by Shandi Boyes
Colby groans, mumbles something I can’t understand since we’re immersed in salty water, then commences our swim to the surface. Mercifully, the two broken ankles he suffered while landing him and Mr. Celest doesn’t impede his swimming capabilities. Our heads bob out of the water just before my lungs start screaming about a lack of oxygen.
“You owe me a new pair of nuts.”
I wait for him to release me from his front, spin around, then splash him with a heap of water. “Since they’re already smashed, I may as well take advantage.”
He looks at me confused. It’s settled when I use his crotch as a springboard so I can commence my swim to shore. Well, I hope I’m heading in the right direction. I don’t wear glasses to hide my appeal as Colby seems to think. I damn-well need them to see.
Several strokes later, and a near coronary from something brushing past my leg, Colby floats up to my side. “Jump on.” He nudges his head to his back that somehow lost its harness and jumpsuit between our landing spot and me.
“No. I’m fine.”
Picture a set of dentures floating in the bathtub after your grandma spat them out laughing. That’s the halfhearted splash my arm does when I endeavor to swim away from him. It’s weighed down with exhaustion. Who knew such a rush of endorphins was so energy-draining?
“Prim—”
I shoot Colby a wry look that not even the midday sun glaring off the ocean can hide.
“Ja-mie.” He says my name as if he hates it as much as me. “Get on. I’m responsible for your midday swim, so I should make sure you get back to the shore safely.”
“Are you sure my safety should be your utmost priority? Because once we get back on solid ground, I’m going to crash every fantasy you’ve ever had—”
“Like you already are?”
I tread water, both shocked and upset. He didn’t ask his question like he was seeking an explanation. He said it like it’s factual—like not jumping will literally kill him.
Before I can demand a better explanation, he jerks his chin to his back. “Get on. I’m not asking. I’m telling.”
I’ve heard you appear weightless in water, but it’s proven in the most ridiculous way when he seizes my wrist, drags me toward him fast enough I create a wave, then tosses me onto his back. I cling to him as he swims us to shore, thrilling body surfing and all.
When we reach the water’s edge, I wiggle, requesting to be put down. He ignores me, his trek through the white sandy beach proving his ankles are more than capable of withstanding impact during parachuting. I already know this as the many medical reports I’ve read the past four months reiterated that, but there are too many risks associated with The Drop Zone’s insurance renewal that aren’t sitting right with me. If there is any chance Colby will make Metrics Insurance liable in the future, I have to squash it before it occurs.
Throwing me off a cliff without a signed insurance indemnity waiver is not a good start.
Chapter 5
Colby
“Are you sure you want to catch a cab home?”
I pace away from Tyrone and Jamie, certain I’m not up for more glaring. I get it. I fucked up, so Tyrone doesn’t need to keep glaring at me like he is. Not going to lie. I’d do it again tomorrow if given the opportunity. Yeah, Jamie is freaked. Her eyes are wide, her lips are trembling, but the width of her pupils reveals a glint I’m not even sure she’s seen in her eyes before. She’s got that sheet-clenched, toe-curling, just-screamed-my-lungs-out gleam all women wear when leaving my presence. She just didn’t get it from wrestling with me beneath the sheets.
Pity. She might have gone a little easier on me if that were the case.
All the flirty sweetness her face was harboring when Ice T told us about his bitches is gone, replaced with a lady I’d usually play hooky with. It’s probably because she’s lost her snooty attitude right along with her shimmy shirt. Her messy locks are even messier since they’re sitting on top of her head in one of those buns college students make sexy. Her cami—that’s still drenched from our escapades—is peeking out of the jumpsuit Tyrone promised would remain on solid ground at all times, and her wiped-clean-by-a-saltwater-blast face can’t hide the tiny freckles that adorn her nose. With the dorky businesswoman look cleared away, she’s got a cute, funky vibe going on.
As Tyrone escorts Jamie to the foyer, she peers up at him with her big aqua-blue eyes in full force—the same eyes that stared at me in awe only an hour ago. “I’m fine. Really. Once I’m in a fresh set of clothes and washed the ocean out of my hair, I’ll be good to go.”
