Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series)

by Cooksey, Jenn

  Or, not…

  I waited my turn, kept my mouth shut like a good girl, and by the time I got to the front of the line, I had to go. Perfect timing, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, I can’t say much for my timing on exiting the house after using the facilities. I’d just taken barely more than four steps out one of the sliding glass backdoors when, carrying a large pitcher of some kind of red punch and not paying attention to where he was going, a guy clipped the shoulder of a girl who was to my left so that the contents of the pitcher went flying to completely drench me. Adding salt to my margarita wound—okay, it isn’t a pitcher of margaritas, but it’s definitely boozy—is that this whole thing happened right in front of none other than the Trollop Triplets and Tristan. I could tell Tristan really wanted to be cracking up and was desperately trying to keep a straight face, but Teresa wasn’t nearly as kind. The disparagingly-vapid-malicious-pestilent-bitch immediately pointed at me, first cackling and then, howling in savage laughter.

  “OH MY GOD!! Hey everyone, look!! That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen! Sucks to be you!”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

  If I weren’t already so thoroughly stunned, Tristan’s disarmingly purred words suddenly coming from right beside me would’ve made me jump out of my skin. My bones may have remained secure, but the look on Tristan’s face is giving my nerves quite the work out. Plus, my palms are tingling so intensely; I wouldn’t be surprised to look and see myself hooked up to electrodes. That being said, I felt his next turn of phrase in my toes…

  “While I agree this might not be your best look, I bet you taste pretty good.” His eyes locked on mine and, mesmerized, I watched them shift and change into a darker blue than I’d ever known eyes could be. Then—holy crapolie—you’re SO not gonna believe what he did—he slowly ran his finger down my dripping nose, put said finger in his mouth, and sucked the punch stuff right off of it! “Yep…pretty tasty indeed.”

  OH MY GOD!!

  That’s all I got. I’m flabbergasted. I mean how am I supposed to react to this?

  No really, I’m asking; I wanna know.

  I couldn’t breathe and my heart had decided it was done pumping so I was just standing there, looking like an asinine court jester who’s dripping in alcoholic Hawaiian punch with my mouth slightly ajar, when that @$*& sashayed up way too far into Tristan’s personal space. She put a hand on his chest in an attempt to take his focus off me and put it onto her, where she, for some unfathomable reason, thought it belonged. He tried to ignore her and was still looking at me; however, the bimbo was determined to make him notice her.

  “Tristan! I’m so relieved you’re finally here! I was starting to think you were gonna leave me empty handed all night, if you know what I mean…” She leaned further into him, oozing vulgarity while her hand intimately moved south, making me want to gag. Actually, I think I threw up a little in my mouth. “You know, you never called me, you naughty, naughty boy.”

  Yeah. She actually used the word “naughty.” Twice. She should be banned from the use of language altogether.

  Being that she was practically undulating against him, he was finally forced to look at her. I noticed his eyes lighten back to normal but they were flat, devoid of almost all life. And how she could possibly miss the sheer disdain he regarded with, I’ve not a clue, but I heard his scorn loud and clear.

  “Nope. I sure didn’t, did I? I wonder what that means…” Looking back at me, the derision began to fade from his expression. Tristan removed Teresa’s contemptuous hand from him and then taking mine he said, “Camie, you’re a fuckin’ wreck, come on…” Then he tugged me insistently along behind him, leaving what’s her name glowering behind us.

  Hoping to see Kate or a familiar face for some direction, I looked around and discovered I was on my own. Well, not entirely on my own. Tristan, it seemed, was on a mission. Not stopping to chitchat or explain where he was taking me, he led me through the house, up the Gone with the Wind staircase, down an endless hallway and then stopped before a locked door. And by the way, I’ve just been blindly following him, hoping for the best…it vaguely feels like I’m a lamb being led to slaughter.

  “Here, hold my cup.”

