Pleasure Point: The Complete Series

by Evans, Jennifer

  When he hung up the phone, he raced into the kitchen, scooped me up, and twirled me around. “It’s going off at Mavericks! Waves could be over sixty feet.” He saw my face fall and said, “Oh, baby, don’t worry. I’m ready.”

  “You promise to be careful?” I said, my voice a squeak.

  He stopped for one second, and that was a moment that I will always remember. “You, my sweet lovely lady, are what I will be thinking about coming home to.” He kissed me hard, but jerked his head up when his phone, which lay on the counter rang. The caller ID showed a photo of a dark-haired young woman. Olivia. I tried not to be obvious when I craned my neck to peek at the photo. I was able to get a good look at the image before Jax cleared the call.

  Jax held my face in both hands. “I’ll be home in a few days.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Jax Priest, get out of here and go get some waves.” I did my best not to let my anxiety into my voice.

  When Jax left, I stood alone in the kitchen, my body cold. Who was Olivia? She looked exactly like that woman I’d seen at the Ritz-Carlton. In fact, I was fairly certain, it was the woman in the ladies restroom who’d been bragging about sex with some hot stud. Jax knew her? I rubbed my face, shook my head, and extracted a wineglass from the cabinet. I poured myself a hefty serving then slid down the refrigerator until I was sitting on the floor. The fridge vibrated against my back, the tile floor cooled my feet, and I drank.

  As the alcohol suffused my system, my thoughts went crazy. That woman was a slut. I remembered the way she’d talked about nipple clamps as the other one had gone on about the huge cock of whomever this guy was they’d been discussing.

  Jax knew her?

  Maybe she was someone he’d given surf lessons to? Maybe … what? I poured another glass of wine and sat again, gulping down the contents. I pulled a strand of hair so hard it hurt. Matrix walked into the kitchen and leaned in for a petting session. “Good boy,” I crooned, but I pet him so hard that he finally scooted away into the living room where he curled into a ball, eying me. I bit my lip.

  Jax knew that woman?

  Jax

  It wasn’t my intention to lie to Holly. I really did care about her, and I was planning to come home to her in the next few days. But life had other plans.

  The last things I did before I left home was ask Gary to feed Blue-ee and respond to a few of my Janes who wanted sessions. “You be safe out there at Mavericks,” Olivia had texted. “And I’ll be a bad girl while you’re gone.” I promised her I’d be careful, and she made me promise that her punishment would be extra special upon my return.

  Mavericks in Half Moon Bay was my absolute favorite big wave spot. Set along a rugged coastline, jagged rocks jutted up from the ocean that teemed with an abundance of sea life—including man-eating great white sharks. The water is a bone-chilling, swirling abyss. Surfing Mavericks, I had to be completely in the moment. It brought every single cell in my body alive with excitement.

  The day I arrived, it was gnarly, huge, intimidating, and strictly for the experts.

  “Fucking sketchy out here,” Butch yelled over the din of the waves. He raised his arms. “Get ready to catch some bombs!”

  I felt like we were in one of those bouncy houses on steroids. The ocean bucked and swayed, but Butch and I were ready. I had geared up with my good luck Love Bone T-shirt under my wetsuit, and Butch sat next to me in the crowded lineup, his deep blue Timmy Patterson 9’8 gun between his legs.

  We needed every wit of strength and luck with us that day because we’d both had wipeouts on big waves. Wiping out on waves like the mackers that day was like a six-story wall of water folding and detonating over your body. Sometimes, all you can do is take a breath, duck, cover, and pray while hoping the impact doesn’t tear the limbs off your body. But man, what a rush!

  We went into the zone, and Butch was charging, surfing the place like he owned it, just killing it. During a lull between sets, I said, “What’s gotten into you, dude?”

  He winked at me. “Been thinking about you and all those ladies. Got me all worked up. Man, what a day!” He looked over his shoulder as the next set approached. The enormous wave looked like it was mine, but Butch stroked so hard I called out, “Go ahead, it’s all yours,” over the thunder of the waves. We were in a very aggressive spot and Butch caught the ramp into the bowl.

