Wrecked: A Bad Boy Outlaw Romance (with bonus novel!)

by Teagan Kade

  I’m undressing when I notice a slice of light in the corner of the room. I go over to it, run my finger down the glowing gap between the two panels of the wall. I press my eye to it, can see right into the bathroom backing my room.

  Holy shit.

  I mean, yes, the place is in disrepair, but isn’t this the kind of thing you’d cover up?

  It’s a house of guys. I don’t imagine they get many guests.

  I hear the door to the bathroom open.

  Don’t you dare, Lux Louise Jackson.

  It’s late. My powers of resistance are weak.

  Deacon enters the bathroom in his board shorts. He turns the shower on and begins to strip, shorts disappearing down his legs and his firm buttocks showing up like a full moon… and just as pale.

  I spin around against the wall, chest tight. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  But I can’t help it. I peer through the slats again and watch as he washes, lathering himself up. When he runs his hands through his hair his whole body lengthens and tightens banded gold and white from his shorts. He’s a soapy god-damn Adonis.

  I take in the tattoos on his back, his arms. There’s an odd block of black on his left bicep, as if something’s been hidden or tattooed over.

  Weird.

  He turns and I have to cup my mouth to stop myself gasping. His cock’s huge, a lengthy shaft swinging between his legs set in a soft nest of wiry hair. He soaps himself down there, dropping the soap and bending over. When he comes back up, his eyes open. He’s looking right at me. I spin around against the wall again, a sudden flicker of heat between my legs, my fingers tingling.

  He can’t have seen me, surely. But deep down I hope he has.

  *

  The weather turns in the morning, rainfall too heavy to go out or do much but sit in the living room watching the fire while the boys busy themselves with laundry, video games, and leftovers. It’s actually kind of comical seeing them all in housemaid mode. A guy with a tattoo of the grim reaper folding underwear, a steaming iron in one hand, is a sight every girl should see at least once in their lifetime.

  By late afternoon I’m struck by a sudden wave of tiredness, retreating back to my bedroom. It’s dark when I wake.

  I tip-toe through the house. “Hello?”

  No one’s here.

  I find a note on the bench: GONE TO THE PUB. BACK LATER.

  The pub?

  It has to be the old building down past the motel, the bar.

  There’s no invitation to join them, but I’m wide awake. Screw it.

  I gather my things and head out into the rain, running up the hill with my coat stretched over my head.

  I enter the ‘pub’ and expect it to be bustling, but there’s barely anyone inside.

  Razor and Bo are at the bar speaking to the bartender, a middle-aged woman in a slate swimsuit who looks like she was bred in a concrete mixer.

  I make my way over to Deacon, sitting by himself at a table in the middle of the place, finger tracing patterns in his beer glass.

  I stop at the table. “Hi.”

  He takes a pull of his beer, doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

  What the hell’s up with you? “You know, I never properly thanked you for saving my life. You didn’t let me.”

  He places the beer down and slowly looks up at me. “Honestly, I’d thought you’d be on a plane by now, jetting your way back to the States. You’re not, but you sure as shit should be.”

  I don’t know where this sudden moodiness is coming from, this two-face routine. I thought we were making progress.

  Maybe you thought wrong.

  I take a seat. I’ve had enough of the attitude. “I have as much right as anyone else to be here, you know.”

  He laughs, drums his fingers on the table. “You think the break cares about your rights? The ocean?” He leans over. “It doesn’t give a fuck about who you are or where you’ve come from. You don’t respect it, it will fucking destroy you.”

  I bite my lip, containing myself. “I can handle it. I’ve surfed Pipeline, J-Bay…”

  He laughs again, louder this time. “You think Shipstern’s anything like Pipe? Shipstern’s a fucking mutant of a wave, a destroyer of worlds, and you were out there in a baby swell. We would have been picking up pieces of you if was really working.”

  “I thought I left smug arrogant assholes like you back in the States, but I guess you really are ubiquitous, aren’t you?”

