Instead, after driving all day to find out our crappy bungalow wasn’t even on the beach, we were stuck here, at a crowded beachside bar. There was sand and beer, all right; the floor was sticky with a mixture of both. But all I really wanted right now was to get my keys from this Billy-whoever-he-was and get the hell out of here so I could unpack my things and throw on my favorite sweatpants.
I was more than a little surprised by how busy the place was, especially for a Tuesday night. The girl-to-guy ratio was somewhere in the three to one range, with girls crowding the small space, wearing everything from cropped tops and miniskirts, to bikini tops and leave-nothing-to-the-imagination cutoff jeans. The more skin the better seemed to be the name of the game.
So far, the California boys might have the Tempe boys beat in the looks department, but it turned out boys were still boys, no matter where you went. The guys here had basically the same moves. They sat back and watched the girls like hungry wolves, waiting for one of the lambs to wander away from the flock.
I spotted Lucas’s spiky hair as he expertly shouldered his way through the crowd to reach us. He smiled just as wolfishly as the rest of them as he clutched the menus under one arm and balanced three beer bottles in his hands. When he got to our table he set a bottle down in front of each of us and waited expectantly.
I glanced up at him and lifted a brow. “Um, thank you . . .” I stretched my gratitude out, giving him the ego stroke he was clearly anticipating. Then, when he didn’t produce the information I’d been hoping for, I prompted, “And my keys . . . ?”
“Yeah, that. I couldn’t get Billy’s attention.” He took the seat next to Emerson’s and threw the full weight of his attention—and his smoldering gaze—on her. “So tell me about yourselves. What’s your story?” he asked.
Em fiddled with the label on her bottle coyly . . . as if she’d ever had a coy bone in her body. “What do you wanna know?”
“Well, since you have a carload of suitcases and an impressive accent, why don’t you start with where you’re from?”
And like that, I became invisible.
Normally, this part didn’t bother me, the part where guys were drawn to Em like flies to honey. I didn’t blame them. She was the female equivalent of Chiseled Abs here. Plus, she was a puppet master—pulling guys’ strings with a well-placed pucker, a flutter of her eyelashes, and a lean in at just the right moment. She took flirtation to a whole new level.
I had my own secret weapons, I just preferred to keep mine undercover . . . like a superhero. Or a spy. If I’d tried Em’s moves, it would look like I had something stabbing me in my eye or had a problem with my mouth that needed serious medical attention. Stat.
Today, however, I wasn’t in the mood for a front-row seat to one of her impressive acts.
Em wrinkled her brow and gave her standard: “I don’t have an accent, silly.” Which came out so full of drawl she may as well have been wearing assless chaps and swinging a lasso. She actually had the nerve to giggle then, making me glare at her as I impatiently waited for either of them to notice I was still siting at the table, or for Lucas to stop flirting for a second so he could elaborate on the whole key issue.
He didn’t. Instead, he chuckled at Emerson while he took a long pull from his beer and eyed her hungrily. “Oh yeah, you totally do. Besides, even if you didn’t—which you do—your car’s sportin’ Arizona plates. So? Where you from? And I mean originally, because you definitely aren’t from Arizona, either.”
I had to wonder how many hours he’d spent in front of the mirror perfecting that fuck-me stare of his, because Em was totally buying into it.
“You caught us.” She shrugged, flashing me the same it’s not my fault look I had seen from her a hundred times before, like she was shocked anyone had noticed poor little ol’ her. “I’m from Dallas. Originally. Or just outside Dallas—a teensy nothin’ of a place called Highland Village. Lo here is from the suburbs of Denver. But we met at ASU.”
Arizona. I’d been glad to leave that dust bowl behind.
It hadn’t exactly been my first choice for college, but my parents had been insistent about me not straying too far. It they’d had their way, I’d have stayed within commuting distance. If I’d had mine, I would have landed in Florida or one of the Carolinas. Or right here in California. Anyplace with beaches and bikinis . . . and lots and lots of water.
