The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

“At noon.”

  He glanced down at her. “All right, then. Are you hungry? Because I can feed you, but we’re in no way leaving this bedroom.” He got up on his elbow and tilted his alarm clock. “I have two hours to see how many times I can make you feel desired.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, a little breathlessly.

  He gently pushed her shoulder toward the bed. “Then turn over.” He adjusted her naked body, facedown on the sheets, and pulled the blankets away so he could see her more fully in the daylight. Then he pushed her hair up off the back of her neck and started the slow process all over again.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  At eleven thirty, Giselle leaned against the marble bathroom countertop and ran Fin’s brush through her hair. She scanned his bathroom counter, peeked into his medicine cabinet. Everything about him suddenly fascinated her—what deodorant he wore, what type of brush he used, what his soap smelled like. She stopped short at inspecting the hamper, but only after she’d begun to open it. Her hand drifted to her side as she tried to get ahold of herself. This might be a slippery slope into groupie-ism.

  She could hear him in the front room, moving around in the kitchen, getting ready for his day. She didn’t have any experience with “morning-afters” and didn’t know how to navigate them. Should she walk out and wrap her arms around his waist with a little kiss on the cheek? Or was she supposed to walk out and act casual, no strings attached, since that was their agreement? She tried to figure out what Veronica would do in this scenario. She might have to get a bracelet: What Would Veronica Do? Although WWVD had the sound of a venereal disease.

  As she continued brushing her hair, something on the windowsill caught her eye.

  She sucked in some air.

  Next to a tan-colored soapstone was Coco’s broken abalone shell.

  She’d thought he was fibbing when he’d told Coco he kept it. But there it was—right where he’d said. Of course, he wasn’t keeping it in his pocket, as Coco had suggested. Men like Fin didn’t need help being princes—men like him probably weren’t in the least bit interested. But she ran her fingers across the iridescent blue and lavender of the shell, feeling its broken smoothness under her skin. She wasn’t sure whether it was the sudden realization of Fin’s honesty, or the sweetness that he’d kept a little girl’s gift, or the idea that he saw this broken thing as something beautiful and worth keeping, but a balloon of warm air settled in her chest, and she went back to slowly brushing her hair.

  She was in trouble. She was feeling much too much.

  • • •

  Giselle settled into Fin’s bucket seats as he drove her home. The masculine scent of sandalwood soap and toothpaste mingled with the leather interior.

  Fin had hardly said a word since they’d left. Maybe he’d already moved on. She reminded herself again of his multiple warnings: no thoughts of long-term. He’d wanted her to feel desired. And she had. End of story.

  Giselle forced herself to stop stealing furtive glances at his profile and instead watched the bougainvillea and palm trees speed past her window. This might be the last time she’d see him. He’d drop her off; she’d say good-bye. He’d wave as he pulled out of the lot. She’d keep his photos, of course, and scan them and send them back, as she’d promised. She shuffled the edges together carefully in her lap.

  In the future, he might ask Lia about her. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d never wonder about her again. Maybe this was how things went once you slept with Fin Hensen.

  “Do you have a busy day today?” She forced a conversation just to avoid the silence that was starting to feel awkward. WWVD?

  “I have to train,” he said, glancing in her direction. “Run a little. Pack for a couple of weeks.”

  She nodded and forced herself to turn toward the window again. Fin had given her what she’d thought she’d wanted—being desired—but he was right: It wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wanted to matter. She wanted to be his favorite. She wanted to be remembered. . . .

  “Are you trying to figure out how this works?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He was smirking. “You’re wondering how to talk to this guy who had you bent over the side of his bed last night, and his hand running up the inside of your leg—”

  “Fin, stop.” Giselle rearranged the photos in her lap.

  Fin’s low chuckle drifted through the car.

  She pretended she was studying the soul-arch photo. “So . . . okay. Yes. I’m wondering. Are there rules?”

  Another smile slid her way. “Sometimes.”