  The next wave came through, and I dug deep, paddling with all my might to catch it. I had trained hard and spent most of my life learning to intuitively read the swells as they came in and to adjust as necessary so that I could paddle into these monstrous waves. I dropped in, peering over the edge of what looked like a fifty-foot drop-off—a liquid cliff face. I got to my feet, and there was that weightless free-fall. I felt complete and total presence. Sweet! That feeling was what all big wave surfers lived for.

  It was heaven; a clean wall, bigger and more perfect than anything I’d ever seen or dreamed of. Not a ripple, just pure, green glass. Endorphins and euphoria flooded my body. I whooped and hollered as I surfed the wave for all I was worth. Man, what a ride! I raised my arms in the air, ended my ride, and kicked out.

  The roar of one of the Jet Skis broke my private celebration. The ski patrol driver yelled to me, “You seen Butch?” I yelled back that I hadn’t, and he took off to the lagoon and through the rocks. The Jet Ski was a blur, bouncing hard on the angry ocean. That was odd. Butch had been so amped to be out here. Had he ended his session in favor of a brewskie? That didn’t sound like my best friend. I hesitated, turning around to find Butch, but then I saw the next set of waves. The most dangerous place to be caught was in the impact zone, so I furiously paddled back out to the lineup.

  I caught another wave, and when I rode in, I heard the beating of helicopter blades. A helicopter landed on the beach. My breath burst in and out of my lungs; my limbs shook. An airlift was always bad news.

  Images of surf accidents I’d witnessed flashed through my mind: one of my buddies who’d been pitched off his board hit his head on a boulder and broke his neck in four places; another, who wiped out on a big wave, lost consciousness, and once revived, vomited a half gallon of water. Another who didn’t survive—his body had been discovered still tied to the broken tail section of his board over two hours after he’d drowned. A sour taste filled my mouth, and I forced the visions out of my head.

  I stroked hard for the shore, unhooked my leash, threw my board on the sand, and ran.

  On the beach, the flight paramedics were already crouched over Butch’s body. Even though he’d been wearing a wetsuit, his prosthetic had been ripped free. The wetsuit lay in a pathetic, lifeless heap at the leg. I bit back a scream.

  I shoved the nurses out of the way. “Let me see him!”

  “Please step aside,” one of the nurses said, grabbing me by both shoulders and looking me in the eye. “We’ve got an emergency here.”

  Butch’s face was a grim mask, a lifeless stare with blue eyelids and lips; his body was wracked by convulsions causing him to cough up foamy blood.

  My body froze, and I didn’t think I’d be able to move. Dizziness filled my being, my legs weak, as the vision in front of me went wavy. I thought I was going to pass out. Then the scene came into focus, and I flinched at the sound of the beating helicopter blades. My eyes squeezed shut. Please don’t take him.

  I turned away, not wanting to look, nausea filling my insides, my hand over my mouth. Then, as though watching a slow motion horror movie, I observed while the nurses checked for spinal cord injury and any obvious cuts or broken bones then attached an oxygen mask.

  “He’s in shock,” one of them said. “Think we got a dislocated shoulder. Get him on the gurney.”

  I snapped to attention and hurried to my friend’s side. “Let me—”

  “I said, out of the way.”

  I crouched to eye level with Butch. “Hey man.” All I got was a blank stare.

  The nurses were calm and efficient. They m
ethodically transferred Butch into the waiting helicopter.

  “Where you taking him?” I said.

  “Stanford. Now, out of the way so we can do our job.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You can meet us there.”

  Most of the surfers were still in the water, and those on the beach were silent. None of us knew if Butch was going to be okay.

  The helicopter rose into the sky. I grabbed my board and sprinted down the path that led to the parking lot, my surf booties crunching on the gravel. Struggling for air, my heart pumped faster, goosebumps filled my wetsuit, and my brain a fog of surreality.

  I had to get to Palo Alto.

  When I reached the parking lot, I propped my board against the side of my truck.