So we’d compromised. Arizona met my mom’s number one (albeit unspoken) criteria: It was landlocked. But it also met mine: It was far enough from home to give me the breathing room I’d been craving. I could still visit home; it just meant that my mom couldn’t pop in without at least giving me a heads-up.
Meeting Em had been a bonus, the single best thing to come out of my stint at ASU. From the moment I’d walked into the dorm we’d been assigned to share our freshman year, Em had hooked her arm through mine and told me (totally straight faced) that her favorite color was “sparkles.” We’d been inseparable ever since.
“So, you, what . . . decided to beach-bum it for the summer?” Lucas asked.
Em shrugged, looking to me to see if she should elaborate. “Something like that . . .”
Uncomfortable with the way this conversation was headed, I reached out and tapped the table in front of Lucas, forcing him to stop ogling Emerson long enough to notice me. “About this Billy guy . . .”
“Uh, yeah . . . like I said, I couldn’t get his attention.” He pointed to the bar, where a cluster of scantily clad blondes congregated like there was a blowout sale on Prada bags. “Busy night,” he told me dismissively, shrugging to let me know he’d given it his best shot.
“Yet, somehow you managed to get our drinks,” I persisted, ticked that he wasn’t taking this seriously.
He sighed. “Different bartender.”
I looked again, this time following to where he was pointing, at the other end of the bar. It was far less crowded there, where a dark-haired girl was working behind the counter.
I huffed impatiently as I shoved away from our table. “Fine. I’ll get ’em myself.” Busy or not, there was no way I was walking out of this place without our keys.
I was on a mission. As I waded through the sea of tanned and toned bodies, it became more and more obvious I was out of my element in my worn blue jeans and Grateful Dead T-shirt. Whenever someone pushed me, I pushed back, trying not to be skeeved out by the fact that when I did, my hands met exposed flesh more often than not.
If you judged by looks alone, Emerson could easily pass for one of these California girls, with her straight-from-the-bottle blonde hair and those superlong legs of hers. It wasn’t until she opened her mouth and you heard her twang, or you learned of her undying love for Taylor Swift and spangled clothing, that you knew she really belonged deep in the heart of Texas.
Me, not so much. I wasn’t the typical California beauty, but I’d never really been the typical anything. I hadn’t inherited my mother’s sultry Cuban looks. Frankly, I didn’t even pass as Hispanic on the surface. But I also didn’t have my dad’s pale Waspy thing going for me either.
I’d landed somewhere in between mousy and uninspiring.
Still, I had my assets, and I’d learned how to best use them to my advantage. I’d just never been one of those girls who felt comfortable putting those assets front and center, at least not in real life.
I blamed my parents for my lingering hang-ups. They were great people, even if a little . . . let’s call it overprotective. I’d been given every opportunity a kid could dream of, ski lessons, great vacations—they even gave me a horse for my eleventh birthday. What little girl doesn’t want her own pony?
I had it all, as long as it didn’t involve beaches or swimming pools . . . anything deemed a drowning hazard. So there’d never been any reasons to run around in swimsuits the way other kids had. I’d never learned to be shamelessly uninhibited about my body.
But it wasn’t like I’d grown up Amish or anything either. Plus, I’d gone to school in
Arizona, where it wasn’t just hot it was downright sweltering. Most of the girls came to class wearing midriffs and booty shorts.
Personally, I preferred observing all that skin from a distance. And this . . . this sliding between all the half-naked bodies . . . well, a can of Crisco might have made it easier.
By the time I’d made my way through the crush, I leaned against the bar and let out an audible sigh. I couldn’t decide if I deserved a trophy or needed a shower.
From the other side of the counter, I got a good look at the brunette bartender, and was struck by how stunning she was up close. Not a California girl in the typical sense, with her glossy curls and full scarlet lips that stood out against her porcelain skin. She looked airbrushed.
She’d just cracked two beers and passed them to a guy who handed her a twenty. She didn’t offer him any change in return, and when he started to complain, she arched a brow at him, letting him know this wasn’t a negotiation.
