by Emery Rose
“What’d you need?” I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder and lit a cigarette.
“Is that any way to greet your mama, sugar?” In the background, I heard slot machines and glasses clinking. My mother bartended at a casino in Vegas. All her tips went back into the slot machines and the roulette wheel. A losing game if there ever was one. Every time she called, I waited for her to tell me she’d lost everything or that I needed to bail her out of jail. With her, anything was possible.
I exhaled a plume of smoke and squinted at the view from my balcony. I swam in my Roman pool year-round and spent a small fortune to keep it heated to an optimal eighty-two degrees throughout the colder months. My lawn was manicured, the Moroccan tiles gleamed, and the glass fence around my property fucking sparkled, it was so clean and smudge-free. Not that I could see that from my vantage point, but I knew it, and that was good enough.
“I think Wayne’s gonna ask me to marry him. I really do. It’s different this time, baby. I think he really loves me. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Sure as hell would.
It was always different, but only in her mind. She was talking a mile a minute, and I let her talk, not really listening to her words but rather, the way she was so amped up. Too high. Overexcited. Tripping over her words, her brain firing on all cylinders. I’d seen her like this so many times, had seen her highs and her lows, and her rock bottom about a year ago when she’d taken too many pills and washed them down with whiskey. A cry for help that landed her in the hospital and ensured I’d drop everything to be at her side. Exactly where she wanted me.
I’d never told Remy. She and Shane were traveling at the time. Koh Samui, I think. It was about a month before their wedding in Bali. They were happy, finding their way back to each other, and they didn’t need to deal with my mother’s shit. I’d checked her into a treatment facility. Five days later, she checked herself out. Then I’d taken her to see specialists, and a psychiatrist had diagnosed her. For a while, she was good. Even-keeled. But that hadn’t lasted.
I interrupted whatever bullshit she was spewing. “You taking your meds?”
My head was pounding, those moments of peace watching Scarlett sleep derailed by my mother’s phone call. She had a knack for fucking up everything that was good, but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to ignore her phone calls anymore.
She sighed in exasperation. “I don’t need them. They just make me feel like I’m… like I’m underwater or something. Sucks the joy and the color right out of the world. How could that be a good thing? Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.”
My jaw clenched, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. This woman would be the death of me. “You need those fucking meds—”
“Oh, stop your worrying. I’m feeling great. Me and Wayne are going dancing. I wanna drive through the desert and dance under all those stars. I bought a new dress. It’s red. And shoes to match. Wait until he sees me in that. You should come out and visit me soon. We’ll hit the town. See a show. Go to dinner at that steak place you love.”
I hated Vegas. Always had. Too loud. Too fake. Filled with too many bad memories.
“I was showing everyone your picture tonight and all the ladies said you belong on a billboard. Like those Calvin Klein underwear models.”
The fuck? “Don’t show anyone my photo.”
“Just tryin’ to fix you up. You’d get lucky in Vegas, I can promise you that. Well, I gotta run. I love you, baby.”
She cut the call without waiting for my response, and I smoked another cigarette, praying to a God I didn’t believe in that Remy’s kid didn’t inherit any of our mother’s genes. Or mine for that matter.
Starlet was still fast asleep, Cruz and Nicola were down the hall doing God knows what, and I was wide awake, with so much restless energy I needed an outlet. Sex wasn’t an option, so I went for a swim. Fifty laps later, I’d loosened up enough to sleep and levered myself out of the pool, grabbing the towel I’d left on the deck.
“Hey Romeo.” I lifted my eyes to the Juliet balcony, the irony not lost on me. Starlet was leaning over the wrought-iron railing, my charcoal gray comforter wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, her wavy blonde hair glowing in the moonlight.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, tying the towel around my waist and crossing the Moroccan tiles until I was standing right below her.
“I woke up and saw the pool lights,” she said, peering down at me. “Why were you swimming in the middle of the night?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re not cold?”
“Nah.” I ran my fingers through my towel-dried hair. Pool water dripped from the ends and goosebumps covered my skin, the night air thirty degrees chillier than the water temperature. But I could be standing butt naked in the Arctic and still deny being cold.
She pulled the comforter tighter around her body and shuddered as if it made her cold just looking at me. “Are you coming to bed now?”
Interesting turn of phrase. “Is that an invitation?”
“It’s your bedroom.”
Which begged the question, Will you be in it? In my bedroom. In my bed. With me inside you. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her that. But I stopped myself. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be the good guy. I wanted to do the right thing. “Go back to bed. I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
Her lips turned down at the corners. Disappointment? Was she hoping I’d stick with the script? I wanted this to be her choice. I wanted her to make her intentions clear. I wanted her to choose me. But not like this. Not when I’d forced her hand by putting her in my bed without her consent.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah.” She looked over her shoulder then back at me. “I can sleep in the other room. You should sleep in your own bed.”
“I’m good. Just stay in my room.” Go ahead, torture the shit out of me by leaving your scent on my sheets and pillows. “Night, Starlet.”
“Goodnight.” She smiled and waved goodbye over her shoulder, dragging my comforter back inside the bedroom. The French doors closed, and I stifled a groan as I walked into the house and turned off the pool lights.