  He relaxes, leans back in his chair. “Curious way to say thank you.”

  “I am going back out there. I am going to conquer that wave.”

  “No one conquers a wave, Hollywood. You can respect the ocean, ride it, but you cannot fucking conquer it.”

  I stand, the chair sliding back with a screech. “We’ll see about that.”

  “You can ride me if you want,” comes an Irish accent from the table beside us, a snigger following.

  I turn to see a small group of men, probably backpackers. “What do you say?” the one in the middle continues, “or do you need to ask your boyfriend first?”

  I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.

  Deacon’s over there in a second flat, the smartass still in his chair on the floor, Deacon’s arm up hard under his chin. One of the others goes to grab Deacon around the neck, but Deacon thrusts his boot out and hits him in the chest. The guy goes down, another lifting his bottle ready to smash it into Deacon’s head, but Razor gets to him first, a powerful right hook connecting with his jaw.

  It’s chaos. The brothers and the backpackers go sprawling across the room. I see one of the backpackers literally fly into an old pinball machine, the glass breaking under his back.

  “Hey!” calls the bartender.

  A bottle smashes by my feet.

  I get under the table on my knees, breathing hard.

  In all the chaos what strikes me most is the way Deacon is going to town on the guy who made the wise crack in the first place. He’s smashing his head left and right, the guy’s collar fisted up in his hand, the other swinging into his face. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  He’s going to kill him.

  I run over there, dodging another bottle.

  I reach down and try to pull Deacon away.

  He spins, fist raised and eyes wild, but he lowers his hand when he sees it’s me, lets the guy he was working on slump groaning to the floor, his face a mess of blood.

  “What the farkin’ hell is going on here?”

  Everyone looks to the doorway. A man stands there in blue shirt and black pants, a man I’m assuming is a local police officer.

  Deacon stands, his brothers flanking him. The backpackers are dotted around the room in various states of disrepair.

  Deacon puts his hands out. “Sergeant Wilson. Nice to see you.”

  Sergeant Wilson looks to the bartender, the woman who looks like she was brought up on a breakfast of shrapnel and broken dreams, the tattoos on her arms worn and weary. She’s solid, too, the kind of lady you wouldn’t want to mess with, and I don’t intend to start.

  “Sarah?” the sergeant calls to her.

  Sarah shrugs. “I don’t know, Bill. I didn’t see who started it.”

  The sergeant looks around. “Why is it wherever you guys show up somewhere it turns into a shitstorm? You can’t help but cause trouble, can you? Who’s going to pay for all this?”

  Deacon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a clip of cash, thumbing out bills onto the closest table. He looks to the bartender. “Will two-grand cover it, Sarah?”

  She nods, arms crossed. “Should do.”

  The sergeant steps over one of the backpackers and takes Deacon by the shoulder, spinning him around and pulling out his cuffs. “Don’t know why you fuckers even hang around.”

  No one seems to complain or act surprised. It’s like this happens every night.

  Cuffed, the sergeant walks Deacon to the doors, speaking into the receiver by his collar.

  Razor waves. “Seen you s
oon, bro.”

  Deacon turns to me as he walks by, expression dark. I’m starting to think he doesn’t know how to smile, how to even get his face to switch to anything other than ‘maximum brood’.

  Razor and Bo walk out in turn, Razor kicking one of the backpackers in the ribs on his way out. He winks at me. “See you back home, Hollywood.”

  With the brothers gone, it’s just the bartender and I.

  She picks up a glass and shakes her head. “What a fucking mess.”

  I step over glass. “Does this happen often?”

  She clears the bar with an arm. “More than I’d like, but they pay up plenty every time—enough to keep the place running. Can’t say I can complain about that.”

  She nods to the door. “You with them, the Hunt brothers?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But you’re American too, right?”

  I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She leans over the bar towards me, turning a glass over and throwing a cloth over her shoulder. “Got a name?”