He opened and closed his mouth, and then, when she continued to stare him down, he took his beer and stalked away.
“He’ll be back. He always is,” she told me, the trace of a smirk transforming her expression. “What can I get you?”
Immediately, I liked her. I wanted to be her. Self-possessed. Poised. Fierce.
Bolstered by our new girl-bond, I figured she might be just the person to help me out. “I’m trying to find Billy!” I had to shout since it was louder over here by the bar.
Her smirk melted as she gave me the once over. Both eyebrows rose this time, and I tried to translate her expression. Bored? Tired? Unimpressed?
Then she indicated the swell of bodies squeezed together and clamoring for attention near the other end of the bar. “Yeah? Well, you and just about every other girl here.”
I followed her gaze to where Lucas had pointed earlier when he’d come up empty-handed after going for my keys.
It was like watching sharks locked in a feeding frenzy. I perused the mob of over-glossed lips and barely dressed bodies, as I tried to see what all the fuss was about. I finally managed to catch a glimpse of the bartender beyond them.
Billy, I presumed.
Something surged in my stomach, something primal and undeniable. I told myself it was probably just indigestion, even though I knew better.
Billy was magnificent.
Billy, with his tousled hair and wearing a T-shirt so snug there was almost no need to imagine the ripped chest hidden beneath. Billy, with his too-good-to-be-true boyish looks and who laughed in all the right places and flashed his Colgate-worthy smile. Billy, who revealed just the hint of a dimple as he slid drink after drink to the predatory girls who swarmed the other side of his bar.
Billy, who had the keys to my new place.
I crushed the butterflies in my stomach. This was no time to be thinking about strong biceps and sexy lips.
“Thanks,” I told the bartender who’d pointed Billy out.
Trying to channel some of her confidence, I stormed off in his direction. I wasn’t sure if I was seeing red because I was being forced to charge headfirst into a gaggle of beach sluts competing for some guy’s attention, or if I was really just mad at myself (and maybe at Em too) since this whole mess was our fault to begin with. If we’d been on time, I’d already be safely tucked away in my new “cozy beachside bungalow.”
Maybe I was jumping to unfair conclusions about this whole situation. Maybe these were nice girls who were just incredibly comfortable in their own skin—literally—the way Emerson was. Maybe hanging out here and flirting with the hot bartender was their way of blowing off steam.
Maybe I should stop being so judge-y and collect my keys so I could get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning I’d have a whole new (less cranky) perspective.
Managing to find an open patch at Billy’s end of the bar, I leaned over its sticky, over-shellacked surface. “Hey!” I had to shout so I could be heard above the roar. “You Billy?”
His attention snapped my way, but not before one of the girls whipped her head around to scowl down at me, her platform heels making her at least six inches taller than me. “Wait your turn!” Her voice was shrill and nasally.
There went my whole “nice girls” theory.
I opened my mouth to tell her to mind her own damned business, but she’d said her piece and was done with me, already icing me out as she turned back toward Billy-the-sexy-bartender. It was kind of awe-inspiring, how quickly her nasty expression transformed the moment she was eye to eye with him again. This girl had game face down to an art.
She gazed at him like she wanted to gobble him up, no hint that she’d never bared her fangs at me in the first place.
The bartender’s attention had jerked to me when I’d called out to him, but now he coolly examined me the way the dark-haired bartender had. I wondered if he noticed how much I stood out in this place, and if he was thinking I didn’t quite measure up to the other girls.
Then his eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he plucked a glass from the rack in front of him. “Name’s not Billy,” he said absently. He pulled the handle on the tap, filling the glass until foam spilled over the sides before handing it to the girl who acted like it was her job to run interference on his behalf. He winked at the girl. “On the house, Mona.”
She picked up her beer and took a not-so-demure sip, batting her false lashes at the bartender. Then she suggestively licked the foam from her overly lined lips. Her tongue made several more trips around the block, just in case the gesture had been too vague.