Great. Now I have images of her in the shower playing through my head. Like I need to add more fuck-ups to my catalog today. I already told Jamie her legs are sexy, her eyes are pretty, and I pretty much insinuated I dumped us into the ocean because she was ‘wet’ for me.
I guess it could be worse. She could have come out of the ocean swinging like she warned before I threw her on my back. I fully expected her to, so you can imagine my surprise when she placed herself between Tyrone and me when his arrival at the beach came with a threat to beat me until our skin tones matched.
Can you blame a man? Not Tyrone’s response. Mine. Everything I said was true. Metrics Insurance isn’t riding my ass because I pulled a stunt like I just did. They want me out of the game. Sidelined. Fucking benched. I live for this life. I aced business school, sucked up the board members asses at Attwood Electric to lease the land The Drop Zone is situated on, and ate my greens like a real fucking saint to get my business off the ground. And now, I’m set to lose everything because a man’s ticker couldn’t stand a rush of adrenaline.
If Fabian went into cardiac arrest at a strip club in Vegas, nothing would have been said. But because it happened doing a sport—yeah, you heard me right, what I do is a sport—he not only has the right to sue me for millions of dollars, he could also stop me jumping altogether.
When the insurance company came at me with the news I was being sued, I was shocked. Fabian’s accident occurred two years ago. He’s all but recovered now, and he’s one hundred pounds lighter, so to say I was shocked would be an understatement. A major one. I tried to reach out to him at the start of the proceedings, but my attempts were forever shut down by his lawyers—yep, you heard me right this time around too. Lawyers, with an ‘S.’ He has over a dozen of them, and they don’t want my money, they want me.
I followed the rules. I borrowed a button-up shirt and tie from my brother, rocked up to court a good ten minutes before the proceedings started, then offered a chunk of cash that would have me living without an allowance until I was dead for half a century.
What did I get for it?
Nothing.
Sweet fuck all.
Zilch.
Fabian didn’t even show up. That’s when I began ignoring my lawyers, insurance consultants, and business partner’s advice. I went back doing what I did best—feeding the adrenaline junkies of America. It was a good four months until the email of one Ms. Jamie Burgess landed in my inbox. Now it’s specialist appointments, business proposals, and phone consultations where I’d rather stab a pen in my ear than be marked off the attendance roll.
Do you know not even a billionaire can operate a company in this great country of ours without insurance? No, me neither. I found that out the hard way.
Before you get excited. I’m not the billionaire. My brother is. It’s technically the Attwood Electric fortune, but with his name at the top of the list, he gets the right to be called a billionaire. I’d feel sorry for him if it wouldn’t risk the burden being placed on my shoulders. Cormack is good at what he does. He keeps America’s love of energy on the go, so they can blare his little side business’ records out of their speakers. Cormack owns Destiny Records. His love of music has always been as diverse as my love of adventurous sports. He wouldn’t be half the man he is if he didn’t pursue his dreams—just like I won’t be if Jamie pulls the rug out from beneath mine.
If only she didn’t have th
at big sparkly ring on her finger because then my fate would be sealed with a big shiny bow.
Talking about fate, I better dodge this one. With my adventurous morning taking up a portion of Tyrone’s time he doesn’t have, I am sure he’s failed to exterminate the rodent left in my loft. Stage-Five Clinger is making her way down the stairs with her eyes locked on me. They leave no doubt of my horrid miscalculation yesterday afternoon, but even if they did, the three buttons she left undone on the shirt I mentioned borrowing from my brother earlier all but confirms it.
It’s three buttons, you say.
So why are you so freaked out, you say.
Because three buttons on a male shirt are the equivalent of having no buttons done up on a female shirt. This couldn’t get any worse if I tried.
“You shouldn’t take a cab home in your condition. Let me drive you.”
