LAUREN
“Fuck. Me.” I looked back and forth between the printout in my hand and the broken-down shack in front of me. It most definitely wasn’t the “quaint beachside bungalow” listed in the online ad. But I’d already signed the papers, sight unseen.
Great. I’d just dropped ten thousand bucks on a three-month lease for a piece-of-shit shack, crowded in a row with a bunch of other piece-of-shit shacks.
And was that seriously tinfoil covering the windows? Not cool.
“Technically, you mean ‘fuck us,’” Emerson piped in a little too enthusiastically. I loved my best friend, especially her willingness to ditch her family for the summer and spend her entire break with me before returning to the real world, but right now her enthusiasm was making my head pound. “And there are worse things than being fucked, not that you’d know anything about that. Besides, I like it. With a little work, it’ll be adorbs.”
“Okay, one, there’s nothing adorbs about it. It probably isn’t even up to code.” I eyed the window AC unit balanced precariously on a slanted two-by-four. “And two,” I complained. “Look around you, Em.” This was so not the California of my dreams—the one I’d been imagining since I was a little girl watching reruns of Baywatch. “The ad promised beachfront. As in, we would be stepping off our doorstep onto the sand. Do you see any beach?”
Emerson squinted, straining her eyes dramatically to see across the single-lane blacktop where the sun was just starting to set. She shielded her eyes with her hand and then squealed, “There! If you look in just the right place, in between those houses over there, you can see it!” She clapped her hands together and bounced up and down, thrilled for a quasi-glimpse of an almost-strip of the shore.
I tried to tell myself I should let some of Em’s positivity rub off on me. It shouldn’t matter where I’d be sleeping for the summer. All that mattered was that we’d finally left dry and dusty Arizona in the rearview mirror. I’d dreamed of this moment practically every single day of my childhood, when I’d submerged myself in the bubble bath, pretending I knew how to swim. Pretending I wasn’t afraid to learn how.
Now I could finally put those fears behind me.
“Come on,” Emerson gushed, digging through the jumble of bags crammed in the trunk and hauling out a couple of suitcases. “Let’s put on something slutty so we can scope out the local action.”
“Don’t you ever think of anything else?” I bent over and lifted the corner of the doormat, searching for the key the property manager told me would be waiting for us.
“Um, no.” Em sounded baffled. “Why? Do you?”
I laughed while I checked under the other side of the mat. Sure, I thought about guys plenty, but nowhere near as often as Emerson McLean did. Maybe I was just too jaded now, knowing how many men spent too much time—and too much money—watching a stranger undress on the Internet, instead of at home with their wives.
Not that I was complaining. Those men, with their seemingly endless pockets, were the reason Em and I were here in the first place.
I wasn’t necessarily proud of the things I’d done, but I wasn’t exactly ashamed either. The worst part was that it was sometimes hard to separate the real me from my online persona. Sometimes it would be nice to be an ordinary girl with ordinary baggage, like Em.
Emerson was the only person in the world who not only knew the things I’d done to make money—a secret she swore she’d take to her grave. But who also knew my other secret . . . one she considered a million times more scandalous.
Confession: I, Lauren Taylor, still carried my V card.
A fact Emerson intended to tease me mercilessly about until I “remedied” it. Because in Em’s eyes, that’s what virginity was: A disease in need of curing.
To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure she was wrong. On my birthday this year, I’d made a pact this would be the year. I was twenty-two, after all. I’d made it through high school and all four years of college without being swept off my feet. I was starting to think my soul mate wasn’t out there. Or worse, if he was out there, he was already attached to someone else and spending all his free time surfing the Internet for porn.
Yeah, I was definitely jaded.
So, soul mate or not, it was time. This was the year I would find a guy—he didn’t have to be Prince Charming, he pretty much only had to have his own place and decent breath. I was determined to get it over with. To stop holding onto my virginity like it was some prize.
It wasn’t. At some point everyone had it, and everyone—or almost everyone, anyway—gave it up.
It wasn’t like I’d never come close. I’d made out with some minty-breathed potentials. In the end, though, I’d always found some reason to back out before we sealed the deal—bad timing, no chemistry, or just plain not in the mood.
If I didn’t have Emerson cheering me on, I might die a virgin. But she wasn’t the giving-up type.
Before I got the chance to answer her about going out, there was a deep throat-clearing sound—a definite signal if I’d ever heard one. It came from somewhere to our right and I shot upright just as the distinctly male voice informed us, “Don’t mean to interrupt, ladies, but the keys aren’t there. Billy picked ’em up this afternoon.”
Spinning to face our new mystery guest, and meaning to argue that this Billy—whoever he was—had no business taking something that didn’t belong to him, I froze.
Any protests about Billy’s thieving ways evaporated on my lips. My eyes suddenly had a mind of their own, and even as I told myself to act like a grown-up, I caught my eyes raking the newcomer from head to freaking toe.
