Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2)

by Kimberly Derting

  Except that didn’t make sense. Maybe my blue balls had cut off the oxygen to my brain. Because what would be the point of this revenge scenario of hers? Em had made her intentions more than clear from the get-go: she had plans that didn’t involve me. Arizona was a long way from the beaches of SoCal—too far for any real relationship, at least. What would she gain from wasting the rest of her summer by messing with my head?

  Especially when all she’d have to do is give me the word and I’d gladly pick up where we left off.

  All I knew was, that if I’d learned anything during my time with Emerson, she had a mind of her own. She knew how to keep me guessing.

  Besides, I’d seen the look on her face when Aster had busted in on the two of us. Maybe Em was too proud to say what she wanted. Too goddamned pigheaded for her own good.

  There was only one way to find out for sure.

  As if on cue, Emerson strode into the Laundromat just as I was transferring a load of whites from the washer to the dryer, and I wondered how in the hell she’d known I was here. I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect her of tagging me with one of those wild animal GPS trackers.

  For once though, she hadn’t caught me off guard. I’d had a hunch I would be seeing her.

  “Howdy there, neighbor.” I flashed her a toothy grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She glanced at me suspiciously, as if I were the one who’d been stalking her. “Yeah,” she said, eyeing our surroundings as she wrinkled her nose. “Fancy.”

  I turned away from her to adjust the settings on the machine. I inhaled through my nose and told myself not to be hypnotized by her bralessness. She was doing this on purpose. Her nipples stood at attention beneath her sundress, which was too damned short for the Laundromat, giving everyone a glimpse of those incredible long legs of hers.

  It took me a minute, and a lot of thinking about baseball . . . and then my grandmother . . . and then baseball again, before I was sure I finally had a grip on myself. When I pressed start on the dryer, I turned back to face her again, leaning casually against it as my clothes tumbled inside. “Been awhile since we’ve had a chance to catch up. How are things?”

  She gave me a dubious look. “You okay? You’re acting . . .” She began sorting her clothes into two different washing machines. “Weird. Super weird.”

  “Can’t a friend ask another friend how she’s doing?”

  Had I only imagined it, or did her posture slump a little when I mentioned the whole friend thing?

  “Sure. I suppose so.” She lifted a shoulder and went back to what she was doing. “Fine, I guess. Bored now that Lauren’s gone. Between the community center and Will, I hardly see her anymore.”

  Shit. So there it was. I had a pretty impressive ego if I’d really believed this had all been about me. The truth was, her best friend had convinced her to move to California and then all but abandoned her. Em had more than enough reason to be moping around.

  Still, that didn’t mean I was entirely wrong about her fucking with my head. I wasn’t quite ready to let her off the hook just because I felt bad for her, even if I felt like kind of a dick for coming up with this idea in the first place.

  If the roles were reversed, I doubted Em would go easy on me. “So, I was wondering . . . ,” I started.

  She perked up then, which made it almost impossible to look at her because her tits lifted and her nipples stood at attention. Awesome, but not awesome.

  Don’t do it, the rational side of my brain warned. There were so many reasons this could blow up in my face. I should just leave things where they were, in the Friend Zone.

  But I had to know if I was right—if Em really was as miserable as me.

  And, so what if she was? She was still leaving at the end of the summer. And I still had other . . . what? Other obligations?

  I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.

  “I have this project I’ve been working on, and since it sounds like you have some free time, I was thinking maybe you’d want to . . .” My eyebrows shot skyward. “Maybe you could help out?”

  Em crossed her arms, glaring at me. “This project wouldn’t involve a dozen Trojans and a can of whipped cream, would it?”

  “What? Shit . . . no,” I stammered, and then I caught myself. “But I like the way you think. Maybe your project is better than mine.”

  She uncrossed her arms and stood upright. “Tell me about it. This ‘project’ of yours.”

  “It’s a gala.”

  She snorted. “A gala. As in . . . a ball?”