  She bounced sideways in the seat to face him. “Tell me.” She was actually curious.

  The greenery off the side of the freeway sped past his profile as Giselle studied him. She was always going to remember Fin in profile, with bougainvillea behind him.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “What am I supposed to say during a ‘morning-after’?”

  “You sound like you’re taking notes. You’re not going to make this into a habit in Indiana, are you?”

  “Maybe,” she joked.

  He stared out the window, but the amusement slid off his face.

  “So do I say, ‘I’ll call you later,’ or do I wait for you not to say that, or what?”

  His cheeks grew ruddy. “I usually just grunt in my caveman language. She figures things out.”

  “I don’t suppose we become Facebook friends?” She smiled sweetly.

  He cut her a sidelong glance that bordered on a glare.

  “Do we—”

  “All right, all right, let’s change the subject. What are you doing this evening after you pick up Coco?”

  Giselle raised her eyebrows. She didn’t see that one coming. “I . . . uh . . . don’t know. I’m not sure if Roy is going to be there, or if we’re going to talk, or how late that might go.”

  “Will you be okay? With him?”

  “Of course.”

  Fin didn’t seem appeased. “Why don’t you and Coco swing by afterward? If you haven’t had dinner, we can do that. And if you have, we could . . . get ice cream . . . or something.”

  “Is this typical of morning-afters?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Is this a date, Fin Hensen?”

  “Does it involve sex, Giselle?” She’d been kidding, but his voice had taken on an edge. He actually looked angry. Maybe she’d taken the questioning a little too far.

  “No,” she admitted. “Not when I have Coco.”

  Another two blocks of palm trees went by. Giselle watched a cluster of kids getting off a city bus with towels over their shoulders. Fin’s breathing slowed.

  After the next stop sign, his palm reached across the console and squeezed her thigh. “Sorry,” he said. “I know that. I just . . . I don’t know why I’m inviting you, honestly. I want to make sure everything goes okay with your ex. And I . . . just want to see you again, I guess. It’s not typical.”

  Giselle allowed herself three seconds of joy from the tiny flutter of hope that rose in her chest.

  But then his hands were back on the steering wheel; his attention was back to dropping her off; and she tamped the flutter down and focused on reality.

  That was what Veronica would probably do.

  • • •

  Giselle approached the well-manicured flagstone walkway of Joe and Lovey’s house. She couldn’t wait to see Coco again. She could feel the tiny weight her little girl would throw into her arms—her silky hair against Giselle’s shoulder, the smell of waffles coming off her like a cloud.

  “Darling,” said Lovey, opening the door before Giselle had even knocked. Lovey gave her a weak smile, one that hinted at too many days of excessive emotion.

  Giselle glanced over Lovey’s shoulder, then around her hips. Coco wasn’t running to meet her.
“Good morning,” she said hesitantly.

  “Oh, you remembered,” Lovey said, taking the pink baker’s box from Giselle’s hand. She peered inside at the glazed old-fashioneds. “You’re so thoughtful, dear. Come in.”

  Giselle closed the massive door behind her and followed Lovey’s clicking kitten-heeled slippers through the entryway.

  “Coco went out with Roy,” Lovey called over her shoulder. “They’ll be back in a bit.”

  Giselle tiptoed past the doorway where Fin’s nose had bled and stepped around the corner into the empty massiveness of the house. The marble emptiness had the feeling of a tomb. Giselle wondered whether Lovey would stay here, all alone, now that Joe was gone. She knew she wouldn’t.

  “Where did they go?” she asked. She didn’t know why it should bother her so much. She welcomed any moment Roy could act like a father—she knew it meant a lot to Coco, and she had always wished Roy would be more like her father had been: playful, fun, full of surprises, full of love and life.

  “They went to the park,” Lovey said from the kitchen. “Coco wanted to show him how she can cross the monkey bars. Coffee?”

  “Sure.” She’d welcome having something to do with her hands. She put her purse down and pressed her palms into the cool granite countertop so they would stop shaking.