  Anger surged through me, and I felt it building up hotly behind my eyes like a bonfire. I could not lose Butch. Visions of my mom, dad, and Tyler swam in my mind, a macabre message from a taunting Grim Reaper. Acrid bile filled my mouth, and I thought I was going to puke. You’re not taking him!

  I saw my surfboard.

  My breath came fast. I swung with violence, my fist making contact with the fiberglass board and wooden stringer. “Fuck!” The impact was just what I needed. I punched again. Blood spurted out of my knuckles. I punched a third time, the pain of the impact sending waves through my knuckles, into my hand, and up my arm.

  I jumped into my truck, jamming the key in the ignition.

  Calm down, Jax.

  I took a deep breath.

  The Half Moon Bay fog horn sounded its dire warning to boats entering the bay, a despairing bleat that repeated every five seconds.

  And that’s when my phone rang.

  I snatched it up. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” I was ready to slam the phone against the steering wheel and smash it—until I heard that voice.

  “Jax?” she said tentatively. “Jax … Are you crying?”

  The sound of her voice sucked me into a swirling abyss of time, space, and conflicting emotions.

  It was Rosalyn.

  END OF BOOK TWO

  Waves of Desire

  Pleasure Point Series Book Three

  Reader Advisory: This book has deeply sensual, steamy love scenes described in graphic detail and is recommended for readers aged 18 or older.

  To Grant “Twiggy” Baker, the world’s gnarliest big wave surfer.

  “Wiping out is an underappreciated skill.”

  —Laird Hamilton

  Santa Cruz, California

  2015

  Rosalyn

  Carissa’s hand touched mine, her eyebrows knit in concern. “You’re sure you want to involve Jax?”

  I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of poppy seed tea. “It’s not like I have much of a choice. He’s Eugene’s father.” Leo jumped onto my lap with a muffled prrrp and began purring. I smiled and stroked his soft fur.

  Carissa stood up and walked to the fridge. She opened the door and stared at the contents. “I’m not saying it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had.” She refilled her iced kombucha then returned to the kitchen table and looked at me with concerned eyes. “I know you’ve been through hell, and I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but you and I both know some of the choices you’ve made have been—”

  I smacked my cup down on the table harder than I meant to. “Don’t you think I know that?” I put my face in my hands. “I should’ve never left Jax. I should’ve taken your advice.”

  Carissa tentatively placed one hand on my back. “I’m sorry for saying that.” She exhaled audibly. “You did what you thought was right. And things have turned out pretty good. You and I both know there are things in life that can’t be controlled.”

  Dear, sweet Jax. Not a day went by that I didn’t think about him. I was ashamed of the way I had left him, but I’d convinced myself it was for the best. Even thirteen years later, I missed him. I missed his caring and his protectiveness and his sense of humor and the fact that I could be myself around him, and yes, I missed the sex. I took a long sip of my tea, the relaxing effect flowing into my bones. My head bowed, I made eye contact with Carissa. “You think he’ll be receptive?”

  She brushed her red hair out of her face and smiled. “You said he’s a good guy, right? You’ll have to be careful how you talk to him though.” She rubbed her jaw. “I’ve never met the man, so I can’t really say. I mean, a lot of years have passed.”

  I had a completely new life. After graduation I’d gotten hired by the All Hands On Deck physical therapy clinic, and I applied myself to the job and taking care of my body, which was quickly becoming swollen with pregnancy. I ate only vegetarian foods, I juiced, I practiced yoga, and I even gave up pot smoking for the time I was pregnant. I meditated and surrounded the baby with a white protective light, and when I felt the baby move for the first time, I started to forget about the pain of everything that’d happened. I actually had a baby living inside me. Every night I would lie in bed, stroking my tummy and talking to the baby. I became involved with the local yoga community and found a midwife that would deliver the baby at home. I pored over books about natural childbirth, and I went to classes to learn to manage the pain of labor without drugs.

  I changed my name. I was terrified that Jax would get some crazy idea about finding me, so I had come up with a new last name that I used at work and in social circles, but never had it legally changed.

