Episode 5: “Bali Hai. Bali Low. Jerk cravings, please please go.”
Have you ever seen the movie South Pacific?
Unless you have a father like Rick Wright, who is pretty much cuckoo crazy for old movies, I’m going to go ahead and guess that you haven’t.
The movie itself was based off a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical and made in 1958, otherwise known as a long-ass time ago.
[laughs softly]
But, see, I do have a father named Rick Wright, and ever since I was a little girl, I was raised watching old movies, including South Pacific.
Inside that movie, there is a song called “Bali Ha’i.” It’s a bit of a haunting tune in certain ways, but boy oh boy, is it catchy. And once you hear the chorus, you can’t forget it.
The name itself refers to a mystical island, just visible on the horizon but unreachable. And to the American troops in the movie, the island is this exotic, but otherwise off-limits, place.
Why am I telling you about this song?
For one, when I’d stepped foot in Bali, that song had been stuck inside my head nonstop.
And two? Well, it’s a pretty damn good metaphor.
Exotic, but off-limits.
Enticing, but forbidden.
You see what I’m getting at here?
If you’re not quite there yet, don’t worry, you’ll see …
[takes audible sip of water and clears throat]
So, I’d been in Bali for forty-eight hours, and I’d yet to really understand how one place could be so damn beautiful.
The outstretched, blue-as-the-sky water.
The gorgeous tropical landscape of palm trees and thick, hearty nature.
And a luscious display of white sand that went on for what felt like miles.
The exotic destination made all of my Florida beach vacations with my family look pathetic in comparison.
As the second day of the competition had officially come to a close, I watched from the sand as the last competitor of the day carried his board out of the water, and once he reached dry land, he shook the remnants of water out of his hair.
The crowd’s energy waned as they began to pack up their belongings, and the judges worked hard to tally the final scores.
With a few more things on my to-do list for the day, I made my way back toward the large tent that had been placed for the competitors of the event.
Walking up the beach sounds like a fairly easy task, right?
Wrong. The heels of my stilettos slipped irritatingly deep into the sand with each step, and every four or five steps, I had to pause and stabilize my balance.
I was all about making fashion statements and dressing in clothes that made me feel good, but holy cannoli, heels at the beach was one of the dumbest things I’d ever attempted.
[laughs softly]
I know, I know, you’re probably rolling your eyes right now. It’s completely warranted. Only a moron would wear heels to the beach.
And, unfortunately for me, I’d been completely moronic that day.
My calves burned and sand made its way between my toes, and it only took another few feet of irritating friction for me to throw up the white fashion flag and slip off the damn things.
I loved those shoes, but they were not worth blisters, or worse, falling face first into the sand.
Honestly, how I’d managed eight hours in the suckers was beyond a miracle.
The instant I stepped beneath the large white tent, I switched my focus toward the fact that my first article would be due to Vanessa by the end of the week.
Thankfully, my eyes locked with the gaze of the exact person I was hoping to sit down with for a few interview questions.
Jordy Fuller.
Now barefoot, I headed his way with a smile.
“Unlucky Lucky,” he greeted with a grin as he unzipped the top part of his wet suit. His muscles rippled and curled as he slid his arms out of the long sleeves and adjusted the black material until it sat at a comfortable spot on his waist.
The man had quite the body. A surfer’s body.
And, after spending nearly forty-eight hours watching these competitors tackle some of the fiercest waves I’d ever seen, I’d found that this version of the professional athlete body was a cross between a tall, lean swimmer and a stacked football god.
[laughs softly]
Yeah, these men were real easy on the eyes, if you know what I’m sayin’.
Their physiques were built for speed and strength, and more than a few times over the past few days, my mind had drifted into daydreams about what that would equate to inside the bedroom.
I’m not normally that pervy of a thinker, but did I mention the surfer bodies?
Yeah, those would inspire a dirty diatribe of thoughts in just about anyone. Especially someone who didn’t have the kind of surf knowledge that would distract them with technical mumbo jumbo.
“Looks like you had a successful day,” I acknowledged, and he just shrugged.
“I guess I did all right.”
He was so full of shit. He’d done fan-fucking-tastic.
After the scores he’d received for that day’s round of wave riding, he’d kept his number one spot and even gained some headway on Noah Wallace, his biggest competitor and the man who currently sat behind him in the overall scores.
“I’m pretty sure we both know you did more than just all right,” I retorted, and a confident little smirk settled on his lips as he changed the subject.
“How is your day going?” he asked. “Learn anything new?”
“Besides never to wear stilettos to the beach?” I responded, and he glanced down at the shoes hanging from my right hand. “I guess I learned a few new things.”
