Bad Boy Summer (Bad Boys on Holiday Book 5)

by Sylvia Pierce

  “You were prancing around in a bikini,” Ash said.

  “It was a waterpark,” Lizzie said. “That's what all the waterslide supervisors wore.”

  “Sure. you we're supervising the water slide while a bunch of drunk-ass frat boys supervised you, taking pictures on their phones to jerk off to later.”

  “Not every boy is a pervert,” Lizzie said.

  Ash snorted. “Wanna bet?”

  “And let's not forget about prom,” Pam said, pouring herself some coffee.

  Lizzie cracked up. “How could I? I practically needed therapy after that night.”

  “Okay, that is so not fair.” The night came back to him in a flash. It was the girls’ senior prom, and Lizzie’s jackoff college boyfriend had a jackoff friend for Pam. One look at the two clowns when they'd rolled up in the limo, and Ash knew exactly why they were so keen on going to a high school dance. “I was under strict orders from Mom and Dad.”

  Pam practically spit out her coffee. “Oh, you are such a bad liar.”

  “Well they would've put me on strict orders if they knew what I knew about those guys.”

  “That night was the first time you ever met them,” Lizzie said.

  “I had those assholes pegged the instant they walked through the door.”

  “And you made it your personal mission to make sure none of us had any fun for the entire night.” Pam swiped a piece of bacon, nibbling at the tip in a way that made Ash’s dick stand up and take notice. “Pretty sure it was the only dance I’ve ever gone to where I wasn't actually allowed to dance with my date, because my self-appointed bodyguard kept cutting in.”

  “Someday you girls will thank me.”

  Tipping their heads together, they rolled their eyes and said, “Thank you, Ash.”

  It was a move right out of the Deeds-n-Dizzy playbook, and Ash couldn't help but laugh.

  With the last batch of pancakes sizzling on the griddle, Ash poured hot blueberry sauce from the pan into a pitcher—fresh blueberries, a little bit of cinnamon and sugar, just how Pam liked it—then brought all the food to the table. “Eat up, ladies. Today is a one-time deal.”

  Breakfast was a loud affair, the girls continuing to tease him about his overprotective nature, all of them sharing old memories as if no time had passed. It felt fucking good to laugh like that; Ash couldn't remember the last time he’d done it. But the moment he let his guard down, his brain decided to remind him what a shit he was. That he had no right to laugh like this. To feel so good after everything he’d put them through.

  Looking at his sister and Deeds, Ash felt the burn of guilt gnawing at his insides. It had been a familiar companion, sticking with him through every tour of duty, tucking him in at night no matter whose stars he was sleeping under. Afghanistan, Iraq—the black hole in his stomach was so all-encompassing, it might as well have its own passport.

  Damn. He’d missed so much of their lives, all because he didn't know how to deal with his shit.

  He hadn't even tried.

  Ash rose from the table to clear away his plate, his mood suddenly sour. Lizzie offered to do the dishes, but he waved her off, told her to get her ass down to the beach before he changed his mind and made her wear a jacket over that bikini, just like at the water park.

  After unsuccessfully trying to convince Pam to bail on her thesis and join her, Lizzie was out the door, and Ash and Pam were alone with the dishes once again.

  “Spill,” Pam said, sidling up next to him and reaching for the sponge.

  “Nothing to spill.” He grabbed a dish towel and waited for her to finish with the first plate.

  “Your brain is going a mile a minute. I can see the smoke.” She flicked water at his face and laughed. “Hear that? It’s practically sizzling. What’s the story?”

  If she still felt awkward about last night, she was doing a bang-up job hiding it. The way she’d looked at him after that kiss… he couldn't have imagined it. But after all the awkwardness of last night, now she stood at the kitchen sink joking around and washing dishes as if they’d done it every day for a year. She hadn't even noticed that he’d cooked up their favorite beach breakfast—her favorite blueberry sauce—just like he used to do.

  Damn. Last night… the hallway, the flirting, the kiss… Maybe he'd made more of it than it was.