It hadn’t been.
“Thanks, Will. You’re a doll,” she cooed.
I stood there for a moment.
Will. His name was Will.
“You coming to the Sand and Slam Thursday night?” she asked, not yet ready to give up on him.
Will-not-Billy gave the girl a sheepish grin while my cheeks grew hot over my mistake. “Sorry—can’t. Busy,” he explained.
“Aw, you’re no fun! You’re always busy,” the girl huffed. She took another sip, her tongue doing that god-awful licking thing as it took another not-so-provocative pass around her lips. And when Bartender Will turned his back on her dismissively, she finally called it quits, casting me a good luck with that look, before tottering away on her sky-high platforms.
I didn’t move right away, so he caught me off guard when he spun back around and leaned across the bar toward me. I opened my mouth, thinking maybe I should apologize or order a drink or something, but I never got the chance.
“Who told you to call me Billy?” His tone and mood were far less banter-y than they had been just seconds ago, when he’d been giving free drinks to the Lip Licker. It only took me a second to make the connection I’d been missing.
Will . . . Billy . . . of course. I hadn’t been mistaken. Billy was short for William.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You are him?” My irritation at being here in the first place hit me full blast. “What the hell difference does it make whether you’re Bill or Billy or William . . .” My voice raised, and I couldn’t help noticing that my accusation had drawn the attention of several pairs of heavily made-up eyes. “Lucas Harper says you have my keys, and I want them.”
The noise that had been deafening only moments before died down to a dull roar, and now it felt like everyone was listening to us. To me.
I shot a glare at those around me and then snapped around to face Will again, but he’d already turned his back on me, snubbing me the same way he had Lip Licker.
“Hey! Are you listening? I said: Give me my keys!” I pounded my fist against the bar.
I no longer cared if I attracted a full-blown audience. I refused to be brushed aside.
But he continued to ignore me, and I searched for a way to get his attention. I wasn’t above throwing something at his head.
When I saw a giant bronze bell hanging above the bar, I reached for the cord and tugged it as hard as I could. The metallic clang vibrated loudly through the air, ring
ing hollowly in my ears.
“You!” I shouted at Will’s back.
That got him.
He whirled around and I pointed directly at him. “I need to talk to you.”
WILL
This chick was so out of her element here.
She wasn’t like the other girls who went out of their way to get my attention, with their pouty lips and jutting double D’s. Not that I didn’t appreciate their efforts.
I just couldn’t afford the mess afterward—that clingy part where they wanted to talk, or pretend that just because we’d fucked we were some kind of couple. Or that thing where they couldn’t stop texting or stopping by until I finally had to be a dick to get the point across.
Even if I didn’t have obligations, even if I wasn’t a different person now, I knew better than to piss in the pot I drank from.
I couldn’t let anything—or anyone—distract me again.
But there was something different about this girl. She didn’t want me. Or . . . at least she didn’t want me yet. She wasn’t giving me the I wanna rip your clothes off and do filthy things with my mouth look. I had no idea what I’d done to piss her off, but the look she was giving me was more along the lines of I want to rip your throat out.
I had to admit, the look suited her. Maybe I was a degenerate, but with those glittering brown eyes and flushed cheeks of hers . . . hell, even the way she slammed her fist on the bar . . . she sorta turned me on.
If only she hadn’t called me Billy.
No one called me that anymore; most everyone knew better. The second I’d heard that name roll off her lips—even lips as pretty as hers—my hackles had automatically gone up.
She was so fucking lucky she was a girl.
It had taken me several seconds to suppress the throat-punching reflex, and to do so I had to pretend the brown-eyed girl wasn’t still standing there. But it was too late to take back the free beer I’d offered Mona, all because Brown Eyes had rattled me. I knew better than to encourage chicks like Mona, the regulars who were constantly begging for a bone—if you know what I mean. Because of that move, she’d think she was special. Think she actually stood a chance of landing me.
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