  “So your friend Fin? How did you meet him?” Lovey whirled into the center of the kitchen with the coffeepot.

  Giselle felt a sudden catch in her throat at the unpredictable mention of Fin’s name. Or maybe the idea that Lovey called him her friend.

  She took a deep breath. She wondered how horrified Lovey would be if she knew that Giselle, scrapbook mom extraordinaire, had just had a one-night stand of acrobatic, meaningless sex with a man she barely knew, simply because that man had agreed to, and he’d had the most amazing blue eyes, and a body to die for, and made her heart pound when he stood too close.

  “I . . . um . . . met him through Lia,” Giselle said, staring at the countertop.

  Lovey arranged the doughnuts on a china plate.

  “We’re just . . . friends.”

  Giselle felt the need to add the last part, despite the fact she knew Lovey wouldn’t judge. Lovey had always seemed embarrassed by what her son had done and seemed sensible enough to know that any blame that might get slung around would have to begin with him.

  “Fin Hensen’s pretty famous around here.” Lovey reached for two gold-rimmed mugs. “Shame what happened to that girl.”

  Giselle cast her eyes down again at the granite. Yes, very much. And yes, Fin was right. This was going to end up being what he’d be known for—not his beautiful shape, not his skill in the ocean, not his soul arch. But this—this terrible, ugly thing.

  “I’m sure he had nothing to do with it,” Lovey added. “He seems like a nice young man. But it’s still such a shame. She was a beautiful girl. She came here for dinner once.”

  Giselle’s head shot up. Lovey rummaged for creamer in the fridge. Came here for dinner? Her mind stalled, trying to put it in the right context, trying to connect it to the right people.

  “Why did she come here for dinner?”

  “Joe knew her,” said Lovey, shrugging. “He was friends with her father, and Jennifer and a few of the other surfers used to do some safety benefits with the children’s hospital down the street. She came here a few times. Roy met her.”

  Giselle raised her eyebrows. No wonder Roy was so upset about the whole thing, or Fin’s possible involvement. It softened her a little toward Roy—maybe he had been sincerely worried—but it also bothered her that this went on without her: dinners with surfers, here in California, and the fact that he never told her about this tragic death of a family friend. What kind of a charade had she been living all these years?

  “What was she like?” Giselle asked.

  Lovey tilted her head. “Beautiful. Dark. Hawaiian influence in her family—dark skin, long black hair. She spoke with her hands a lot. She had a charming laugh. . . .”

  The women both stood there in silence for a moment, sipping their coffee, paying homage to a beautiful girl whose life was cut short. Giselle remembered the online images she saw of Jennifer on her surfboard, with her Hawaiian good looks and silky hair. Giselle let her mind drift to the fact that Fin had known her, and taught her to surf, and traveled with her. She wondered whether he’d called her “wahine.” She wondered whether he’d slept with her. . . .

  Of course, he’d said they were just friends and didn’t have a relationship, but he could say that about Giselle, too. The thought of him sleeping with Jennifer just for fun twisted a knot in her stomach, taking her by surprise. First she felt guilty for begrudging a dead girl any joy, and then she felt guilty for feeling a twinge of jealousy about a man who never claimed to be hers in any way. Guilt was followed in short order by sadness, though. Giselle must have been crazy to have thought being with Fin for one night would make her feel better. It just intensified her feelings—made her realize what she’d been missing all these years—and made her feel about a hundred times worse that she’d continue to miss it, possibly for the rest of her life.

  “How are you doing, Lovey?” she asked, forcing herself to stop thinking about Fin. With the idea of loss still hovering in the air, Giselle thought it would be a good time to find out how Lovey was holding up.

  “I’m okay. It helped to have Coco here. It gave me other things to focus on, and reminded me how life goes on. I’m so glad you let her stay.”

  The women leaned into the kitchen counter and sipped their steaming coffee and shared the little they had left in common.