  And maybe you need to grow a pair and stop pining over the past.

  “No story.” Ash pressed his lips into a tight line, then blew out a breath. “Just thinking about the house. I don't even know where to start with this shithole.”

  Pam rinsed the plate and handed it over. “You don't have to tell me what you’re brooding about if you don't want to, tough guy. But don't lie to me.”

  “I'm not—”

  She pointed at him with the sponge, dripping water onto his bare feet. “You press your lips together before you tell a lie. Always have. It's a dead giveaway.”

  Goddamn. Even after all this time, Deeds knew him so well. Knew his history, knew all his tells.

  Then why does it feel like there’s a million fucking miles between us?

  She passed him another plate. “What are you up to today? Heading back into town?”

  “Yep. That supply list is about a mile long.” Ash set the plate in the drainer and cleared his throat, feeling like a world-class pussy. It was the perfect opening, yet there he was, standing there with his dick in his hand like a fifteen-year-old kid with a crush.

  “Ash?” Pam nudged him with her elbow, then handed him another plate.

  He took the plate, put it in the dish rack without drying it. No way around it but through it… “I thought maybe you’d like to come with me today. You know, for a drive. Maybe get some lunch.”

  “We just ate. A lot.”

  “Fine. Coffee. Drinks. Whatever.” He pressed his lips together before he even realized he was doing it. “Then you can help me pick out new flooring for the kitchen. I suck at that shit.”

  Her eyes widened, just enough to let him know that she was surprised.

  And just enough to let him know that she was about to say no.

  “Forget it.” He forced a smile and wiped his hands on the towel, clutching it tight. “I'll figure it out. It's linoleum. How hard can it be, right?”

  Pam reached out and touched his arm, her hand warm and wet and soapy. In a gentle voice, she said, “I'm really behind, and Ferguson—my advisor—he’s been on my ass all month. If I don't turn in something soon, I'm in deep shit.”

  “Another time, then.”

  “Sure. We’ve got a couple weeks, right?” Pam let go of his arm and tucked her hair behind her ears, her smile fading.

  Fucked that right up, asshole. Smooth.

  Just as well. It was a bad idea from the start. What was the point? Their lives had obviously gone in different directions, and a few weeks together at Summerland wasn't going to change that.

  They finished the dishes in silence, scrubbed up the pans, put away the leftovers. With the kitchen restored to neutral, Pam grabbed a refill on her coffee, then turned to look at him one last time.

  “You good?” he asked.

  “Ash?” Pam pushed her glasses up her nose and gave him a small smile that made something squeeze in his chest. “Thanks for remembering about the cinnamon.”

  Chapter Eight

  Seven thousand words later, I still suck.

  Pam tossed her glasses onto the table she was using as a desk and rubbed her bleary eyes. She’d been working on her paper for almost four days straight, skipping lunch, breaking only for breakfast and dinner with Liz and Ash. But no matter how many times she rewrote her introduction, she couldn't force the words to make sense.

  From one of her suitcases she fished out several issues of The Economist, flipping through the pages she’d marked with colored tabs, trying to find the data to back up her position. When she’d first started researching her thesis question last year, it had all seemed so logical, so obvious. But now it felt like a house of card
s—one that her advisor and the committee could knock down in one swoop.

  Nothing in the periodicals struck a chord with her. She tabbed over to her literature review document, and then to her research spreadsheet, scanning the rows where she’d recorded the references and page numbers for all of her facts, double-checking that her colored tabs were in the right place. Everything lined up, but none of it clicked in her head. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t access the part of her brain that had catalogued all these facts before, the part that had made sense of them. Now it was all Greek.

  A wave a frustration crashed over her. Tears blurred her vision, and she slammed her laptop shut, flopping backward on the bed.

  What is wrong with me?

  Despite the constant roar of the ocean outside, her heartbeat was as loud as a drum, banging out her death march across the graduation stage. Everything was speeding up on her, closing in, squeezing tight. Her palms were slick with sweat, her legs trembling, her mouth dry, her vision swimming with stars. It was an exact replay of the panic attack that had landed her in the ER the week before—the whole reason Lizzie had invited her to the beach in the first place.