  “As in a fundraiser, to be specific.”

  Her pointed gaze took in my shorts and flip-flops. “You don’t exactly strike me as gala material.”

  Laughing, I admitted, “I won’t take that as an insult.” Then I wiggled my eyebrows again. “But I guess that means you don’t know everything about me.”

  Her mood darkened. “Yeah. Aston clued me in on that.”

  This was not the time to correct her about Aster’s name. Not after my attempt to convince her I was more than just a pretty face had misfired.

  “That’s not what I meant.” I needed to steer the conversation away from Aster completely. “About the gala . . . it’s kind of a big deal to me. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like this, so I’m in a little over my head. I don’t suppose you know anything about fundraising.”

  I waited for her to tell me I was a giant prick and to shove my fundraiser up my ass.

  But as always, Emerson surprised me. Her face broke into an enigmatic smile as she dropped her quarters into both machines and set the cycles into motion. “There might just be a thing or two that you don’t know about me too.”

  EMERSON

  By the time Lucas had folded the last of his tighty-whities and taken off, I’d congratulated myself on two major victories.

  First, he’d barely made actual eye contact during the entire time we’d been talking. If my goal had been to dazzle him with wordplay, I probably would have been insulted. But that hadn’t been the point at all.

  I’d meant to distract him.

  In his defense, maybe he suspected there was a microphone buried somewhere between my boobs and that was why he’d been so focused on speaking directly to them . . . instead of, you know, to my face. More likely though, I’d done a fantastic job putting my breasts on display and making it impossible for Lucas to concentrate. Any better, and he might have actually drooled.

  And second, I’d landed a spot on the planning committee for this fundraising gala he mentioned. What kind of gala was it? Who the heck knew? I also didn’t know what my duties involved or who else was on this committee of his. For all I knew, he’d made the whole thing up to spend more time with me.

  In fact, I hoped he’d made the whole thing up to spend more with me.

  All I knew for certain was that I’d volunteered to help. And real or not, it guaranteed keeping Lucas within arm’s reach and visual range.

  I couldn’t risk letting him forget what he was missing out on.

  As I unloaded my laundry, I settled into a nice little daydream that involved Lucas getting down on his knees and begging me to come back to his bed. I hoped that when it did happen, he wouldn’t be too hard on me for provoking him.

  Well, that was a lie. I hoped he’d make it extremely hard on me.

  My phone buzzed then—an incoming text from Lucas.

  Meeting tonight at 7. Hope you can make it.

  How convenient, there just happened to be a meeting tonight? How gullible did he think I was?

  I smirked at the message as I typed my response. If this was the approach he wanted to take, I could definitely play along.

  Wouldn’t miss it. Carpool?

  His response came almost immediately.

  Be ready at 6:15.

  I’d be ready, all right. I just hoped he was.

  Eventually I would run out of slutty outfit choices . . .

  Was a sentence I would probably never
say.

  The beachside rental Lauren had found us for the summer might be small, but I’d still somehow managed to cram my tiny closet to the gills with a rainbow of dresses, most of which were meant to attract the male species.

  I was like the female version of a colorful peacock. Or one of those poisonous tree frogs. My goal was to draw them in with the one-two punch of spangles and a whole lotta skin.

  My dazzling personality was only a bonus.

  By the time I stepped out from the cool AC of my little cottage and into the late afternoon sun, Lucas was already outside, waiting for me. He looked serious. And by serious, I meant he was dressed like Professor Business, in another of his impeccable suits. That was when I realized just how committed he was to this whole “planning committee” thing.

  “Rea—” He choked halfway through his word, his eyes going dark as the devil’s riding boots. “—dy?” he finished.

  His reaction almost had me questioning whether I’d miscalculated my wardrobe selection, and my fingers itched to tug at the hem of my midriff-baring sequined crop top. But then Lucas’s gaze fell to my navel and butterflies exploded inside of me.