  Still holding my hand, making it feel like electric pulses are shooting into it from his, he handed me his cup and reached to the top of the doorframe for a key. I looked into his practically empty plastic cup and thought; if he wants a refill, I can just wring myself out over it. Then, unlocking the door, Tristan turned back to me. He took his cup and proceeded to open the door to a gratuitously huge bedroom…in which a gathering of six people were already occupying. Almost immediately a chorus of greetings to Tristan poured forth from the half-naked group playing cards in the middle of the enormous four-poster bed.

  “Hey, you know you guys aren’t supposed to be in here.” To me it sounded like Tristan might have been a little put out.

  “You shouldn’t be either.” The good-natured retort came from a guy who was down to his boxers.

  “Come on, Tristan, why don’t you guys hang with us? Wayne could use the backup…we’ve already beaten the pants off him and it isn’t pretty…” A girl said, casually pulling her shirt off and tossing it on a pile of clothes in the middle of the bed, which left her able to wager her zebra striped bra, socks, jeans, and whatever she is, or, isn’t wearing under them. I mean who the hell knows anymore!

  The comment was barely out of her mouth, though, before the entire group started to snicker. It took me a minute to catch the smell, but when I did, all I could picture was a particular part of the movie The Breakfast Club. Even though it was a hilarious scene and might’ve looked like fun, I’m so not up for reenacting it. However, I’d swear Tristan’s eyes sparked as he seemingly unconsciously smoothed his thumb over the side of my hand, giving my face a very brief speculative glance.

  “Nah, we’re good. Just passing through, but you know Mike’s gonna have a shit attack if he finds out you guys are playin’ strip poker and gettin’ stoned in his parents’ room.” Tristan’s rebuke was promptly and unexpectedly followed by tender concern. “Come on, Camie, over here. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  I just nodded in response; lost for words with the unforeseen compassion he’s showing me. Not to mention I think the sensation of Tristan’s thumb lightly tracing absentminded circles on my hand is beginning to interfere with my cognitive abilities. Thankfully, my momentary ineptitude was limited to speech and I was able to follow along behind him without tripping or making a fool of myself in any other such way as he led me into a bathroom easily twice the size of my bedroom. He dropped my hand to open a cupboard and pull a towel out of it, and I would’ve thanked him for the towel, as well as for relinquishing my hand, thereby returning normal brain function to me, but…he didn’t give me the damned towel. He just stood there, staring at me with a lopsided grin on his face.

  “Jesus. Look at you, you’re really a mess,” he chuckled at me in the reflection of the mirror, the tender concern having almost completely vanished.

  “Yeah, so I see. Are you gonna gimme that towel or just hold onto it a while longer while this Kool-Aid crap stains my hair?” Kate did tell me to be myself, right? I’m not irritated with him or anything—I really do look pretty damned funny—but the thing is, this is the most he’s ever spoken to me where I’ve felt capable of responding, and I don’t really know how else to be right now.

  He chuckled again, turned the faucet of one of the sinks on and then to my surprise, he shoved my head under the running water.

  “Ack! Grlp! That’s cold!” I complained. Honestly though, I’ve no idea what the hell I have to complain about. I mean really, the guy I’ve been stalking for a week has his freaking hands in my hair. Who gives a crap if the water’s cold?

  “You sound like you’re trying to cough up a fur ball, Camie… Would you stop squirming? Jungle Juice will stain your hair, so just hold still…lemme make sure it’s all out.”

&
nbsp; I tried to do as I was told, but you try holding still when the guy of your dreams is gently massaging and caressing your scalp; his warm breath whispering down your neck, sending wave upon groundbreaking wave of unprecedented shivers to your toenails. Trust me, it’s not so easy!

  “Okay, there…you’re done, you whiner.” He draped the towel over my head unceremoniously, thus punctuating the end of his cosmetology career. Such the gentleman.

  “Gee, thanks. Now I just get to walk around all night looking like I’m a front-runner in a wet t-shirt contest. That’s perfect,” I said with massive sarcasm, staring in the mirror at my disheveled appearance and the soaked shirt unrepentantly clinging to my body.

