Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

He pushes the brim of his hat up in surprise, and I get a glimpse of the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen. The whites around them are so bright they’re like new snow, and the color of his irises reminds me of faded Levi’s.

  He blinks. “So you’d go to concerts if you could hit ‘pause’ at will?”

  “Hmm?” I’m staring right into his eyes, having the hardest time catching anything he says. I slide my gaze away while he repeats his question.

  “Right.” I think I manage to feign boredom. “Anyway. Later, Peter Roadie. Later.”

  The day creaks toward noon, and I’m bored to tears in here: we’ve had zero customers, the store is clinically free of dust, and Mrs. Monaldo still manages to look stressed out. She keeps running from one side of the store to the other with really small steps while tapping on her phone. Every few minutes, she checks to see that I’m doing her latest bidding, as in straightening the bills and laying them out alphabetically. You’d have thought she’d want them according to their deadlines, but not Mrs. Monaldo.

  I’ve been thinking about Peter Pan (He doesn’t fool me. No way his first name is Peter) and the concerts he’s here for. As soon as Mrs. Monaldo takes her lunch break, I settle in at the counter and log into the computer to search for tonight’s fundraiser.

  Oh, of course. It’s the Strong Women of Laguna Sands’ yearly fundraiser. My mom is one of the founding members of SWLS, but a few younger girls have been taking the lead, and it shows on the banner for this concert. God knows how they’ve hooked bands like The D-Bags, Night Shifts Black, Tracing Holland, Limelight, and Clown Irruption.

  Suddenly, the crazy crowds this early in the season make a lot of sense. It really is like Mardi Gras. I don’t even feel like picking up my regular Friday sub at Marco’s. A lot of those people won’t be awake for the concert if they keep drinking at the pace I’m seeing.

  “Naomi, your father called,” Mrs. Monaldo tells me when I return from lunch on the roof. She has a way of sounding reverent whenever it comes to my dad. In a small town like this, everything has its reason. In Mrs. Monaldo’s case, she was the prom queen to my dad’s prom king. Legend has it the night continued in unforgettable ways after the official party was over. More specifically in a broom closet at the back of the high school gym.

  “Yeah?” Idly, I wonder why he called the store and not my cell.

  “Yeah, he wondered if you could make it down to the bar after work tonight. He has a waitress out sick, and due to the concert, he expects to be swamped.”

  Mrs. Monaldo chews on the inside of her cheek while she waits for my response, a habit I’m sure she’s been nurturing since her prom-queen days. It seems oddly juvenile on a forty-five-year-old woman.

  “Oh right.” I exhale slowly. As the daughter of a bar owner, I’ve waitressed since I was twelve. I do enjoy the interaction with our regulars at Lyndon’s Gap, but have I mentioned I’m not exactly a fan of the spring-breakers?

  I love my family, though. For your family, you jump in wherever they need you, so I steel myself for a long, long day in Laguna Sands at its ADHD peak.

  Expectations

  * * *

  Isn’t it weird when your joints creak from lack of use? It’s what’s happening to me now as I take the car over to Point Ruby, where Lyndon’s Gap is. All afternoon, I sat on a stool behind the register, stacking greeting cards we’re sending back to the main office because they’re not selling.

  In moments like these, when I get out of the car on the backside of Point Ruby, it strikes me how beautiful this place is. The park is lit up by romantic, old-fashioned-looking lampposts. They lead from a statue of a mother with child, the wife and daughter of Laguna Spring’s founding father, all the way down to our bar at the lip of the cliff.

  Lyndon’s Gap overhangs the water, nature having formed a rock balcony that perches over an angry maelstrom. I’ve seen spring-breakers hop in there and barely make it out alive. We have a sign warning them of a two-thousand-dollar fine if they try it.

  The bar’s stone-paved terrace comfortably seats eighty-four patrons. It merges with the path that ends on the rock balcony. The inside is smaller, with ten tables and a bar counter.

  Inside, I find my father running the show in his quiet, easy way. I know all the bartenders tonight—Shauna, Myra, Christine, Leah, and Brett. People don’t quit on my dad, so they’ve all been around for years.

