I HAD NIGHTMARES ABOUT DEZ’S ass in the few hours I was able to sleep.
I’d blame Brit, but my poor best friend is still mortified that I saw her and Dez together.
We both spent last night at Geer’s and she filled me in on what happened after I walked away. She was so high on Dez and drunk on alcohol that she doesn’t even remember seeing Bash last night. Or that Bash also saw Dez’s ass.
Not that I blame her for not remembering Bash. I mean, I’m sure he’d be offended if he knew, but he isn’t the one that fulfilled a fantasy with their childhood crush.
I’m happy for my best friend. So happy. And a wee bit jealous. Just a smidgen though. She got lucky last night. I didn’t. Bash might be a pro in the water, but he has a magical set of lips and a tongue full of spells. Imagining what he is able to do with the rest of his body had me squirming on the car ride home.
Leaving my passed out, snoring best friend in the bed we shared, I go outside, falling into my routine.
Wetsuit, board, wax, beach.
Surfing is, and always will be, a part of me. Just like breathing. I can’t stop for my parents. Not even for me. No matter how much I love surfing, how much it puts my body at ease, it terrifies me. The purest passion in my life became tainted several years ago. But as much as stepping into the water spikes my anxieties, I don’t let it win. Every day I face my fear and I face it alone.
Stopping would mean killing a bigger part of me than people realize.
Which is why, when I see my wave I don’t hesitate to catch it. Determination owns my movements as I spin my board around, so the nose faces the beach, and begin paddling. The water under me gets shallower, my board being pulled back as my arms keep paddling.
A wave’s forming.
I’m getting swept back, further into it. There’s always a split second of fear that the wave will go on without me, but not this time.
Everything happens at once.
I catch the wave and push my body to pop up. My feet feel solid and I find my balance.
Water curls over me. For a moment the world slows down as I reach out my hand, touching the wave. I speed up, almost flying. A spray of water hits my face in a fine mist.
I just make it out of the barrel when a body slams into me. “Ooof!”
In a mess of limbs, we go crashing to the water, rolling under a couple of times before we break through the surface and I find my hands on a pair of familiar muscular shoulders that belong to a very shirtless dude, who is grinning at me.
One arm is locked loosely around my waist while the other shakes some water out of his hair. I silently curse every deity I’ve ever learned about.
Staring back at me are those leather brown eyes of Sebastian Cleaton. “Firecracker? What a lovely surprise.”
“Bite me.” I push away from him, propelling backwards.
He catches my ankle, pulling me back toward him.
“Hey now, someone not a morning person?” His lips are moving and words are coming out, but all I can think of is how they moved against mine.
“I’m going to have a you-shaped bruise on my body if we keep meeting this way,” I grumble. Seriously, how embarrassing and klutzy can one person be?
There are only so many blows a person can take before it starts to affect them.
Like how many times can a person keep body checking a pro surfer?
“Pretty sure if anyone is going to get a bruise, it’s me.” He rubs his chest. His perfectly tan, artfully sculpted chest that doesn’t have a single blemish on it. No discoloration.
However, on one of his deliciously sculpted pecs is the tattoo I spied last night. It’s a fancy hook-like symbol with some kind of pattern making up the inside detail. It’s hot. I want to touch it. Maybe even lick it.
“You should wear protective padding next time you see me.” Because apparently small town logic also applies to Bash. Can’t leave the house without seeing at least one person I know. At least it’s Bash and not someone that would tell my parents what I’m doing.
“Nah, I can take it.” He pulls my ankle higher, dipping my body more into the water. “It’s cute that you care though.”
“Cute enough that I can have my foot back?” Using my arms, I try to swim away, but Bash pulls back, tugging me closer to him.
My board is floating a little ways away from us; the leash tethered to my ankle keeps it from floating off into the ocean.
“Hmm.” Bash brings his hand, the one not holding my foot, to his chin, pretending to think about it. “Nah, don’t think so.”
I know when to fight and when to bide my time. This time happens to be the latter. So, I willingly float on my back, letting Bash hold my ankle. I’m so tired, anyway. Which is probably why I didn’t notice him in the water to begin with.
Even if that’s not the reason, I’m saying it is.
Because who wouldn’t be tired if they only got two hours of sleep?
I close my eyes and float, with some help from Bash.
The water rolls under my body, lapping onto my covered skin. The fact that Bash isn’t in a wetsuit shouldn’t surprise me. Most don’t need them in Florida, even in the winter.
Hell, I don’t need one.
I want one. It’s my shield in the water, protecting me from prying eyes.
Even if I’m surfing in secret, I never think I’m alone. I’m convinced someone is always watching. I’m a paranoid person by nature, so I’m always on edge that when I walk through my front door, my parents will be waiting on me, knowing what I’ve been up to.
Also, in case anyone does see me, they won’t have to see my scars. I don’t mind them, but I know other people don’t always see what I do.
My mind keeps trying to replay what happened at the party, how I can still feel the ghosts of his hands roam over my body, but I won’t let it. Shutting it down. Nope, not today. Not ever again.
As hot as it was, and it was plenty hot, I don’t allow myself to think about it. Can’t.