  I’m thinking I shouldn’t have called attention to myself that way, though. My palms started to tingle again and Tristan’s eyes darkened almost immediately as he gave me the most deliciously wicked look, and then he moved way too far into my personal space. Of course, my heart chose this moment to make itself known to me again and I swear it feels like it’s gonna jump out of my chest like in the movie Alien, which would not only be embarrassing, but really gross as well.

  When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the most exquisite sight ever. I say it this way because apparently my good-girl ways have finally gotten Santa’s attention, and he’s about to give me the top item on my depraved wish list!

  Standing inches from me, Tristan crossed his arms in front of him, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it off, all in one fell movement. Then he handed it to me and stood there like it was no big deal. My response to Santa’s long overdue generosity? Well, naturally, I’m screaming in my head. Holy Exalted Naked Chest Batman!!!

  Can we just pause here for a station identification break? I need to re-educate myself on how to breathe and somehow or another, I’ve got to pick my jaw up off the floor. I think while I’m down here, I’ll pray and thank God for His glorious creation, because seriously, He does some damned fine work!! See, when I described Tristan for you on Monday, I honestly had NO idea that supremely well-fitted H2O Polo shirt he wore hid all this. Really, OMG, because he is ripped!!

  Not questioning his chivalry and being careful to not slip in the puddle of drool on the marble floor, I took the t-shirt, still warm from Tristan’s body heat. When he just stood there, I twirled my finger and gave him a look, reminding him that gentlemanly etiquette dictates that he should turn his back now. He laughed again while he turned around, allowing me to strip my Jungle Juiced shirt from myself and shrug into his while maintaining at least some semblance of modesty.

  Although now here’s the tricky part; my bra soaked up enough of this stuff to make putting a dry shirt on an exercise in futility, so, it’s gotta come off. However, I’m really hoping the fire is still going when we get back to where the party proper is taking place because if it’s not…well, with my hair still being wet and the goose bumps Tristan gave me still riding high, I’m gonna look like an idiot with my arms crossed over my chest all evening. The alternative to which is being known from here on out as the Nippley New Girl; a moniker I think I can live without. So while taking a quick moment to study the beautiful and beyond well-muscled specimen whose back is reflected in the mirror, I went through the contortionist act of taking my bra off through the sleeves of Tristan’s shirt, then I rolled it into mine, essentially hiding the evidence.

  “Okay, I’m done. Thanks for letting me borrow your shirt…I’ll give it back on Monday.” I don’t know why I’m able to do this, but I’m so happy I can speak coherently to him and not sound like all I can think about is riding him piggyback through the house. You’d understand the inclination if you were here. He’s got a really amazing back…

  “Just keep it.” He meant it to be an offer, although it sounded suspiciously like a command to me.

  “Oh. Um, okay, but won’t you eventually want it?” I asked, kind of taken aback at the offer of what I’m going to think of as my first engagement present from him.

  “It’s not a big deal, Camie, it’s just an old t-shirt. Look, it’s got holes everywhere too.” He showed me some minor signs of long-time wear and tear in the fabric, and then he scooped up my wet clothing. “Come on, let’s get a bag for this and go back to the party.”

  He took my hand and pulled me behind him once again, and as I surreptitiously held my breath and politely averted my eyes from the poker game, we left the same way we’d come. This time however, we trekked through the house and into the kitchen where the guys were still playing that game.

  Mike looked up from the table. “Tristan, dude…why don’t you put some clothes on?”

  “Mike, dude…why don’t you bite me?” Tristan flippantly answered. It’s a good thing he didn’t extend the invitation to me; I probably would’ve.

  “Whatever, but don’t come cryin’ to me when you cause a fuckin’ female riot walkin’ around like that. I’m just sayin’…”

  Ha! I could totally see that happening! Like I said, God does good work and I’m sure I’m not the only girl here who’d acknowledge that fact. The look of understanding that shot across Tristan’s face, though, was priceless. I had to work to keep my giggle from escaping when I barely heard him mutter under his breath something like “That’d be a fuckin’ nightmare.”