  Shauna gives me a hug and points me toward section nine on the terrace. That’s where my father wants me. It’s the one closest to the rock balcony and my personal favorite. I get to moon-gaze if I have a free moment, and he knows I like that.

  “Table thirty-two has two margarita pitchers coming, and twenty-nine wants pints of the clover brewski all around. The rest I haven’t touched. Here.” Shauna hands me a notepad.

  I high-five her and go to grab an apron. When it’s showtime at Londyn’s Gap, I always feel like looking my best, so I apply my favorite apple-red lipstick. I smirk at myself; funny how I get exhausted from doing nothing at the store all day, while here, I’m already exhilarated. Teamwork, dammit. It’s a cool thing.

  At eleven o’clock, the levees break, with every concertgoer in all of Laguna Sands pressing themselves inside Londyn’s Gap.

  “I can’t for the life of me…” Shauna stops talking to shake her head in amazement. “In my eight years working at your father’s bar, I’ve never seen this many people crammed into the bar before.”

  My dad stalks up to us and gives Brett The Look. “You’re off tables and on bouncer duty. Shauna, distribute his tables among the others.” Then he strides off. Shauna gives me a wave and leaves to do his bidding.

  It’s midnight when I discover my roadie at the last table in section nine. He’s with a few people I’ve seen before, probably in magazines. A beautiful blonde girl, who could be Holland from Tracing Holland, and some other musician-looking types. I’m not much for gossip, celebrity or otherwise, so it’s rare for me to recognize anyone like that. Two all-business-looking guys remain on their feet. They’re in suits and spend their time politely showing autograph hunters away from the group.

  “Naomi!” Peter exclaims when I get to their table.

  “Hey, there.” I offer a professional waitress smile. “What’s up, Peter Pan?”

  “Yeah, Peter!” one of his friends call out, slapping his shoulder. He’s a sunny-faced, blond guy with a girl on his lap. “Don’t you love his name, Naomi?” he asks as if he knows me too. “It’s so perfect ’cause he’s totally our Peter Pan. Never grows up, ya know.”

  “Right,” I play along. “Just wants to travel with the circus. I know the type.”

  Sunny-faced boy lets out a belly-laugh. “Exactly! What a douche.”

  “Language, babe,” the girl says and pulls his face down to hers. They start in on a hardcore French session that leaves me slack-jawed with embarrassment. It has the opposite effect on his friends, who instantly lose interest in them.

  Peter waves me around the table. Once I’m there, he pushes his hat back far enough to reveal his faded Levi’s eyes and the flawless arcs of his eyebrows.

  “You work here too?” he asks in a voice that feels suddenly intimate.

  “Sometimes. My father owns it,” I admit and don’t regret it the way I did with the college boys yesterday.

  “Really? It’s a cool place,” he murmurs. “So Hallmark at day and bar at night, huh?”

  “Not really.” I feel myself smile. “I was just called in to help out. He expected the place to be packed tonight after the concert, and he was right.”

  “So that’s why I didn’t see you at the stadium. Too busy with the two jobs and all.” He winks.

  “That’s right. Work, you know. So what’s your poison? You want the menu?”

  He shakes his head, putting his hands behind his head while he leans back on the chair. It does wonderful things to his body as he stretches, showing sinewy arms that tense invitingly. “Naw, we had catering. I’ll just have whatever dark ale yo
u’ve got on draft—I’m not picky—and a double shot of Jameson with ice.”

  I’ve jotted it down and moved to the next person when he taps my waist, making me turn. It feels almost too intimate even though I can’t call the gesture intrusive. It definitely isn’t unpleasant. “Can you bring some nuts too—cashews, maybe?”

  “We’ve only got peanuts.” I swallow the sensation he just instigated in me.

  “Peanuts, then. Lots of them.”

  “Sure thing.”

  As I leave to put in the order, I watch girls I’ve gone to school with walk off with drunk college boys, ready for spring flings of their own. Geez, look at Irene Campos. She’s leaving with the doppelganger of Stan the Spring-breaker.

  Maya Brinks too. She’s slung around an out-of-towner’s neck, being carried off toward the parking lot. She’s been all over the college boys visiting since long before we were old enough.