  Nope. I’d calculated exactly right. Short top, ripped skinnies, and heeled boots—a little something I called Planning Committee Chic.

  “Ready if you are,” I told him cheerfully, forcing my way in front of him so he had no choice but to follow.

  Behind me, I heard him clear his throat.

  He’d just gotten a glimpse of the best part of my ensemble. The sparkly fabric of my top tied just behind my neck with satin strings, but then it parted again, leaving the entire length of my spine exposed.

  Between the warm air and Lucas’s blistering gaze, those butterflies dissolved into something warm and sticky deep inside me.

  Game.

  Set.

  Match.

  If I kept playing like this, Lucas would be warm and sticky, and deep inside me in no time, too.

  Driving in LA was perilous. The highways were packed and the drivers were road rage-y. But Lucas handled his car, and the congestion, like a seasoned pro, gliding in and out of the lanes and finding open spots I was convinced didn’t exist.

  His maneuvering made my stomach lurch more than once. “You drive like my brother,” I told him, when he slipped his car out of the way of some guy who didn’t look before merging lanes and almost hit us. The guy laid on his horn like it was Lucas’s fault. Lucas just ignored him and grinned at me. “It’s not a compliment,” I told him.

  He flashed me a crooked smile. “Sorry. I forget you’re from the suburbs. I’ll do my best to be a good chaperone and not get us shot.”

  My shoulders relaxed. “Much appreciated.”

  His gaze roamed over me, and I wondered if he was appreciating some things too. When his phone rang, we both glanced to where it lay, face up, in the center console.

  It was impossible not to miss who was calling. Aster’s giant face filled the screen.

  He reached for the phone and flipped it over, the grin fading from his lips.

  I raised my brows at him. “What if it’s important?”

  “It’s not,” he answered, a little too quickly.

  “You don’t know that. What if she was in a horrible accident and she’s bleeding out somewhere? What if she needs a blood transfusion or a kidney . . . and you’re her last hope?”

  He gave me a don’t be ridiculous look. “She wasn’t in an accident. And if she needs help, she should call 911.”

  “Want me to tell her that?” I went for the phone, but he slapped my hand away. “Fine,” I told him. “But if her ghost comes back to haunt you, I’ll probably say ‘I told you so.’”

  He rolled his eyes, but the hint of his grin was back. I liked that, knowing I could still make him smile. I wanted to know what else I could still make him do.

  “I don’t think I ever realized how annoying you are,” he said. “Maybe I was premature with this whole friends thing.”

  “Too late.” I settled back in the seat. “A deal’s a deal. No take backs. And you might’ve realized I was annoying if you hadn’t been so busy trying to get in my pants all the time. Also, I’m not annoying. I’m charming as fuck.”

  “Charming, hmm?” He gave me the once over, his dark eyes searing my skin. “We’ll see about that. And for the record, I never had to try to get in your pants, I was in them. All the time.”

  Damn. I hated the way he could make me squirm so easily, with the mere reminder of the things we’d done . . . the things we’d been doing, just days earlier.

  With those memories still fresh in my mind, I hardly noticed when he’d pulled off the freeway. When I did look up, the scenery had improved dramatically. The streets we were on now were nothing like the cluttered beachside town where we lived. We were driving up into the hills now. The roads grew wider, and the houses larger and set farther apart, with large, sprawling lawns. Even in the drought, the lawns here were all green and lush. Definitely well-watered.

  When he turned again, we pulled into a neighborhood where the styles ranged from contemporary and sleek to art deco to Colonial to Spanish. But all of them, each and every one were mansions. And all were jaw-droppingly stunning.

  “Where are we?” I asked, starting to worry I’d misjudged more than just my wardrobe as I took in the individual gated driveways and opulent cars and sweeping views of the valley below.

  “This is it. This is where we’re meeting.”

  No wonder Lucas was all gussied up.