A soft chuckle left his lips, and he squinted into the sun as he met my gaze again. “Such as?”
“Bali has gnarly waves.”
He grinned at my choice in surfer lingo. “That it does. It’s one of my favorite spots in the world.”
“Is that right?”
“There’s nothing like Bali in June. Hell, I was damn near frothing over the waves I’d get to ride today.”
“Frothing?” I questioned and scrunched up my nose. “Is that surfer slang for something?”
“It’s another way to say excited.”
“Oh, gotcha.” I dug my toes into the sand as he took a towel to his head and removed the residual drops of ocean water from his wet hair.
He tossed the damp towel onto the table beside him and turned his full attention back to me. “So what are Ms. Journalist’s plans for the day?”
“I was kind of hoping for a quick interview…”
“With who?”
I would have corrected his “who” to “whom,” but—and I’m speaking from experience here—it turns out strangers find it mildly distasteful if you correct their grammar in a public forum.
“Well…” I paused, and a soft laugh left my throat before I added, “You, actually.”
His blue eyes lit up with surprise. “Really?”
“Of course,” I responded on an incredulous laugh. “You’re the current number one surfer in this competition. I mean, I might not know much about surfing, but I’m pretty sure I can figure out who the important players in this game are just by looking at the scores…”
He laughed at that. “I guess you have a point there, huh?”
“So…do you have a few minutes?”
“I’m all yours.” He winked and sat down in one of the chairs beneath the big tent and then gestured for me to take the empty spot beside him. Just as my ass hit the chair, he added, “But first, you need to pinkie promise you’re not going to make me look bad.”
A tiny giggle escaped my throat. “You know, that’s not really how interviews work.”
“Humor me,” he said and held out the pinkie finger of his right hand. “Plus, I think you kind of owe me one, ya know? I kept your secret, so…”
“What does this mean exactly?” I asked and made a show of scrutinizing his face. “If you give me answers that make you look like a total asshole, I’m just supposed to change it up so you look like some kind of Casanova?”
“That sounds like a good plan to me.”
“Fine.” I laughed and locked my pinkie finger with his. When our fingers separated, I added, “But that wasn’t a hard pinkie promise to make. You seem like a good guy, Jordy. I’ve yet to get any asshole vibes from you.”
“Do you mind repeating that?” he asked and held up one index finger in my direction. “But first, let me get my mom on the line so she can hear it,” he teased, and I giggled in response.
“Your mom doesn’t think you’re a good guy?” I questioned in disbelief as I pulled my phone out of my purse and opened up a fresh Google doc for my interview notes.
He shrugged, stretched out his legs, and casually crossed both arms behind his head. “Once I finally settle down with a nice girl, get married, and pop out a few kids, I think she’ll stop worrying so much.”
“You’re only twenty-three,” I said with a raise of my brow. “Pretty sure you have plenty of time for that.”
“I know, right?” His eyes were wide and agreeing. “That’s exactly what I keep telling her. Maybe you should add a section in your next article that specifically states, Advice for Jordy Fuller’s mom.”
A soft giggle left my lips. “Is she supportive of your career?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, and a reminiscent smile crested his lips. “In all honesty, both of my parents are one hundred percent supportive. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Malibu.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“What?” he asked, eyes light and amused. “What’s funny about Malibu?”
“It just seems like a bit of a cliché.”
“That’s rich coming from the city girl wearing heels to the beach.”
“Hey,” I retorted, but my voice was anything but angry. “Sometimes you have to sacrifice for fashion.”
He winked. “I’m a fan of your sacrifices.”
I rolled my eyes. “I appreciate that, but stop trying to sweet-talk the journalist.”
He raised both arms out in front of him. “I’m not sweet-talking.”
Yeah, he was totally sweet-talking.
And I knew I wasn’t the only journalist I’d heard him sweet-talk.
Before the first day of the competition started, I’d overheard him doing an interview with a pretty female surfing blogger, and he didn’t hesitate to pull out all the stops for her benefit.
Basically, Jordy is one of those adorable, charming, playful types of men who would almost always guarantee a good time. He isn’t an asshole or a jerk, but he also isn’t the kind of guy you settle down with.
He is more vacation fling material than anything else.
He’s twenty-three, at the peak of his surfing career, and his priorities revolve around those two facts.
He would, no doubt, give you the best week of your life.
And, of course, you’d miss the fun you guys had together, but when you got back home and reimmersed yourself in your normal routine, you would quickly understand that a guy like Jordy is meant for temporarily spicing up your life.
He’s young. Amiable. Carefree. And spontaneous.