  My tables keep me busy for the next hour or so. Peter keeps calling me back for random interactions, getting backup from Sunny-Face and his girlfriend when his questions aren’t detailed enough. We stop serving alcohol at one thirty, but the patrons can sit out here as long as they want, really. We do close the indoor area at two, though.

  Finally, my father does what I knew he would. He comes by my station to tell me to go home and get some “shuteye.” Sweet Daddy.

  “Sure, just seeing those ones off first,” I say about my last table on the terrace. “They’re sort of friends by now,” I add, smiling.

  “Are they?” He takes a moment to study them.

  I shrug. “Band people from the concert.”

  As if on command, Sunny-Face calls over, “Hey, are you allowed to have a beer with us, Naomi? Pan, here, is paying.”

  I glance at Peter, who pushes his hat off his head. Revealing a gloriously rumpled platinum-blond head, he smiles broadly.

  “Sure, if Mr. Pan is paying,” I say.

  Temptation

  * * *

  I can count on one hand the times I’ve had a drink with customers at my dad’s. Sure, with my best friends from high school, I’ve done it. With Chloe whenever she’s visiting too. But they’re not just customers, and it hasn’t been at the tail end of a work night.

  The terrace is empty with the exception of Sunny-Face, his girl, one bodyguard, and Peter. The moon is enormous tonight, so even after Shauna turns off the string lights in the foliage above us, we have the ambience intact.

  Sunny-Face’s name is Emil, I learn, and he’s the singer of Clown Irruption. That’s a big deal, I suppose. Peter is “the best goddamn bass tech any band could have,” apparently, and “Elias was lucky to snatch him up, right from underneath Captain Crook’s nose.”

  I know they’re having fun with me, but I don’t care. Instead of beer, I nabbed us a bottle of Cava—I didn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation—so now I’m in quite the sparkly mood.

  “So, about you and live music,” Peter says while Emil and Zoe are busy smooching again. She spends a lot of time in his lap, I’ve noticed.

  “Why’re you so hung up on concerts?” Playful, I nudge his shoulder and take another sip of sparkly goodness.

  “Strange, right?” He nudges me back. In the moonlight, he seriously looks like a vampire. Flawless and carved out of marble, he can’t have a drop of blood in him, and when I risk a side-eye at his mouth, I see incisors that even Vlad the Impaler would’ve envied. Heck, Peter could have jumped right out of a vampire movie.

  “Now that you’ve had time to mull it over, which concerts have you been to?”

  “Easy.” I’ve mulled nothing over. “Some local bands you wouldn’t know.” This is true. There have been plenty of struggling bands wanting to play at Londyn’s Gap, and my dad’s a softie.

  Peter scoots his glass toward me and makes it clink against mine. His body moves closer too, and I feel his heat against my arm. “Ever been to a stadium show? You work so close to Evergreen Stadium, it’d be sacrilege not to have been there.”

  I tuck a lock behind my ear, lifting my eyes enough to meet his gaze. “My fifth-grade boyfriend’s mother is the general manager over there. He dumped me for someone else—Carina Miller, actually—and I didn’t take it well.”

  “Carina Miller, huh?” Peter’s eyes smile. He squints, trying to figure out if I’m lying. I’m having a hard time holding back a smirk of my own. This story is way silly.

  “Yep. I’ve been boycotting the stadium ever since.”

  Tonight’s beautiful vampire throws his head back laughing. “No way. And you never got over it?”

  “That’s correct.” I nod, showing my sincerest face. I’m not even lying; my heartbreak might’ve lasted for five minutes, but I’m still pissed. Thanks to John David Bathory and his mother, no money of mine goes to the stadium.

  Peter’s laughter drops to a throaty chuckle. When his humor dries up, he turns his attention to the bodyguard. “Gordon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got a backstage for me?”

  Gordon pats his jacket and pulls a ticket out of an inner pocket. Peter thanks him and slides it toward me on the table.

  “There. Now you won’t have to pay your fifth-grade ex’s mom anything for it. It’s time you see your first live show.”