  “Hey, where does your mom keep empty grocery bags?” My bare chested Adonis asked.

  “Under the sink in the butler’s pantry. Hey, you wanna play?”

  I really wish Kate or Melissa were here to witness, because when Mike asked that, one of the other guys looked up from the game and noticing me for the first time I think, he took a good look at me and then his eyes flashed to Tristan. To me, Tristan’s face looked unreadable, but I swear there was some kind of silent communication going on. And who was the guy? Uh-huh…none other than Pete.

  Not having any idea what to make of that and trying to act as normal as possible while holding Tristan’s hand and considering what the ramifications might be if I were to spontaneously nibble on him, I glanced around the table and noticing that most of the guys were still playing, I became curious again. “Yeah, can I?”

  Mike stood up and grandly gestured to the table. Thus I found myself squeezing in between him and Pete, thinking to myself; drat! I didn’t take into account I wouldn’t be able to hold Tristan’s hand anymore if I’m playing some stupid game. Seriously, ugh. Anyway, as I got settled, Tristan folded his arms and stood there. Silently and contemplatively, he drummed the fingers of the strong hand gripping his flexed bicep as he looked over the table and the rest of the game participants.

  “O Captain My Captain, get her a drink,” Mike commanded and then proceeded to explain the rules of the game to me. I’m guessing the reason for Mike addressing Tristan like that is because Tristan is the Varsity captain of both the water polo team and the swim team, although, Mike is only on the swim team, but...whatever.

  Tristan grunted but walked over to the counter where rows of bottles and pitchers were lined up and did as our host bid. When he returned with my drink and handed it to me, I looked at the red punch crap. “So what’s in this tasty concoction that almost ruined my hair and might’ve potentially made my clothes look like bad tie-dye?” I’m honestly kind of curious because from what I tasted of it when it was so unceremoniously bestowed upon my person, it’s pretty yummy.

  “I told you it’s good. The main ingredients are coconut rum, vodka, and either a fruit punch, or juice. You got the much-evil (Hey!! I say “much-evil”!!) Kool-Aid blend and I’d say your shirt’s new destiny is being part of a hippie costume on Halloween,” Tristan told me as he pulled his keys out of the back pocket of his jeans—lucky keys. Then, more to Pete than to me or anyone else, he said, “Okay, I’ll be back.”

  And with that Terminator-esque declaration, he left, taking his magnificent naked chest with him, and leaving me to my own devices with a group of six guys, booze, and a quarter.

  Turns out, I’m a whiz at drinking games. When Tristan returned about forty-f
ive minutes later, sadly with more apparel than when he’d left, the game was breaking up. I was only made to drink a few times, but because I’d managed to sink very nearly every quarter, the majority of players were now too soused to continue. I’m very proud of myself. Tristan nodded his approval as well and extricated me from the table. He shared another look with Pete and then, not holding my hand anymore, much to my hearty disappointment, he led me back out to the fire.

  We joined Kate and Jeff who were curled up all cozy-like in a lounge chair, in addition to the several other people who were partaking of the warm evening air and pleasantly informal ambience the fire and patio furnishings helped to create. Kate was just taking a sip of her drink when she saw me and practically choked on it.

  “Where have you been?” She asked, her tone registering more shock than concern. She had been worried, I can tell, but apparently my appearance is suggestive of really bad grooming habits. I mean I know I don’t look my best after my Jungle Juice shower, but jeez, thanks for the reminder.

  “Oh, I was doused with a pitcher of this fruity pirate beverage, so once I got semi-presentable again, I learned a new game in the kitchen,” I explained, holding up my cup and souvenir quarter as evidence of both.

  Tristan started laughing. “She totally wiped the floor with Mike, Pete, and the rest of those guys…Conner was passed out with his face on the table…it was beautiful!”

  “Really?!” Jeff asked with what I think was mild disbelief.

  “Yeah, man, really…we should get her in the next beer-pong tourney and bet heavy…she’d kick ass.” What an incredibly sweet thing to say! I love him.