  • • •

  Fin wandered along the patio beneath the extinguished tiki torches, coffee mug in hand, and inspected the surf. He was surprised he’d missed his morning session. Especially right before a contest. According to the tide charts, the surf was supposed to have been great at seven this morning, but he could catch some good lefts later today at Trestles, if he could make it down there in time.

  But his mind was wandering.

  Which bothered him to no end.

  It was wandering to Giselle’s lower back, and how she had those two sexy dimples there that became more pronounced when she lay on her stomach on his sheets. He thought about her crazy golden-strawberry-reddish-blondish hair, and how it felt sliding through his fingertips this morning as they lay against his starched pillows and stared up at the ceiling fan. He thought about her languid smile when she woke up, and how she ran the back of her hand across her eyelids like a child and laughed. He thought about what a relief it had been in his chest when he’d told her about Jennifer, how he’d felt an enormous weight lifted when she’d told him she didn’t see it as his fault. He thought about how she’d defended him to Fox, called him a “hero.” He thought about that strange stab of jealousy when she’d joked that she might continue having casual sex in Indiana. . . . At least, he hoped she’d been joking.

  And did he just ask her and Coco over tonight?

  He groaned and rubbed his face. He didn’t know why he’d done that.

  Of course, it beat the alternative. It beat leaving her standing on the curb in front of her apartment. It beat feeling like a cad, who’d played the singular role of unlocking a gate for a sweet woman to start living a life of meaningless sex. It beat knowing Lia was never going to speak to him again.

  But he knew that was not why he’d invited her.

  He just wanted to see her.

  And yet no sex would be involved, since she’d have her little girl. . . .

  He took another sip from his mug and wondered what was happening here. He tried to think of another situation—another woman—he could compare this to, but came up with no one. He liked Lia and Jennifer the same way—always respected them and cared about them. But they never turned him on every moment he was in their presence. And Veronica and Catalina were just
the opposite—he was attracted to them, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, which was a turn-on—but he didn’t worry about them or concern himself with what they did when they weren’t with him.

  But Giselle . . . she was a mixture of both. He liked her and respected her and was turned on by her. She was really everything he loved about every woman he’d ever known. . . .

  He took another sip. It was a good thing he was leaving in two days. If he stayed, he might find himself actually chasing her. But he’d be chasing a woman he couldn’t have: She had a sophisticated life in Indiana that she wasn’t interested in leaving, and was much too smart for a guy with barely a GED. And he, of course, had a career that took him around the world.

  A career he was going to lose, in fact, if he didn’t get his mind in the right fucking place . . .

  Concentrate, man.

  The swells weren’t great. They looked a little mushy out there. But there were a few good lefts. Trestles was a long drive. And he had to pick out the boards he’d be bringing. Definitely the new Channel Islands Red Beauty . . .

  His mind drifted to what Coco might like for dinner. Maybe he could borrow his neighbor’s fire pit and let Coco roast marshmallows after dinner. Kids still liked s’mores, didn’t they?

  He rubbed his forehead and forced his thoughts back: The Red Beauty would fit in the same bag as his shortboard, if he detached the fins. Maybe he could bring five boards. . . .

  He took another sip of coffee and counted his patio chairs. Coco could hang out on the patio with him and Giselle. He suddenly realized the situation he’d just put himself in: He was going to have Giselle in front of him all evening; he was going to be lusting after her; and she was going to be 100 percent off-limits. . . . This was going to be a rough night.

  Maybe, in the back of his mind, he’d invited her over thinking he could get one more night of awesome sex—Coco had to fall asleep sometime, after all.

  But that would be slimy. He needed to behave.

  He would simply enjoy Giselle’s company. He liked laughing with her. He liked talking to her. He liked seeing her with Coco. He liked how she smelled, how she smiled, and how she left him feeling whole, and absolved, and smart, and . . . like he mattered, somehow. He wanted Coco to like him. For whatever reason. And, despite all he’d told Giselle about himself—which was embarrassingly a lot—she hadn’t left. Or died. Or abandoned him.