  And that scared her even more.

  Relax, Pam. Just breathe.

  Counting silently to ten, Pam took a deep breath and held it, then exhaled slowly, trying to visualize her completed paper. She pictured herself sitting with the committee during her defense, answering their questions with ease. She imagined the feel of the leather folio in her hand, the one that held the degrees she’d later frame and hang on her office wall. She thought of her boss at Highsmith Capital, how he’d have no choice but to offer her a promotion commensurate with her education. She was so close, she could taste it. Her coursework had been completed months ago. All she had to do now was finish the paper.

  Breathe in… two… three… breathe out.

  Mr. Ferguson is smiling… two… three…

  Everyone is congratulating me… two… three…

  I’m getting a big fat raise at work… two…three…

  Pam had just gotten herself calmed down when a high-pitched whine drilled into her skull, followed by a banging so loud, it made the walls shake.

  Ash.

  He’d gone out to the kitchen-and-bath place after breakfast, but now he was back, wasting no time getting to work.

  Pam sighed. At least the noise wasn't in her head. Small victory, perhaps, but at this point she'd take them where she could get them.

  Heartbeat steady, breathing finally normalized, Pam sat up and flipped open her laptop again, ready to take another shot at her intro. She cracked her knuckles and shook out her hands. “You've got this, girl. Economics is your jam. You can defend this shit in your sleep. Let's do it.”

  Hands poised over the keys, Pam banged out a few sentences, then a few more, each one coming out stronger and more clear than the last. When she got to the bottom of the page, she reread her work, relatively satisfied this time.

  But when she tried to move on to the next page, Her thoughts stalled again, drifting from the task at hand like a boat without an anchor.

  Pam shook her head. She hadn’t forgotten her research, her finance experience, or even how to write. Something else was bothering her. Was it Ash? She closed her eyes and pictured him, replaying their interactions like a child worrying a loose tooth. Since that first night, they’d managed to stay on neutral ground, even as memories of that brief kiss sent hot little jolts throughout her body whenever she looked at him. Still, she didn’t think Ash was the source of her distraction. It wasn't Liz either, or the secrets she’d kept. But every time Pam sat down to work again, her thoughts got snagged like fish in a net.

  She stood up and stretched, pacing the room, trying to reign in her focus. Her gaze trailed along the white eyelet bedspread, down to the old wood floors, back up to the fading turquoise walls. This was the summer bedroom she’d shared with Lizzie growing up, the two of them curled up together on the big bed, whispering secrets long into the night. In later years, they’d climbed out the left side window, sneaking down to the beach to meet boys.

  Other than the new bedspread that she suspected Lizzie had bought just for Pam's visit, the room hadn't changed at all. Same books on the shelves, same lamp on the nightstand, same pictures on the wall.

  Pictures…

  The word sparked something inside her. That was it. The thing that kept stealing her attention. Poking at her. Begging her to notice. To remember. Pam hadn’t given it much thought before, but now she realized that the pictures on the wall, just like the one in the hallway with the sandcastle, were photos that she herself had taken over the years, moments of their shared adolescence captured and preserved, unaffected by distance and death and time. Hanging between the two windows that faced the ocean, there was a shot of Pam and Lizzie, probably about thirteen, just the tops of their heads showing, eyes squinted in laughter. It was before they had cell phones, a classic old-school selfie in front the blue Pacific, their constant summer backdrop.

  Over the bed, a series of six photos hung in a diagonal row, a series of sunsets taken in front of the house. Pam smiled as her memories unfurled, blooming like flowers. The sunsets… she’d take each of the six shots at the same time every Saturday, amazed at how the sun would set earlier and earlier each weekend as autumn approached.

  On the dresser next to the bed, tucked behind a pink lamp with a beaded shade, she found a photo of Ash sitting on the deck, his feet dangling over the edge. He was looking out at sea, his broad, muscular back to the camera, and Pam remembered sneaking up on him with the camera. A creaky floorboard had given away her position at the last second, and he’d turned to look over his shoulder, smiling the moment he saw her face.