While those certainly make for one hell of a good time, they’re not the right ingredients for a commitment-based cake, if you know what I mean.
And honestly, just by the hordes of women I’d seen wandering around the gala and competition vying for his attention, it was obvious he had a never-ending supply of his kind of fun.
I knew without a doubt, his kind of fun and my kind of fun were two very different things.
Which made it pretty easy for me to stay focused on business. There wasn’t even the slightest temptation of adding a side of Jordy-fueled pleasure to the mix.
“Can we get back to the interview?” I flashed a knowing look in his direction.
“By all means,” he said with a grin. “Hit me with your next question.”
“Okay, prepare yourself for fast questions and even quicker answers. We’re going full-on lightning round.”
The point of the lightning-round questions wasn’t necessarily to gather pertinent information, but more to put my interviewee at ease and get them relaxed and in the moment enough to give me candid responses for the important questions.
Seeing as Mr. Surfing Casanova had already veered us off topic twice, it was needed.
“All right.” He sat up in his seat a little and made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”
“What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”
“Protein pancakes.”
“Why do you love surfing?”
“Freedom.”
“If you had to choose between Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick, who would you go on a date with?”
“Uh…shit…I guess if I had to choose, I’d go with Blake Lively.”
“What do you mean, if you had to choose?” I quirked a brow in his direction. “Neither of those women tickle your fancy?” I asked as I typed a few notes from our conversation into my phone.
He shrugged. “I’m more of a Megan Fox kind of guy.”
“So, sexy, bombshell brunettes are your thing?”
“They’re my kryptonite,” he answered with zero hesitation and a little wink to punctuate. “Although, I’m finding that quirky redheads are pretty intriguing as well.”
“Shut up,” I said on a laugh, but before I could add to that, an all-too-familiar voice filled my ears.
“Why don’t you tell her about the sixty-footer that gave you an extra ten-point lead in the competition?”
Ollie stepped up toward us, and I had to squint my eyes toward the sun just to read the expression on his face.
It wasn’t nice, and it wasn’t friendly. If anything, the strong lines of his jaw and tight pull of his full lips into a firm line showcased irritation. Annoyance, even.
“It was gnarly,” Jordy responded and smirked in my direction. “I felt like the surf gods themselves had blessed me with a miracle by laying that beauty at my feet.”
“Sixty-footer. That’s incredible.” I grinned at Jordy, and just as I was typing an additional note into my phone, I heard, “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”
I looked up to meet Ollie’s eyes and realized he wasn’t talking to Jordy. No, he was talking to me.
“Right now?”
He nodded.
“It’s that important?”
“Yes.”
The seriousness of his tone made me feel like I had to give in to his request.
I mean, I had no idea what he needed, but I figured it must be important if he was interrupting an interview. And to be honest, silently, I started to fear something had happened to Allie…
“Oh, okay,” I said and stood up from my chair, grabbing my shoes and purse from the ground. “Jordy, are you taking the bus back to the hotel?”
He nodded. “That’s the plan.”
One of the nice things about the way the competition was set up was that all of the competitors, journalists, and sponsors stayed in one hotel, and daily transportation was provided to and from the events. Not to mention, the increased security that kept overzealous fans from overwhelming the surfers.
It was perfect for a journalist like me.
Even if I didn’t manage to snag the interviews I wanted during the competition, I was almost always guaranteed to run into the surfers during the rides to and from the hotel. And I was hoping they wouldn’t mind talking about themselves—their lifestyle, their personalities, the kind of fearlessness it had to take to go out there day after day—in addition to the surfing. If I had any hope of making these articles something worthy of reading, I knew I needed a different angle than a regular sports commentator.
“Mind if we finish this on the ride back?”
“Not at all.” He shook his head and smiled softly. “I’ll save you a seat.”
“Hey, Jordy!” A photographer holding a camera grabbed his attention from the other side of the tent just as he stood. “Mind if we grab a few photos of you?”
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation, and I looked toward Ollie.
“Do you want to go somewhere private or…?”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
I turned on my bare feet to follow his lead, but after about two minutes of walking up the beach and back toward the gated parking lot where the transportation buses were located, I dug my heels into the sand and stopped.
“Is there a reason we’re walking this far?” I asked, and Ollie turned around to find I was no longer following him.
It only took four long, easy strides for him to backtrack toward me.
“What kind of articles are you planning on writing?” he asked, and I scrunched up my nose at his words.
“What?”
“For Scoop,” he added, his lips still firm, his jaw slightly clenched.
His question felt…invasive. And his eyes were clouded with something I couldn’t quite discern. But, if anything, it felt like judgment and disapproval.
