LAUREN
Morning came way too fast.
I tiptoed out of my bedroom, trying not to trip over the suitcases and boxes Emerson and I had lugged in from the car last night. We’d only brought what we needed for the summer, leaving everything else in storage back in Arizona.
Em and I had moved out of the dorms to share an apartment during our sophomore year, and by comparison our old place had been palatial compared to our new summer digs. But at least our summer bungalow came “furnished,” which apparently meant we got a lumpy futon, a couple of squeaky twin beds, and a white plastic patio set that passed for a kitchen table.
But at least the sketchy-looking AC unit hadn’t broken down overnight, and we’d discovered a working coffee machine in the kitchen. What more could a girl ask for?
I stubbed my toe on one entire box marked “makeup” in pink glitter marker (three guesses who that belonged to), and bit back a low howl that bubbled up from my throat.
I probably didn’t need to be quiet. Emerson slept like the dead and was probably still comatose after staying up late revising her Christmas wish list to include “Lucas and his superfine abs.” After all, she told me, giggling as we downed most of the bottle of warm champagne to commemorate our first night in our new place, she didn’t want Santa to get confused and send her a boy with just “ordinary abs.”
I dragged one of the plastic chairs over and climbed up onto it, hoping it wouldn’t buckle beneath me. This was the perfect time to double-check the duffle bag I’d hidden away in the small attic when Em hadn’t been looking. I felt the weight in my chest lighten, the way it always did whenever I laid eyes on the bag and confirmed it was still safe.
Eventually I’d need a better place to stash it, but for now the ceiling would have to do.
I wondered if I would ever get used to all the hiding. Not just the money, but myself too.
My entire life had changed the night my two worlds had collided, my online one and my real life, shattering the wall I’d carefully constructed between them.
Until then, the whole thing had all felt like a game. A fantasy. Something that couldn’t really hurt me, or anyone I cared about.
Afterward though . . .
That’s when I realized the implications of what I’d been doing. Of the people who might be hurt if they ever discovered the truth.
Like my parents.
They would die if they knew I’d been taking off my clothes for money, even if I somehow managed to explain it wasn’t as seedy as they imagined. To them, it would never be the kind of “work” an ordinary suburban girl from Denver was supposed to be doing. Especially their daughter.
They’d never understand that just because I was willing to peel off my sweater in front of a webcam, that didn’t make me easy. That I wasn’t a prostitute . . . despite some of the offers I’d received.
I’d never even considered crossing that line. As far as my little stripping venture, I was strictly hands-off.
That had been the whole point. That’s what had made it so easy for me—the anonymity. I’d gone to great lengths to make sure no one ever knew it was me in front of that camera.
Or at least that’s what I’d believed . . . until one of my “clients” had landed on my doorstep.
Before then, I’d even gone as far as using a VPN while I was at my local coffee shop to conduct all of my business transactions—banking, answering emails, accounting—hoping the IP address could never be traced back to me.
What I hadn’t counted on was an obsessed viewer tracking me down anyway. Finding me at the coffee shop where I thought I’d been operating under the radar.
I also hadn’t realized just how troubled he was.
Maybe if I had, I would’ve tried harder. Maybe I could have helped him.
Maybe then he wouldn’t be dead now, and I wouldn’t be burdened with a sack full of cash.
But I hadn’t . . . and I was.
Now all I wanted was to put that part of my life behind me. To take the money and make a fresh start. To pretend that night had never happened, and hope there was no way anyone could ever, ever track me down.
I’m safe. I told myself as I locked the front door behind me. No one—other than Em—even knows I’m here.
I made sure my keys were tucked safely inside my bag before heading toward the beach that Emerson swore she’d spotted the day before. The beach I’d been fantasizing about ever since I was a little girl.
It wasn’t far, and it wasn’t hard to find. I just followed the sound of the crashing waves. The salty smell was thick and practically tangible, and the second I stepped off the blacktop and my feet sank into the sand, I’d never been surer of my decision to leave my old life behind. The boys of California had nothing on the beaches.
This was the place my dreams would finally come true. Now all I needed to do was learn how to swim.
If only it were that simple. I had a lifetime of fears to overcome. My mom’s voice was in the back of my mind, telling me about tsunamis and sneaker waves and shark attacks.
People do this every day, I told myself—regular people, little kids, the elderly. It wasn’t a big deal. I kept repeating those words in my head, right up until the moment I was ankle-deep in the very first waves I’d ever met.