  This time I did tug at the front of my top, trying my best to pull it down, which was useless since there wasn’t much to my top to begin with. It was more like wearing a handkerchief plastered with glitter.

  Crap.

  Then Lucas pulled his car down one of the long driveways with its gates already propped open. Awaiting our arrival, I presumed. The circular driveway had a fountain at its very center. And standing in front of the fountain, there she was . . .

  Fucking Aster. Without the slightest trace of injury and definitely not looking in need of a spare kidney.

  Too bad.

  “God,” I whispered to Lucas, even though it was just the two of us inside the car. “Please don’t tell me this is her place.”

  Lucas reached over and squeezed my hand. “It’s not her place,” he assured, and I had to remind myself to breathe, because the moment his skin fused with mine, I forgot we were pretending to be friends. His touch sent a shiver straight through me.

  He must’ve felt it too because he didn’t let go. He didn’t move either. We just sat there like that, his hand covering mine. Hot coals against hot coals.

  But this wasn’t the time or place to figure out what we were doing, not with Aster out there. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand to my lap and kept my eyes away from him. I didn’t want him to see the effect he had on me.

  “So why is she here?” But I already knew. Not just about the place, but the truth about the planning committee—it was real. This hadn’t been some made-up ploy to get me alone. “Aww, damn. She’s part of this, isn’t she? She’s on the committee.” And just saying the word “committee” was tough because it validated it.

  “She is.” He was suddenly way too civil, nothing like the Lucas who’d once bent me over and used tanning oil as lube. My Lucas was beach casual. He considered “shirtless” a dress code.

  This was some Stepford version of the guy I’d known. He jumped out of the car and ran around so he could open the passenger door for me.

  This Lucas was creeping me the hell out.

  “Lucas!” Aster’s voice gushed from behind him. “I’ve been trying to call you!”

  But as I climbed out of the car, her eyes landed on me and I recognized the instant she figured out why Lucas was opening the passenger side door—or rather who he was opening it for. Her mouth fell open. The only satisfaction I could take in the fact she hadn’t died in some horrific accident was that she had definitely gone ghost white at my presenc
e.

  When she didn’t say anything, for, like, forever, I thought maybe she’d had some sort of stroke, or one of those seizures that happens inside your own brain—the kind no one realizes was happening.

  Then she blinked. She snapped back to her old self, as if she’d never gone catatonic at all. She was Lucas’s matching Stepford Aster again . . . perfect and bland and . . . finking perfect.

  I hated her.

  I caught her giving Lucas a questioning look before I heard, “Oh look. It’s . . . you.” She stated her words with absolute flatness. “And you’re wearing . . .” That was all she said to me. She didn’t even finish her sentence. Her words just dangled in the air like deflated balloons.

  I took in her head-to-toe white linen and wondered if that was all she owned, crisp and immaculate linen.

  “Tom Ford,” I filled in the blank for her when my cheeks started to get hot under her mental examination.

  She blinked again, that dumb, stupid blink of hers. “Beg pardon?”

  “I’m wearing Tom Ford.” I dropped the designer’s name and then stepped around her, making my way up the stairs that led to the front door, which I assumed was where we were headed. “I thought we were playing Red Carpet and you were asking which designer I was wearing.”

  “Oh,” I heard her say from behind me, and a bubble of pride filled my chest that I’d maybe shut her up, even if it was only temporary.

  That’s right, I thought bitchily. Just because I don’t drip class the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t have taste . . . or my very own Platinum Card.

  By the time I reached the top of the marble steps, the enormous gold doors were being drawn open. An older woman appeared on the other side, her silver hair pulled back severely, framing an even tighter face. She didn’t say a word as she considered me coolly. But it wasn’t just me she assessed. Her gaze flitted past me, to assess Lucas and Aster who came up behind me.

  I could tell from one glance, she was the kind of person Grann would have called highfalutin—Grann’s polite way of saying the stick up this lady’s ass went as high, or higher, than the one Aster was impaled on.