  Pam traced her fingers over the photo, her vision blurring with tears. It was taken their last summer here, just a week before Mrs. Burke collapsed in the sand and they had to cut the trip short. She’d captured Ash in this moment—the real him—before death had touched his family, before sadness took up permanent residence in his heart.

  Looking at this picture, anyone could see how much she loved him. How much he loved her.

  Sliding open the top dresser drawer, Pam tucked the picture inside, under some old T-shirts that probably hadn’t been moved in years.

  Coffee. She needed more coffee. It would help her focus, help her exorcise the old demons and get back to work.

  She found Ash in the kitchen, his long legs sticking out from under the sink as he disassembled the pipes. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Pam took a minute to enjoy the view, letting her eyes roam over his ripped abs and the V-shaped muscles jutting out above the tool belt slung around his hips. But for a small, finger-length scar just to the left of his belly button, his skin was smooth and unmarred, and Pam curled her fingers into her palms, trying not to imagine what it would feel like to touch him.

  He grunted, making her jump, but he hadn't seen her. He was fighting with something under the sink, his body jerking, abs rippling with the effort. She flexed her fingers, curled them back into her palms, but nothing worked. All Pam could think about was straddling him, running her hands up his chest as he bucked beneath her, driving his perfect cock inside her, again and again and—

  “Thought you’d be hard at work.”

  Pam yelped, the sound of Ash’s voice breaking right into her fantasy. She’d been totally wrapped up in it, and—judging from the smug look on Ash’s face—she was totally busted.

  He slid out from under the sink and sat up against the cupboard, his body caked with grime and glistening with sweat. He was grinning like an idiot. “Bedroom must be pretty hot back there. You look like you need a cold shower.”

  “Ditto,” was all she could manage.

  “Good timing.” Wiping a forearm across his brow, Ash nodded toward the bathroom down the hall. “Should we use the buddy system? Conserve water?”

  Pam hesitated a little too long, her mind serving up another perfect fantasy—s
teaming hot water, soap suds, Ash’s strong hands running up and down her curves… She bit her bottom lip, forcing herself to keep her mouth shut. With Lizzie out of the house for the day, and Pam feeling nostalgic—not to mention all wound up and horny as hell—it wouldn't take much more convincing from Ash to get her naked, even if he was joking.

  “Hey. Everything okay?” Concern flashed in his eyes as he stood up, his body unfolding before her like some kind of Greek God—if Greek Gods wore jeans and tool belts. “You need something?”

  “Um… I just… I was wondering if…” Pam swallowed through the dryness in her mouth, unable to remember what she’d meant to say. Sweat pooled in the hollow of Ash’s throat, and a drop rolled down his chest. Pam stared at it, wishing she could chase it with her tongue. “Can I lick—help—can I help you? I mean, with the work?”

  Can I lick you? Pam cringed. There was no way he’d let her off the hook with that one. All she could do was stand her ground and take it like a woman…

  But all he said was, “What’s the catch, Deeds? Because I’m telling you right now, I’m not doing your math homework.”

  “Economics, and there’s no catch.” She blew a breath into her bangs and opened her eyes. I just need you to stand there half naked while I take pictures with my mind to save for later… “I just need a break,” she said, reaching for a drill on the counter. She squeezed the trigger, nearly jumping out of her skin as the thing came to life in her hands.

  “You wanna help?” Ash asked. With a gentle touch, he removed the drill from her hands and set it back on the counter, glaring at her with those mischievous hazel eyes. “Rule number one: never handle, touch, or lick a man's tool without permission.”

  Chapter Nine

  As much as Ash had been dying to get her alone, Pam’s “help” was the biggest fucking distraction on the planet… not that he was complaining. At first, she’d wanted to go over all of his notes, reorganize them onto different pages by priority and cost. When he shot down that idea, she grabbed a pack of multi-colored Post-its from her computer bag and started marking them up, sticking them on everything that needed to be fixed.