  I stood up and ambled to the window, my chest tight, my breathing shallow. I moved aimlessly through the kitchen, stopping here and there as I thought. Carissa eyed me, her head cocked. “Are you going to get something out of the fridge?” She patted the chair. “Come sit down.”

  I looked at my friend then down at my feet and shuffled back to the kitchen table where I dropped into a chair. My shoulders slumped. “Jax is going to hate me.”

  Carissa leaned forward and placed a hand on my knee. “I know this is far from the perfect scenario. But, it’s going to work out,” she said soothingly. My hand flew to my mouth to hold back a sob.

  I bit down on my lower lip and took another sip of tea with trembling hands. “He’s what? Thirty-one? And he’s never been married or had children as far as I know. How’s he going to feel about a kid?” Nausea washed over me for the millionth time that day. “I don’t know if I can go through with this.” My heartbeat sped up. I clutched Carissa’s arm. “How will Eugene react? He’ll hate me too.”

  Carissa gave me a wan smile. “You just take it one step at a time. Stop thinking about what might go wrong. Come on, where’s that positive Rosalyn I know?” She touched my cheek. “Let’s see that smile.”

  I met her gaze, a small smile playing upon my lips. “You’re right. I’ve got to keep a good attitude.”

  Carissa sat up straight. “Let’s do it.” She reached for my laptop and opened it. I smiled every time I saw the screensaver, a photo of Eugene and me, our smiling faces beaming at the camera.

  As Carissa opened the browser, sweat broke out on my brow. I reached for my bong. “Maybe we need a little sacred herb.”

  Carissa smiled. “If you smoke that stuff every time you spy on Jax, you’re going to need to supercharge your medical marijuana license.”

  I lit the bong and passed it to Carissa.

  I had kept track of Jax through Facebook, but I had to put him on my blocked list so that he wouldn’t somehow accidentally find me. I watched all the YouTube videos of him surfing and the various interviews of his participation in the Big Wave World Tour. I was so proud of the man he had become.

  The marijuana oozed into my bloodstream and mixed with the poppy seed tea. The feeling was one of such euphoria that I felt renewed hopefulness. “Move over,” I said. I scooted my chair close to Carissa, my fingers on the keyboard. Without meaning to, as though they had a life of their own, my fingers typed “Tyler Priest.”

  Carissa looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh honey, don’t do this to yourself again.”

  Not
only had I become obsessed with tracking Jax, I had kept track of Tyler as well. But I never contacted him for fear of him telling Jax where I was. I was especially ashamed to think of the fact that I hadn’t reached out to Tyler at some point because now it was too late. When I discovered a little over a year ago, along with the rest of the world, that he was murdered, I sank into a deep depression for months. The first week after it happened, the shock was so acute, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I told Eugene that I had a bad case of the flu, and he brought me tissues, wiped my runny nose and opened cans of chicken soup for me. I really did almost call Jax when Tyler was killed. But by then, I had already gotten my diagnosis, and there was no way I was going to put Jax through even more pain.

  I was overjoyed with what Tyler had accomplished. His band had climbed the iTunes charts and was quickly becoming number one in the rock category. They had a sound that was a cross between Nirvana and Pearl Jam and had been busy touring all over the world.

  Tyler.

  I was reminded of Tyler every day because my son looked so much like him. I’d given birth to Eugene in our living room. After twelve hours of labor with the ceremonial candles burning and the sacred myrrh incense, I gave my final push, and the midwife placed Eugene onto my tummy. He looked up at me with those questioning eyes, and the first thing I’d thought of was Tyler. Even from that first minute, there was no mistaking the similarity in the face and the eyes.

  I bit my lip. “You’re right.” I deleted the name, and typed “Jax Priest.” Carissa and I leaned into the computer. “Here it is.” I clicked on the link that listed a recent interview by Surfer magazine in which Jax discussed his place of employment: The Mysto Spot Surf Shop. There was a photo of Jax and the owner of the store, standing arm in arm in front of the shop. With trembling fingers, I found the store’s website and stared at the phone number.