looks horrified. “Edward Ball?”
Uncle Rodney snaps his fingers. “That’s it! Shitty kid, if I recall. Had that homemade tattoo on his bicep.”
“At thirteen?” Vance pipes in, looking equal parts horrified and curious.
“He was fifteen,” Bristol adds, like that makes it better. “Why didn’t you just tell me no like a normal parent?”
Uncle Rodney shrugs. “You didn’t run away with him, did you?”
She looks up, huffs, and replies, “No. But that doesn’t excuse lying to me.”
He pats her hand. “It was an embellishment. I do know a guy from New York.”
“Is he in the mob?” I ask.
He shrugs again, pinching his lips. “Probably.”
It’s my turn to shake my head and get this conversation back on track. “Why would you need mob contacts anyhow? Sounds like you were gonna do the dirty work.”
“For Joe!” Bristol barks. “I can’t make people disappear. Believe me, if I could, it wouldn’t be an underutilized skill.”
“Put that out of your head right now, doll,” Uncle Rodney says, tapping her on the shoulder with one hand while he hangs onto the bat with the other. “Your mother will see the light eventually.”
“Yeah, you know mom lives for her happy endings.” I add, “And you’d never survive a prison gang bang.”
She rolls her eyes and looks at Vance with a smugly sweet smile. “Betcha wish now you’d left her at the beach.”
“Nope. No regrets.” Expressionless, he sips from his beer.
I sit up a little straighter, feeling for the first time like I outshine Bristol in a room. A quick look in the mirror would fix that delusion, but for now, my improved posture at least eliminates a stomach roll.
Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 2