I could have had her tonight. What had possessed me to play Mr. Nice Guy? Fucking idiot.
Chuckling to myself, I dropped my wet trunks in the laundry room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. My footsteps stopped outside my bedroom door. She was sleeping on the other side of it. I was standing in front of the door in nothing but a towel.
Keep walking, asshole. You’re trying to be the good guy, remember? Not my strong suit.
In the midst of my internal debate, the door opened a crack and then it opened wider, spilling moonlight into the hallway. As if she had expected me. Had known all along that I’d be here.
Waiting. Wanting. Ready.
My gaze roamed down her body, her perky tits under the T-shirt, the curve of her hips, her bare legs. Somewhere along the way, she’d ditched the leggings. The hem of her shirt hit the top of her thighs. Modest enough to cover whatever she was wearing underneath but short enough to be distracting. Scarlett was tiny, but she was all legs.
“Hi,” she whispered, biting the corner of her lip.
“Hi,” I said and then we both laughed for no reason.
I planted a hand on the doorframe and leaned in. Close enough to smell her honey and vanilla scent. “What are you doing, Scarlett?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
She licked her lips, her eyes roaming down my bare torso to the towel tied around my hips. That’s right. Just one flick of the wrist and it would be on the floor.
“Are those song lyrics?” Her gaze lowered to the inked words on my ribs: I can’t breathe but I fight while I can fight. “I mean… your tattoo… I always wondered…”
“Eminem. ‘Love The Way You Lie.’ It was my first tattoo.”
She traced the words with her fingertips, her touch featherlight yet it felt like she was branding me. Sea
ring my skin and burrowing under the protective layers.
“Do you still feel like that?” she asked, her voice hushed, her eyes lifting to mine. Her lips parted, and a soft breath escaped them, and it was all I could do not to sink my teeth into that lush lip. “Like you can’t breathe?”
Our eyes were locked, the house so quiet that I knew we must be the only two people awake. It felt like long moments passed before I finally answered. “Sometimes.”
Right now, that was exactly how I felt. My breathing was shallow, and even though we’d barely touched, I was so hard for her it was starting to feel like a sick joke.
Last night, after the gym, Cruz and I had gone for a few beers. I’d run into Waverly who I’d hooked up with a few times in the past. With Waverly, it had always been sex with no strings attached. Which was fucking perfect. She was hot, liked to get dirty, and never overstayed her welcome. Yet what had I done when she offered a quick fuck? I’d said no.
Now I was standing in front of a girl who had given me nothing more than a kiss, who had the potential to complicate my life and fuck with my head, yet I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anyone.
It was only minutes but felt like years that we stood there, staring at each other, locked in a silent battle of will we, won’t we. Never in the history of foreplay had anything dragged out so long without a sound or a touch.
I didn’t know who made the first move, but the next thing I knew my hand was tangled in her wild, unruly hair, her palms coasting up my chest, and my mouth collided with hers. I swept my tongue across the seam of her pillow-soft lips and they parted on a sigh to let me in, our tongues exploring the deepest recesses of each other’s mouths like they held the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe.
Kissing Scarlett didn’t feel like the prelude to sex, it felt like the main event. I wanted to kiss her until her lips were raw and swollen, and the only word on the tip of her tongue was my name.
Just one taste of her and what little resolve I had crumbled to dust.
She didn’t protest when I gripped her hips and pushed her farther into the room. Kicking the door shut, I lifted her off the ground, her legs cinching around my waist, her mouth still fused to mine. Her back hit the tall dresser against the wall, our tongues dueling like this was a battle for possession.
I groaned, she moaned. Her fingernails raked down my back, scoring my skin, marking me.
It was nothing short of a fucking miracle that my towel was still firmly in place even though my erection threatened to rip right through the thick cotton and accidentally end up buried inside her. With the way she was grinding against me and the way I was acting like a teenager who had just discovered how to get off by dry humping a mattress, I wouldn’t be surprised if I jizzed all over my fucking towel.
I spun us around and tossed her onto my bed, her back bouncing off the mattress, her T-shirt riding up to expose cotton boy shorts. Since when had cotton underwear become so sexy? When Scarlett Woods wore them, that’s when.
“What are we doing?” she finally thought to ask, pushing herself onto her elbows as my hands wrapped around her ankles and dragged her to the edge of the mattress, her ass practically hanging off it.
“I can’t… I’m not going to…”
“Fuck me?” I asked, sliding the cotton down her legs so her pussy was bare to me. Nudging her thighs apart, I planted her feet flat on the mattress and dropped to my knees in front of her.
I wanted to build a shrine to her pussy. Worship at the altar of Scarlett Woods.
“Do you want this, Starlet?”
“Yes. I mean… Dylan,” she said breathlessly, a little whimper escaping when I dragged my fingers through her slick heat, wet with her arousal. She was every bit as delectable as I’d imagined. Ripe like a peach, her juices coating my fingers.
“We’ll take it slow.” Not sure I had a slow setting but there was a first for everything.
I guided my fingers to her lips.