That was when the first whispers of true panic took hold.
This is the freaking ocean.
I’d been preparing for this moment for years. I’d seen a million pictures and watched a thousand YouTube videos and imagined of this moment all my life. But standing here realizing my plan had been to just . . . jump in and go for it! Suddenly I was questioning everything.
But that was the thing, I sort of had to.
If I didn’t, my parents—and all their unfounded warnings that I shouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . do this—would win. If my own fears didn’t get the best of me first.
I was never allowed to take swimming lessons at the Y with my friends. Never able to go to the river or even stay at a hotel that had a swimming pool. Even when we’d gone to our mountain cabin, the lake had been off-limits.
Mentioning a tropical vacationing was right up there with cursing.
If I didn’t jump into the ocean now, when I had the chance, I’d never, ever forgive myself.
Otherwise, what had I been scrimping and saving for? Why had I dragged Emerson here, someplace my parents would never approve of?
I threw my towel down in the sand. It was now or never.
The waves roared and the early-morning breeze prickled my skin. I tried not to think about how my skin had tightened the same way the night before, when Will’s tongue had skimmed over it. But it was too late—the thought was crawling through me, same as it had been almost all night long, keeping me awake as I’d replayed the scene over and over and again.
Will-not-Billy, his mouth lingering too long over my stomach, testing and exploring, making me shiver . . .
Stupid body shot.
I shook off the memory. Now wasn’t the time. Hell, it would never be the time. In my brief encounter with Will, I’d learned enough to know he was exactly the kind of guy I’d spent my life avoiding: arrogant.
No. Will wasn’t just arrogant, he was downright cocky.
Other girls might find that kind of boldness utterly irresistible. Me, I found it obnoxious.
I shuffled forward, my toes sifting through the sand. With each step, I steered my thoughts away from the night before, forcing myself to forget about Will . . . and the feel of his tongue against my bare skin.
The cold was intense, more so than I’d expected, and as the surf rushed forward to meet me, a bubble of alarm surfaced in my chest. It took me a second to catch my breath as my knees were submerged in water that felt like I was in the Arctic rather than sunny SoCal. There was a reprieve as the waves moved back out again, and I trudged a little farther, getting bolder as my body adjusted to the temperature.
When I was waist high and finally somewhat at ease, finding my rhythm with the sea around me, a breaker struck me, stronger than I expected. It sucked me back toward the shore. I struggled to maintain my balance, but after a few floundering moments I got there, tenuously.
The sand beneath my feet was unstable, almost as fluid as the water itself, and when the wave went out again I was hauled with it.
The ocean was powerful.
All my research . . . all I’d read and the videos I’d watched . . . it all that paled in comparison to experiencing it firsthand.
Once I gave into it, however, and recognized that the water would, eventually, move back toward the beach again, taking me with it, I was able to relax, bobbing along with the tide as my feet still dragged across the bottom.
I wasn’t swimming, not by any stretch. I wasn’t even floating because my toes still dragged across the bottom. I was just . . . drifting . . . and it was bliss. This was what I’d been hoping for. This was what I’d dreamed of.
I inhaled and exhaled as the waves pushed and pulled me. I leaned my head back, feeling the California sun on my cheeks as the salty sea buoyed me.
Just when I thought I’d gotten the hang of it, a wave slammed into me from behind. It crashed over the top of me, water rushing over my face and sucking me under.
Dread ripped through me as I gulped the salty water, choking on a mouthful. I kicked to find my footing, and flailed, desperate to feel the sand beneath me once more.
Shit just got real.
This was no longer part of my I-have-a-dream campaign. The waves that only a second ago had been all floaty and safe were suddenly scary as hell.
Swim, my brain screamed. But that wasn’t an option.
Swimming was a skill I’d never mastered. No thanks to my helicopter parents . . . and the fact that I’d been too embarrassed to sign up for swim lessons once I was out from under their overprotective wings.
How was it possible I’d been able to take off my clothes in front of a camera, but the idea of bumping into someone I knew at the pool gave me hives?
So, here I was, panicking as I broke through the surface. I scanned the coastline for anyone who might rescue me.
Where the hell were all the freaking lifeguards?
But this wasn’t a TV show. There were no beefcakes running across the beach in slow-mo. No bleached blondes with bouncy implants whose mascara never streaked.