I’m not going to set myself up for disappointment. Hook ups don’t mean relationships. Something I’ve helped Brit through a few times in college. They don’t equal the same thing. Men are after one thing with hook ups, and with relationships they’re after that plus more. So much more.
So, I’m not going to bring up the make out session. I’m not going to reference it. Or make any jokes involving anything relating to the events that took place at the party.
It’s hard.
Very, very hard.
I like to mess with people. I like to give them a hard time. That might make me a bitch or whatever, but I don’t care.
Because holding my tongue is a joke in itself. It’s torture.
“Falling asleep on me?” Bash tickles my foot, making me jackknife up. Balancing on one foot that’s tethered to a board is not easy, but I manage as I squeal, trying to pull away.
“I didn’t fall asleep, you ass,” I say between laughs. “I was relaxing.”
“What’s that like?” he asks playfully, but he stops caressing my foot. Thank goodness.
“Like floating in the water without having to worry about a fucker tickling my foot. You should try it sometime.”
He chuckles, dropping my foot.
Finally.
The taste of freedom is enough that I pull my surfboard over and between us. A divider to keep the ankle stealing to a limit.
I heave myself onto the board, using the top to support my upper body. My feet kick under it. “How come you don’t look tired?”
He had to have been up just as late or later than I was and he doesn’t look tired at all. His movements aren’t sluggish; his eyes aren’t dull or hazy.
Bash shrugs. “I’m used to waking up early. After a few years, I guess my body has gotten used to it.”
Lucky bastard. Must be nice being favored by evolution. “I don’t believe you.” Because I can’t let him get away with that without giving him a hard time. “I think you were sitting on your couch with a coffee IV drip before coming out here. Admit it.”
“I can’t. I plead the fifth.” He moves closer to me, the water rippling from his movements. The small set that we’re reported to get is either delayed or not coming at all because the ocean is now flat. A tiny part of me is happy about this. More time to spend time with Bash and not have to worry about actual surfing.
It’s a man’s world, the surfing world. Even the surfers who aren’t pro and do it just as a hobby don’t respect women in the lineup.
They don’t think that we have skills. They just like to look at us for eye candy. Sexist bastards.
Before I wasn’t allowed to surf, I’d go out to the beach with actual people. The lineup always had more guys who made more catcalls than praises. There were a few princes in the convoy of frogs, but still.
I got it the worst. First for being a girl and then for having a father who was a pro.
It’s one thing I don’t miss about surfing during the day.
“That’s a nice board.” Bash gazes at my baby. I’m leaning over it as my fingers drum on it tenderly. It is a nice board. It’s the nicest thing I own, counting my car. Not because of the value, although it is hella expensive, but it’s my prized possession.
“It is.” There is no way to mistake the sighing tone in my voice. Please don’t think I’m lusting for my board—I’m really lusting for you.
Wait. No.
“You love it.” His voice changes a little, it has a twinge of something I don’t know how to describe.
I give him a wary look. “I do. If you know what I had to go through to get it—”
“Not your board, Firecracker.” His tone is still different, but I can’t figure it out. “Although it is something to love. I’m talking about surfing. You love it.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s my first love.”
Surfing has the honor of being my first love. Not a guy.
Surfing also gets the title of being my first heartbreak.
“What’s that like?” he asks again, but with a more serious tone. His eyes no longer look alive, but dull. Almost lifeless.
“What’s what like?” I try to keep my tone light, to brighten our conversation, but it doesn’t work.
Bash’s tone is as lifeless as his eyes when he answers, “Surfing.”
For a moment, I’m in shock. I stare, jaw slightly unhinged, eyes a wee bit wide. I’m staring at a pro surfer, one of the most eligible bachelors, and must be suffering from a hearing problem. Because it sounds like Sebastian Cleaton just asked what it’s like to love surfing.
Surely that’s a mistake.
Right?
“Shouldn’t you know that?” I ask, hoping he’s joking like earlier.
“Nope.” Deadpan. “What’s it like, Emery?”
Something inside me tightens, synching around my lungs. Bash looks defeated. Like he’s been fighting a losing battle and doesn’t have enough strength to keep going. “Scary,” I whisper, honestly. “But freeing. Like I’m facing my biggest fears and winning. I’m escaping reality, falling more in love every day. There’s nothing like surfing. Nothing to compare it to. At least not for me. I think everyone takes away something different, but for me, surfing is the closest thing to magic we have.”
“I used to think that.” He smiles, but there is nothing happy about it. If possible, the smile looks sad and that sadness stretches to his eyes. “But I haven’t felt that way in a long time.” He sighs and mumbles, as if to himself, “It’s been a fucking long time.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. He sounds so sad I want to hug him. But I have the board between us and I’m not sure if Bash and I are at a hugging stage. If we’re at any stage or just standing behind the curtain.
He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Listen, I—” He tries to form words but closes his mouth, swallows loud enough that I can hear, and tries again. “I—I got to go. I’m sorry, Em.”
With those parting words, Bash backs away, paddling to the beach. I stay still, floating on my board, and watch as he gets out of the water, walks across the sand, and disappears down the trail.
“Bye, Bash,” I say to the water. Probably for good.