“Taste yourself.” She sucked on my fingers, her eyes at half-mast, cheeks hollowed, my cock swelling as she licked my fingers clean.
I draped her leg over my shoulder and used my thumbs to open the lips of her pussy, licking her from crack to clit.
Scarlett moaned, lacing her fingers through my hair and holding the back of my skull.
I pinched her clit between my fingers, my tongue diving inside her tight walls. I was in so deep I didn’t think I’d ever get out.
Her moans intensified, and she was writhing in front of me, her eyes closed. “Oh, my God.”
That’s right. But instead of using God’s name in vain, I want you screaming my name.
“You like this?” I asked, massaging her swollen clit and fucking her with tongue.
“Mmm hmm. I never… I mean… nobody…”
I lifted my head to look at her face. Even in the dim shadows of the room, I could see her blush a pretty pink. “Nobody’s ever gone down on you?”
Her lashes lowered. “I don’t give blow jobs.” As if that was an explanation. But what the fuck?
“Why not?” My fingers bit into the flesh of her ass cheek, demanding an answer. Part of me was happy she’d never done this before. The other part of me didn’t know what to make of it.
“Um… I mean, I tried but it made me…” She averted her head. “I just couldn’t do it.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said, making her laugh and then gasp when I slid two fingers inside her, stretching her tight walls, reaching and curling until I hit a spot that made her cry out and grind against my hand.
“I’m so close… I’m going to…”
“Come for me,” I commanded, biting her clit. Sending her over the edge.
She came in a spectacular way, my name replacing God’s, her entire body convulsing.
Boneless, her elbows gave out and her back collapsed against the mattress. With the flat of my tongue, I gave her long, slow licks until she rode out her orgasm.
Arms braced on either side of her head, my mouth moved up her body, and I pressed my lips against hers. She kissed me hard, reaching for the towel around my waist. With a tskk, I pushed her hand away and stood up.
“You don’t get to touch me. Not until you’re ready to fuck me or wrap your lips around my cock.”
Her jaw dropped at my crude words.
“Night, Starlet.” I strode out of my bedroom and left her lying on my bed.
Sweet dreams, baby girl.
I came, I saw, I conquered, and then I left. Correction. She came, I left, blue balls intact. And I wasn’t even mad about it. I licked my lips. They still tasted like her.
14
Scarlett
A thrill of pride shot through me when the petite brunette handed me her money for the denim jacket. It was from my Surf Voodoo collection—a medicine man in a top hat riding a killer wave. I rang up the sale and handed her the change and her purchase in a white bag with the blue Firefly logo. Before she left, we chatted for a few minutes and she promised to check out my website.
A few minutes later, I was refolding T-shirts when Ryan came out of one of the shaping bays in the back, an energy drink in his hand. He took off his Firefly ball cap, ran his fingers through his blond curls and replaced the cap on his head as he ambled over to the sales counter and picked up the most recent SURFER magazine.
“If you wanna take your break, I can cover the front of the shop,” he said, not lifting his head from the pages of the magazine he was thumbing through.
It was quiet now, an afternoon lull so I took him up on his offer. “Thanks,” I said, shooting him a smile on my way to Remy’s office.
The door was open, and she was on the phone. It was the landline, so I knew it was business-related. Remy handled all the orders for custom boards and was the spokesmodel for the brand. Careful not to disturb her, I grabbed my denim jacket and bag from her office, waved goodbye and left quietly.
Sunglasses on to ward off the sun’s glare, I strolled down the tree-lined main st
reet. It had all the charm of a Mediterranean seaside town with the chill factor of SoCal, the white stucco and blush pink facades housing trendy boutiques and surf shops and open-air restaurants perfect for people watching. While I’d been away, in San Francisco and Seattle, I had missed this town. Today it was a balmy seventy degrees and my skin was warmed by the sun on my face.
As I stepped up to the counter at Sweet Creamery, my phone rang. I was tempted not to answer but I did. “Hey Mom. Just a sec.”
“Can I get Cookie Monster in a waffle cone please?” I asked the lady behind the counter. It was my favorite, a mix of Cookie Dough and Oreo.
“You got it,” she said with a smile.
“Ice cream?” my mother said, sounding horrified. “Do you know how many calories is in one scoop of ice cream?”
“Nope. And I don’t care.”
“Your waistline does. You’re not exactly skinny.”
“I’m not fat either.” Okay, so I had hips and a butt, but my body was toned from surfing and my stomach was flat. Ugh, why did I even let her mess with my head? I exchanged an eye-roll with the woman behind the counter.
“Mothers,” she said under her breath with a shake of her head, her dark corkscrew curls bouncing. She set the cone of blue ice cream in a stand and I handed her a twenty. After pocketing my change, I mouthed ‘thank you’ and took my ice cream, continuing my stroll, with my mother’s voice in my ear. I wended my way down the hilly street that funneled to the beach and the pier while she talked about… I had no idea what she was talking about.
“She just went into a boutique on Melrose.”
“Who did?” I asked, taking a few licks of my ice cream.
“Cecily,” my mother replied, exasperated.
That halted me in my tracks. “Um, how do you know this?”
“I’ve been tailing her. Do you think I should get a nose job?”