This was the part where, because I’d been too stubborn or too stupid to do things the right way, I would die . . . out here . . . all alone. They’d find my beach bag and towel, and on my gravestone it would read: “Here lies Lauren Taylor. She never learned to swim.”
When the second wave hit me, it was even stronger than the first. This time, I was hauled out with it, and I was upended completely.
Everything was happening too fast. I thrashed to find the bottom, or the surface, but I was disoriented. My eyes burned beneath the murky saltwater and my lungs ached to keep my breath inside.
It couldn’t end this way. But the edges of my vision were tunneling and my chest felt like it would explode.
Just as I figured out which way was up, another wave came down hard over me, shoving me down again.
I gasped, no longer able to hold my breath. Bubbles burst from my mouth as I choked on the briny water.
Then, right before everything went black, something, from somewhere, struck me. Something sharp and hard and unforgiving. Pain erupted in my head.
My mom had been right. My first and only attempt to swim would end in a watery death.
That’s when I felt arms reaching around me.
At first, I fought them; convinced that whoever had just grabbed me was pushing me farther beneath the water. But after a second . . . I realized that wasn’t the case at all. Whoever had ahold of me was hauling me toward the surface. Someone was saving me.
When I finally collapsed onto dry ground, I was coughing and gagging. My lungs were on fire.
It took several long minutes before I could take a full breath without choking. And when my vision cleared an unfamiliar face loomed above me.
A guy was staring down at me. A really good-looking guy. And he was smiling. “You scared the heck out of me, you know?”
If I hadn’t wanted to bury my head in the sand at that very moment, I might’ve noted how infectious that smile of his was.
Instead all I could think was: Kill me now.
I struggled against the sand and my fatigued muscles to sit up. “I . . . ,” my voice croaked, “I . . . I think I’m okay—” But my words were cut off by another violent coughing fit.
“Take it easy.” My savior flashed me a drop-dead smile, his clear blue eyes glinting down at me. I was starting to suspect there was something in the water in California. Were they genetically modifying perfect human specimens or something? “You just inhaled about a gallon of ocean water. Give your lungs a minute or two to recover.” He pushed me back down onto the sand.
It’s not like I had much choice. I crumpled weakly, staring sullenly up at the sky as I waited for my wheezing to subside. I should be thanking my lucky stars I hadn’t just drowned back there.
But maybe I should have.
Swimming was the worst.
It was hard and it was dangerous, and the ocean was nothing like I’d imagined it would be. It was too powerful, and way too cold and salty, and not only had I almost died, but I itched everywhere. I had sand in places I might never be able to reach.
And now this: Rescued by a good-looking stranger. Perfect.
“Thank you.” I finally groaned, telling myself it wasn’t this guy’s fault it hadn’t been the magical experience I’d dreamed of.
Those piercing blue eyes appeared above me again, his eyebrows pinching together. “What were you thinking coming out here all alone? These might be good swells for surfing, but not so good for swimming, don’t you think?” He said it like he was asking me, even though it was obvious he knew the answer.
But then something he said made its way through the fog of my humiliation. “Is that what you were doing? Surfing?” I bolted upright again. My head throbbed as I lifted my hand to the bump that was already forming on my forehead. I searched the sand and saw a long red board. “Was that what hit me?” I asked, only then noticing the skintight wetsuit he was wearing.
His expression softened. “I was just paddling out when I saw you. My plan was to pull you to safety . . . but then my board got away from me . . .” His voice was low and sincere. He pushed aside a salty strand of my hair from my forehead so he could examine my injury. “What were you thinking . . . out here all by yourself?”
Maybe I had a concussion because I couldn’t think of the right way to explain my plan, not without giving away my complete and total ineptitude. “I—I was trying to . . . swim,” I finally blurted out, and as soon as I did I realized how bad that sounded.
He let out a wry chuckle as he dropped my hair. “Yeah. Got that. Maybe next time you should wear some of those little arm floaties.”
Somehow that small laugh was enough to provoke me. I mean, sure, I was the one who’d gone charging headfirst into the ocean, completely incapable of staying afloat. And, yeah, I was the one who’d nearly drowned, but I never asked to be knocked senseless in the process.
And I definitely didn’t deserve to be made fun of for it.