California just got a whole lot more interesting.
The guy in question didn’t seem to mind. He leaned casually inside the door frame of the house right next door to the one we were supposed to be renting—a house that appeared only shades more livable than our own, and I wondered if this was our new neighbor.
His swim trunks rested just the right amount of low over his waistline, and revealed what could only be described as the most chiseled set of abs known to man. And seriously, I was comparing them to great works of art, like the statue of David by Michelangelo, which had literally been chiseled from stone. From the bronze of this guy’s skin I was convinced he’d never heard the word sunscreen—not that I was complaining, since his too-deep tan flawlessly emphasized those sculpted abs of his.
“He’s just holdin’ onto them for you, nothing sketchy or anything. He’s harmless, really. Just doin’ his job,” Chiseled Abs informed us, looking from me to Em.
Clearly this guy’s presence had turned my brain to mush, because suddenly I had no clue what—or who, rather—he was talking about. I turned to Emerson for help, but she was too busy undressing him with her eyes to even notice I was still standing there.
I was on my own.
“Who?” I managed, unable to stop staring, even though my brain was screaming that I was being . . . I don’t know, weird.
“Billy.” Chiseled Abs’s brow dipped ever so slightly in an amused expression, and I got the feeling we weren’t the first girls to lose our shit over him. “You can call the landlord and ask, if you want. He asked Billy to pick up the keys when you were late.”
“Late,” I repeated distractedly. And then reality came crashing back and I realized what he was saying. He was right. I had told the landlord we would be there by five, but thanks to Em and her raisin-sized bladder, we’d had to stop at just about every rest stop along the way, and now it was well past seven. “Great, so now what?”
“It’s all good,” Chiseled Abs assured, offering us a wink. “Like I said, Billy’s got ’em.” A grin slipped over his lips then, all slow and lazy-like but perfectly timed and utterly intentional, and I knew—I knew, in that very instant—that Billy might be harmless, but there was nothing harmless about this guy.
Charming, yes. And fuckable, for sure—Emerson would probably bag him by the end of the summer. But guys like Chiseled Abs, who oozed sex and confidence, and who knew the effect they had on women, were rarely harmless.
I wasn’t like Em, who liked to twist guys around her little finger just because she could, and then toss them aside to move onto her next conquest. When I did find someone, he would definitely be a gentleman. Someone who read books and opened doors. Someone who said please and thank you, and remembered birthdays, anniversaries, and sent texts “just because.”
Someone who didn’t walk around half-naked. Definitely someone who didn’t spend thousands of dollars watching girls take off their clothes online. And someone who was totally and completely and truly harmless.
“Yeah?” I told Chiseled Abs, suddenly wishing I could slip inside the skin of my online persona, because whenever I was playing the part of Lola Bang—because, yes, I’d really called myself that!—I always felt a million times more badass than when I was just plain old Lauren Taylor. “Can you please let Harmless Billy know we’re here now, and we’d really like to get our car unpacked so we can call it a night?”
Chiseled Abs’s grin grew wider as he crossed his arms over the muscled planes of his exquisitely carved chest. And even though guys like him, the ones who thought way too highly of themselves, had never been my type, my stomach flipped just a little. I suddenly wondered if this was the real reason my parents had tried to talk me out of California my entire life. I wondered if my mom had never actually been afraid I would drown or be swept away by a riptide if I learned how to swim. But rather that she’d somehow known that if I ever did make my way to California, I’d discover the truth—that the boys were made differently here. They were carved from stone, and when they smiled at you they could set your panties on fire.
Frankly, if all the boys were like Chiseled Abs here, I would definitely need to invest in some new underwear.
“I have an even better idea,” he announced, his voice a husky enticement. He ran a hand over his muscular chest, and even though the gesture appeared absent-minded I wondered if it wasn’t calculated. “How ’bout you ladies come with me to The Dunes, and I’ll buy you both a burger and a beer? Consider it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood thing.” He sauntered toward us in a way that made it clear he probably didn’t get shot down all that often.
Emerson clapped her hands again, “Ooh, I love that idea!” she exclaimed.
I looked at the suitcase at my feet, hedging. “I don’t know . . . I really need to unload some of my stuff . . .”
“They got great microbrews,” he threw in, selling the place and his charm as he wiggled his brows. “And an awesome view . . .” and suddenly, I was seeing past the ridiculously hot veneer to the cheesy pick-up artist beyond. Maybe Michelangelo’s David was more like a velvet painting of Elvis after all. “Besides,” he added. “Billy’s tending bar tonight. We can get your keys while we’re there.”
And that was it. I was going to The Dunes whether I liked it or not.
Because clearly Chiseled Abs had worked his magic on Em too.
I was pretty sure there was a five-alarm blaze in her pants.