Jamie’s groan sounds like an orgasm leaving her lips. It has me picturing things I shouldn’t be picturing, things I shouldn’t be thinking about much less imagining in cock-thickening detail. I know what you’re thinking too. What changed between me throwing her off a cliff—not quite that, but you get the idea—and now? Heaps.
For one, do you have any idea how much buzz you get from base jumping? It’s as addictive as skydiving, but the edge of danger it creates makes it more thrilling. Add that to the fact Jamie followed my every demand without so much of a whim. She crossed her arms, straightened her legs, and plugged her nose like she’s been under my command for years.
That’s thrilling.
It has me thinking recklessly.
And has me hearing her sexy-ass groans as moans.
Jamie shoots me a look as if she’d rather jump off a cliff again than accept my offer of a ride. With Olivia’s target locked and loaded, her thoughts are appetizing, but I don’t have time to rig us up. We need to leave, and we need to leave now.
“Come on, this way. My car is out back.”
I replace Tyrone’s arm that’s clutching Jamie’s shoulder a little more dotingly than a helpful employee would with my own before making a beeline to the back entrance of The Drop Zone, missing Olivia’s entrance in the foyer by a mere nanosecond.
“The cab is already on its way. I can’t cancel it.”
“Sure, you can.” I walk quicker, kicking up dust with my boots. “You came, you saw, you conquered. Sidestepping a cabbie is the next step. With how quick you’re learning you’ll be skipping restaurant bills before you know it.”
She gasps like there’s no possibility of that ever happening, but the dip of her body into my low-riding car steals her reply. Jamie’s mouth falls into a shocked ‘O’ when I slip into the driver’s seat before jabbing the start button. My ride is fast, sleek, and sexy. If you minus the fast part of my comment, it represents its owner to a T. No girl wants to play Sheet Twister with a guy who blows his load quicker than it takes to unfold the board. If he fucks you faster than he undresses you, it’s time to get yourself a new man.
As we skid out of the backlot of The Drop Zone, Jamie slides her phone out of her leather satchel. She swipes the screen before her finger taps on gleaming glass. She doesn’t have those manicured nails that make a tap tap tap noise. They’re clean and clipped without the slightest bit of polish. I already knew she wasn’t a girly girl, but now it’s cemented in concrete.
“There. Done. Canceled.” Jamie spins her uncracked phone around to show me she canceled her cab before the driver left the depot. She appears pleased with herself. “Now we’ve avoided one disaster, how about we face another?”
I roll my eyes at her question before increasing my speed. Yeah, it’s immature, but did you expect any less?
“Ignoring this won’t make it go away, Colby.”
My eyes stray from the road to her. “I know that.” When she gives me a look as if I told her I’m shy, I add, “I do. I just…” fucking hate that I’m paying more attention to your lavender scent than the fact you’re trying to castrate me, “… don’t like talking about myself.”
“Colby McGregor, entrepreneur, youngest member on Forbes’ watch list, and all-round playboy with seven hundred thousand Instagram followers doesn’t like talking about himself? What’s the world coming to?”
I flash her a wink, loving that she did her research on me. “That’s all an act. The real me is a dorky Sci-Fi freak who’d rather watch Star Wars than interact with members of the public.”
“Ha! You, shy? Please. Don’t think I don’t know what that was all about.” She wiggles her finger in a rolling motion like my sprint from Olivia was done with a firing gun, white lines marked on rolled turf, and my competitors wearing spandex no man should ever wear. “If you’re shy, I’m Mother Theresa.”
I arch a brow, mocking her for stroking her brush on an already-finished masterpiece.
“You think I’m Mother Theresa?” Her voice could only be higher if she had balls, and someone was crushing them. “Why? How?”
“Where are we heading?”
She peers at me in shock, stunned by my swift sidestep of her interrogation. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just trying to work out if I should give her a short answer or a long one.
When I say that to her, she rolls her eyes, having me wondering if she is as old as I first thought. I was putting her in the mid-to-late-thirties bracket—she doesn’t look that old, she just acts it.
“Considering I’d most likely get fired turning up to work like this, I guess I should get changed.”