“You know, this is your fault, really. If you hadn’t tried to kill me with that . . . that thing of yours . . .” I gestured toward his board, which was lying just a few feet away.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He defended, but I could tell he wasn’t really taking me seriously. He wasn’t even trying to hold back his grin. “It’s not the surfboard’s fault.” Then his expression turned halfway sheepish. “But, to be fair, you’re not completely wrong. I didn’t mean to get you hurt. I should’ve been more careful.”
“Damn right you should’ve been more careful,” I insisted. “I was doing just fine until you came along. I would’ve been swimming in no time. Turns out, it’s not all that hard.” Yeah, that’s a lie. But I was on fire, and I wasn’t about to back down now.
My savior’s brows drew together as he gave me a strange look. “Did you just say would have been swimming?” His smile vanished as the meaning of what I’d just said sunk in. “Are you for real?”
I jumped up too. But then I swayed, and it was by sheer will alone that I managed to stay upright. “Look, like I said, I’d have been just fine if you hadn’t run into me with that stupid board of yours. It’s really none of your business how I learn to swim. I didn’t ask you to rescue me.” By the time I was finished, I realized how I must look, standing there all covered in sand, with my hair hanging in soggy strands around my face as I scolded this guy for saving my life—like an ungrateful disaster.
“Okay, okay. Justhold up a sec.” He raised his hands in surrender; giving me the kind of placating look you give an unreasonable toddler. “You’re right—none of my business. And, technically, I was the one who got you hurt. All I’m saying is, you should be more careful.” He winced as his eyes traveled up to my forehead, to the spot where his board had rammed into me. “It’s dangerous out there. Definitely not a place for beginners.”
This time, the way he said it, not like an accusation but with genuine concern, made my hackles go down, and I let out a groan. “Crap. I’m . . . ” It was hard for me to admit this, even when it was way overdue. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have known better. And . . .” I rolled my eyes when his grin made an appearance once again. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for saving me.”
Laughing, he pointed to his surfboard. “I believe you owe ol’ Rosie an apology too.”
I cocked an eyebrow at the bright red board. “You named it?”
“Her. I named her,” he corrected. “And she accepts your apology.” He held out his hand. “I’m Noah. And you must be new around here.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed you, if you’d been here long. Plus,” He scrunched his face at me. “not a lot of locals throw themselves into swells like that when they can’t swim.”
I frowned and attempted to brush away the layers of sand on my arms. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect it to be so . . . hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “I have a friend who gives lessons over at the Weston Hills Pool Club. It’s a pretty swank joint, but the lessons are open to the public. You should think about signing up.” He grinned at me as he reached over and ran his hand over the sand on my arm too.
I couldn’t tell if he was being flirtatious or just friendly. I also couldn’t tell which I wanted it to be.
Now that the sting of my near-death experience was wearing off, I was examining my savior through a different lens. He was the kind of guy who could rock a wetsuit, he had a decent sense of humor, plus there was that whole he’d-saved-my-life thing.
I might not love the idea of lessons, but I definitely didn’t hate him right now.
I swallowed, trying to think of something clever to say. Maybe even a way to ask him out.
Then he glanced past me, and raised his arm, waving at someone I couldn’t see.
I turned to follow his gaze. There was a group of guys, all wearing wetsuits and carrying surfboards under their arms as they waited for Noah, just down the beach. Each of them—no kidding, each and every one of them—was equally hot.
“I hate to do this, but I gotta run. My bros are waiting.” He bent forward to retrieve his board—Rosie—from the sand. “But, make me a deal: no more swimming today.” He punctuated swimming pointedly, and I laughed.
“Cross my heart.”
He started to take off toward his friends when he stopped. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Lauren,” I called back to him.
“Will I see you at the Sand and Slam tomorrow night, Lauren?”
I shrugged, telling him with my expression that I had no clue what a Sand and Slam even was.
By now his friends were shouting for him, but he waved them off. “It’s a party. On the beach. Can’t miss it. And you should totally come. Everyone’ll be there.” He winked at me. “I’ll be there.” And then he turned and started running, carving loose divots through the sand with his long stride.
The Sand and Slam. Where had I heard that before?
Then it hit me.
Last night, at The Dunes. The Lip Licker had been trying to convince Will to go, but he told her he was too busy.
And there he was again. Will. Taking up too much space in my brain. Even after a tall, handsome stranger had rescued me . . . one who’d invited me to a party.
Maybe going to the Sand and Slam was exactly what I needed. Will wouldn’t be there; he’d said so himself.
Maybe Noah was just the guy I’d been looking for to punch my virginity card once and for all.