  “I told you I’ve been to concerts before.” I turn and find him so close to my face that his features blur. I forget to breathe as he caresses the bridge of my nose with his own. Then, his mouth locks with mine in a soft kiss.

  “So… not your first?” he finally whispers.

  I swallow, feeling like we’re talking about all kinds of firsts. First kisses, first times. You know that intense feeling of crazy chemistry, like you’re about to blow up from a simple kiss? It makes my heart jolt knowing that he just gave me that first. Speechless, I shake my head.

  His mouth is back for me. I part my lips, wanting him inside. The tip of his tongue strokes mine as he lets out little sounds of approval, like whispered moans, a love language I’m suddenly learning; he loves kissing me, he loves being here with me, and he wants more.

  “Come here.” Peter scoots his chair back. I scan the area but see no one besides Gordon and Emil with his girl, Zoe.

  Peter’s lap looks inviting. He pats it lightly and gestures for me to give in. Linking his hand loosely around my wrist, he rubs me, ignites me… just the tiniest bit.

  I don’t do this, ever. But tonight, I’m in Vacation Land, and an irresistible stranger calls me into temptation. The champagne fizzes in my pulse. What harm can it do?

  In lieu of a reply, I slide into his lap. I can’t believe the sensation of his hard, warm thighs beneath my butt and the strong arms tightening around me.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, running his nose down my throat. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “You feel even better in my arms than I thought.” He tips his head back and gazes at me. The moon reflects in his eyes. Everything about him is beautiful, from the smooth forehead, the perfectly curved eyebrows, to the nose that’s not too big, not too small. High cheekbones, a mouth that’s freaking to die for, with the dip at the center of his upper lip looking like it was meant to be licked. I do it now, causing a quiet sigh to escape him.

  I can’t seem to get out of his arms after that. I just remain there, being kissed, being petted. We’re copping feels like we’re on a high-school date, and between the champagne and this man, I’m getting worked up to a level I’m not used to. It’s been a year since my ex and I broke up, and I haven’t had time to think about guys since then.

  By the time Emil and his girl get up to leave, I’m having trouble breathing. Peter smolders me with his stare. At this point, he’d have me for dinner, and I’d let him too!

  “Guy-guy,” Emil says, voice hoarse. “We’re hitting the sack. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing.” Peter’s gaze doesn’t stray from me. It gives me a strange feeling o
f exhilaration.

  “Be good, children,” Zoe says and winks.

  I smile and try for a shaky thumbs-up. Peter catches my hand and kisses the inside of it, his warm breath coasting along my palm before he bites it lightly.

  Gently, he turns me, and within seconds I find myself straddling him on the chair. Now, I really can’t breathe when I feel him hard and unyielding beneath me. He juts his hips up, making the contact even more unbearable. I’m moaning for real, now, and cup his face to get more of his kisses.

  “A-a-nyways. Never mind us,” Emil chuckles out. “As I said, we’re leaving. Don’t break him, Naomi. Remember, he’s got bass guitars to tune tomorrow, strings to change, and the like.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I manage.

  “Dude, we’re taking Gordon. Gordon, drive us back to the hotel, please,” Emil says as they leave, and suddenly, we’re the last two people under the stars.

  Peter’s eyes mirror the intensity coursing through me. We’re alone. Completely alone. My body is storming for him, and we’re not even in a bed. This isn’t how I am.

  “Let it go, babe,” he murmurs as if he’s reading my mind.

  My legs tremble when I force myself to get off his lap. “Have you seen the rock balcony?” My pitch breaks. I have to clear my throat and start over again.

  Peter opens in a breathtaking smile. “I haven’t. Are you going to show it to me?”

  I nod. Take his hand. Lead him behind me off the terrace and down the path to the balcony. I lean against the railing, pulling in the salty scent on the air. If I’m lucky, it might cool me off a little too.

  I feel Peter move in behind me, encapsulating my body with his bigger one from behind. His arms appear, clasping onto the railing on both sides of my hands, leaving no space between my fingers and his own.

  Peter exhales happily. “This is insane. What a gorgeous place.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, feeling a little pride for my home town after all. “Did you see the water?”