  “Lux.”

  “Want some advice, Lux?”

  I smile. “Sure.”

  “Stay away from those three, especially the tall one.”

  She must be referring to Deacon. “Why?”

  A groan follows from an unidentified backpacker.

  “People don’t come here for a holiday, love. This place is thick with thieves.”

  “You’re saying they’re criminals?”

  She shrugs, picks up the glass and begins to clean it out. “You come here to die or you come here to hide. I used to be a prison guard, you know. Twenty years up at in Sydney at Parramatta Jail with some real nasty cookies. Your boy? Deacon? The way he fights, the shitty tats, way he watches his back—he’s done time, mark my words. Maybe they all have. Question is, how long and what for? I can guaran-bloody-tee you it wasn’t for jay-walking.”

  I look back to the mess. “They seem harmless enough.”

  “They’re quiet, keep to themselves, sure, but you ask me, that makes them even more dangerous. They’re trouble and in my experience you want to stay as far away from trouble as you can around here, especially a cute little get-up like yourself who probably hasn’t had her heart broken yet. Leave,” she warns, “before Finke, or the brothers, get the better of you”.

  She might be right.

  She puts the glass back down. “How long were you planning on staying?”

  “The brothers were nice enough to put me up, actually. It would be nice to pay them, though, show my gratitude. I don’t suppose you know where I could get some work around here.”

  “You done bar work before?”

  “In college, yes.”

  “You work hard?”

  “I do.”

  She looks me up and down. “I suppose I could do with a hand. I don’t imagine the local crowd would say no to the eye candy either. It would be a nice change from the ax wound of a face god gifted me with.”

  I swallow. “I think you’re—”

  “Shut it. I value honesty in my employees. You want to bullshit, become a politician.”

  I nod. “I understand.”

  She puts down the glass again and wipes the bar even though it’s now spotless. “You start tonight, help me clean up this cluster-fuck. Ten bucks an hour.”

  I extend my hand. “Done.”

  *

  I arrive home well after midnight to find Deacon sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “They let you out.”

  “They?” he laughs. “Sergeant Wilson’s the only policeman in town, and yes, I’m out. He can’t seem to stand me for more than a few hours. Heard you got yourself a job?”

  I sit down opposite him at the table. “She’s kidding about the afternoon rush, isn’t she?.”

  “She was, but she sure as shit wasn’t kidding about the ten bucks an hour.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  He lifts the tumbler to his lips, the amber liquid tilting in the glass. “Word travels fast around here.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re a moron, sure.”

  I stand. “You’re calling me a moron?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  I lean over the table and punch him as hard as I can in the shoulder.

  He doesn’t move an inch.

  “I know pensioners who punch harder than that.”

  I punch him again, this time in the chest. The guy’s like a rock. I sit back down and cradle my hand. “Ouch.”

  He places the tumbler down. “Prepare to make that word a major part of your vocabulary, Hollywood.”

  “Why?” I question.

  His eyes light up. “Because tomorrow we start training for real.”

  *

  Another day, another date with Deacon the Terrible.

  I look down into the pool. I’m not quite sure, but I think there’s a giant rock at the bottom of it. “What the hell is that?”

  “Your new best friend,” he says, right before he pushes me in.

  The ocean’s cold, sure, but the water in this backyard pool is beyond freezing even with a wetsuit.

  I burst from the surface shivering. “You asshole!”

  He jumps in beside me smiling.

  I wipe water from eyes. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  The smugness covers his face completely. Do I detect the hint of a smile there? “More than I thought I would. You okay?”

  A real asshole wouldn’t ask.

  “Fine,” I mutter, treading water. The pool’s a lot deeper than I thought.

  “You’re going to dive down there, pick up that rock and carry it to the end of the pool.”

  “Underwater?”

  He laughs. “You can try it on land if you like, but that fucker’s a lot heavier out of the water than in it. Trust me.”

  “And what, pray tell, is the purpose of all this?”