I put a hand to my hip and stared up into his scrutinizing brown eyes. “What are you trying to say here, Ollie?”
“You know exactly what I’m trying to say.”
My jaw damn near hit the ground. “Are you saying I’m shitty at my job?”
“You don’t know anything about surfing, do you?” he asked, and I hated how all-knowing and self-righteous he looked in that moment.
If I’m being honest, guys, I wanted to smack him.
I didn’t, but holy hell, the urge was strong.
But my defensive claws? Yeah, they were out. Sharpened. Pointed. Fucking ready to fight back.
“I might not know all the ins and outs of this competition like you do,” I started, and my mouth was so full of sass, I could taste its bitter flavor on my tongue. “But I do know everything there is to know about journalism and what readers want to see. I know how their brains tick and how long their attention span is and how to gain their interest. And I most certainly, without a doubt, know how to do my fucking job.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” he retorted, and skepticism dripped from his voice like honey. “I mean, I’m no world-class journalist, but the questions about breakfast and celebrity dates sure as hell didn’t feel all that award-winning, little fire.”
“Stop calling me that!” I spat, and before I knew it, I’d lifted one of my shiny stilettos and chucked it straight toward his big, egotistical head.
[pauses and sighs]
Sidenote: it wasn’t my proudest moment, guys, but hells bells, he drove me crazy.
I mean, the audacity of him not only interrupting my interview, but also questioning my abilities as a journalist? Yeah, I was fired the fuck up.
Ollie dodged the shoe like Neo from the Matrix, and when his eyes met mine, he was full on grinning.
It’s safe to say that stupid grin didn’t help douse my anger.
No sirree, Bob. It only added fuel to the already inferno-like flames.
He leaned down, picked up my stiletto off the sand, and held it up in the air like he’d found the golden fucking ticket of ways to tease me.
“Heels?” he asked. “At the beach? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the long, thin spike on these things means they’re not a sandal, right?”
I gritted my teeth. “I’m pretty certain I kind of hate you.”
He laughed off my words. “You don’t hate me.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I hate you,” I spat back. “Which says a lot, because I don’t even hate Tiago, and he’s completely hateable.”
“Tiago?” he questioned with a quirk of his brow, and another wave of anger filled my belly over how damn intrigued and curious he looked. “Is that another one of your ex-boyfriends?”
“He’s none of your business.” I stepped forward and snatched my shoe back out of his hand. “Just like the questions I ask during interviews are also none of your business.”
“Oh, but they kind of are,” he said, and a little, knowing smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “See, I own Surf Arsen, and you’re here because of my company. I could easily change that if I chose to.”
I glared. “What do you mean by that? You planning on pulling out of the advertising contract you signed with Scoop?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you trying to say here?”
“I’m just looking out for you,” he said.
“Looking out for me?” I questioned in outrage. “What the hell? You just interrupted my interview! I’m no rocket scientist, but that feels like the complete opposite of looking out for me. Which I don’t need, by the way. I’m not a fucking child.”
“You sure about that?” he winked and nodded toward the shoes hanging from my right hand. “Throwing shoes doesn’t exactly prove that statement, little fire.”
I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up.
I wanted to throw both of my shoes at him.
I also still wanted to slap that dumb, irritating smirk off of his stupid handsome face.
But instead, I took a big, deep breath and tried to keep the wrath that boiled inside of me under control.
“Are you like this with everyone?” I questioned. “Or is it just me? Because I’m having a hell of a time understanding how you have any friends if you’re like this all the damn time.”
“Are you like this with everyone?” he retorted back with a stupid smirk. “Or is it just me?”
He had a point.
Most people knew me as a laid-back, easygoing kind of gal.
But for some unknown reason, Ollie brought out my most extreme emotions.
The effect he had on me was stupefying.
I’d never thrown a shoe at someone in my whole entire life, never even been tempted. Yet ten minutes into a conversation with him, and I didn’t hesitate to throw my stiletto at his giant, arrogant head.
Hell, I feared if I stayed around any longer, I’d end up capitalizing on that slap across the face my hand had been itching to dish out.
“Oh. My. God,” I said on an exasperated groan. “I’m literally walking away from you right now before I stab you with my stiletto.”
Yeah, I was done.
Just done.
In that moment, I had to walk away from him.
Seriously, you guys. It felt like a life-or-death kind of decision.
If I’d continued to stand there, who the heck knows what would’ve happened.
I turned in the opposite direction and stomped my feet across the sand as I walked up the beach and away from the event tent, away from every-fucking-thing, away from the most annoying man on the planet.
I needed a minute.
Any minute, as long as it included a reprieve from the biggest jerk I’d ever met in my entire life.