There she goes again, reminding me she’s about to get naked.
She chews on the corner of her lip in a cute One-Button Barbie way while inputting an address into the map app on my console. After she has her details entered, it tells me we have twenty minutes to fill with conversation. Great.
“Question for question is the only way I operate. And I get to go first because it’s rare for me to come first.”
Jamie makes a face like she vomited a little. “Those lines don’t really work, do they?”
“What did I just say? Let a man be first for a change. Jesus, woman! It won’t kill you.”
As she struggles not to laugh, her lips tug into a grin. “Fine. You go first.”
She thinks by caving to my demand, I’ll keep things professional. She’s dead fucking wrong. “Does your fiancé love you?”
I swear I hear her neck pop when her head jack-knifes to me so quick, she gives herself whiplash. She blubbers out a string of unintelligible words before anger clears her sentences of gibberish. “Yes, of course, he does. Why would you ask something so ludicrous?”
“Big ugly overstated ring.” I nudge my head to the monstrosity on her ring finger. It’s at least six carats but has a handful of imperfections that shows he didn’t pay any attention when picking it. He just went for the flashier one, signs he is as disinterested in his wife-to-be as he was choosing her ring.
Jamie covers her ring with her opposite hand, protecting it from the bitterness of my words. “It was his grandmother’s!”
Her lie doesn’t eat me away, but it does her.
“He said it was his grandmother’s.” Her tone is less harsh this time around, de-volumized. “I found a receipt last month. It wasn’t for a resize. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me, though. He just wanted to ensure the ring was big enough for guys to get the hint.” She wiggles her hand in the air, sending rainbow hues bouncing around the cabin of my car. “Did it work?”
Yes, yes, it fucking did, is what I want to say. Instead, I go with, “But you would have preferred something more understated, prim, and feminine.” Something more like you.
I begin to wonder if she heard my thoughts when she asks, “Why? Because I’m understated, prim, and feminine?” She doesn’t express her words as I did, instead she says them in a tone that’s as low as her shoulders have now sagged.
“You’re feminine. There’s no denying that. Right?” That brings back some of the smirk my interrogation lost. “We already know you’re prim
, Prim, so we can cross that one off.”
Jamie folds her arms in front of her chest with a huff. “So that only leaves understated. The most mundane, minimalist way to explain someone who bores you to death.”
“Or…” I leave her hanging a little, not willing to show my hand too quickly. “Someone who doesn’t require bling to show their true self. They stand out even without the glitter. They don’t have to be the life of the party. They simply want to enjoy the party.”
My reply cuts her deeper than she’ll ever admit. She even gets a little misty-eyed, exposing I’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s why I asked the question. I don’t even know her, but I do know Jamie hates the ring she will be wearing for the rest of her life.
“Tell him you hate it.”
Her eyes snap to mine quicker than a rocket. “What? Nooo! That’s straight-up rude.”
“No, it isn’t. Asking someone to marry you with that ring is rude.”
Jamie laughs, assuring me she heard my comment as I had intended—obnoxiously playful.
“Brad can’t help it. He’s showy like you.”
Ouch! There’s a slap my ego never saw coming.
I try to play it cool. “So… Brad, hey? Sounds pretty douchey.” Okay, that wasn’t quite cool, but I’m not known for being smooth when it comes to discussing gents. I save that for the ladies.
“Yeah, Brad.” It sounds gross even in his fiancée’s tone. “What about you? Did you get the four-button clinger’s name before you fornicated with her? Or is that not the ‘in thing’ right now?”
She did just say fornicated, didn’t she?
Who the fuck says fornicated in this century?
Oh, that’s right, women who also use slogans like ‘in thing.’
“We didn’t fornicate… today. That was all handled last night… depending on what basis you consider fornication to take place?” Why am I rambling like a teenage idiot? I hand out orgasms like a two-dollar hooker hands out chlamydia. I am not a fumbling reject. “We fucked last night. This morning, she only sucked my dick. I didn’t come, but it was pretty close. Is that fornicating enough for you?”