  “Once you can carry that rock from one end to the other and back again without surfacing for a breath, you’re ready for Shipstern again.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “As I overheard an Aussie say, piece of piss, mate.”

  I dive under and kick to the bottom, trying to pick up the rock but finding my feet floating away from me every time back to the surface. Defeated, I rise to the top.

  Deacon tosses something towards me. I catch it. It’s a weight belt. “You might need this.”

  I attach the belt and dive again, the belt allows me to stand on the bottom of the pool and get into a squatting position. Picking up the rock isn’t easy. It’s the size of a watermelon, though far more ugly. I cradle it and start walking, but I haven’t even made it five feet before I have to surface again to Deacon’s smug fucking face.

  “Not so easy, is it, Goldilocks?”

  No, damn you. I’m doing this.

  I dive again, maybe make it another foot before I come up with lungs burning, arms heavy already.

  Given my recent run-in with death, perhaps this isn’t the best idea, but I’m not about to let this guy get the better of me.

  “Fun, isn’t it?” he taunts. “Ready for the next game?”

  “Game?”

  “Sure. We both go down and you try to get away from me. Simple, right?”

  I look at Deacon’s muscles bulging underneath his wetsuit. Whatever he has planned, I doubt it’s going to be easy.

  I drop the belt and count. “One, two, three.”

  We both dive down together. Once we’re at the bottom Deacon takes hold of my arms and starts to wrestle me.

  What the fuck is he doing?

  We roll together. I try to pull away, but his grip doesn’t ease up. We tumble and thrash. I twist, try to gain some leverage, but he’s strong—real strong.

  Almost sixty seconds in and I’m starting to panic, Deacon’s stony face giving nothing away.

  Finally, he lets go and I kick to the surface. He breaks through next to me.


  I splash water at him. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “All the big-wave surfers use it for training to simulate what it’s like when you wipe out, being tossed and turned over and over, the wave refusing to let you go.”

  “So you’re playing the wave?”

  He laughs. “Baby, I’m nothing compared to the Stern—lightweight. You should know better than anyone that once you get pounded up there at the Bluff you’ve got to remain calm for maybe a whole set—three, four minutes. You surface, you get thrown down again, over and over. You’re got to be ready for it, disorientated, the world black and null, no way to work out if you’re up or down, no light. That is what this is all about.”

  I take a deep breath and prepare to dive again. Fucking great.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DEACON

  “This one. Go!”

  I watch as Lux paddles into the wave. She disappears from sight with a whoop, the blast of the barrel closing out following shortly after. That’ll teach you.

  We’re at Little Stern, a small break around the corner from the Bluff and largely protected from the bigger swell. Still, it’ll bite if you don’t know what you’re doing.

  I head into the wash expecting to find her flailing, but she’s already back on her board paddling to the lineup. “You okay?”

  She flicks her hair back. Sexy doesn’t even begin to describe it. “Fine. Needed a good tumble.”

  I watch the back, the next set coming through. I point. “The sets at Shipstern come every sixty seconds in a good swell. You’ve got to be ready, wait until the end of the set to go unless you want to be pounded by every fucking wave when you wipe out.”

  She nods, sitting on her board beside me, her chest rising and falling, breasts lifting with each breath.

  I see a solid right-hander loom up and turn, lying down on my board, starting to paddle. “Watch and learn.”

  I paddle harder, feel the welcome pull of the wave building behind me, a mountain of water that wants nothing more than to beat me down to the bottom and never let me go. I lied to Lux. I live to conquer waves, to dominate them completely. If you can master something as mental as Shipstern, you can take on anything. Fear’s a choice, simple as that.

  I drop in. It’s steep, stepped, but I pull to the trough easy and rise back up, stalling to tuck into the barrel. I get nice and deep inside it before it spits me out over the back. I land on my board and paddle back to the lineup, the smile on Lux’s face says it all. Razor’s cheering from further down the line.