Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  “I’m a fan of a bitter.”

  She wasn’t familiar with this term in regards to beer. The concept of a bitter drink didn’t sound good to her.

  He truly didn’t seem to care that his hand was nearly ripped off. What was there to say to a man that psychotic?

  And why did she find his disregard for pain…sexy?

  The little devil on her right shoulder found everything about him to be hot and sexy. Funny how her little devil sounded like Paris Hilton. The little angel on her left shoulder was dressed in lingerie and wasn’t saying a word. She was just biting her lower lip and looking at Brock like she had a dirty secret.

  Sam needed to fire them both. Neither one was doing her a darn bit of good.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Drive

  Sam slipped away to put on dry clothes and Brock sat alone on the sofa.

  His injured hand throbbed. Swollen and purpling fingers protruded from the makeshift bandage he’d wrapped around his wound. Wiggling his bratwurst fingers, a searing pain shot through the heel of his hand, the area that had been sliced open by a jagged edge of metal flashing on the roof.

  He regretted the drink he’d consumed earlier. A Vicodin for the pain wasn’t an option. Had he known he was going to come so close to ripping his hand off, he would’ve opted for the Vicodin instead of the alcohol.

  His left shoulder prickled with heat. It wouldn’t be long before that heat would seemingly grow talons that would tear into his flesh. That was the best description he could think of to convey the excruciating agony that plagued him since the surgery—a surgery that was supposed to rebuild his shoulder.

  His mind drifted to the fated event that drove him to retirement. He had been inches from scoring the winning point for the Griffins when a rookie from the opposing team rammed him from the side. The young man plowed into his shoulder and a sickly, wet pop ensued, followed by a series of crackles like the crunching of an empty paper bag—only the noise was made by the snapping of tendons and ligaments. The rookie collapsed in an unconscious heap. Unable to stop himself, Brock tumbled over the young man and landed directly on his injured shoulder.

  The impact of the fall was the blow that shattered bone into splinters that pierced deep into muscle, barely missing arteries. He blacked out from the intense pain. When he awoke, he learned the young man was expected to make a full recovery and would be playing again in a couple of weeks. He, on the other hand, would never play rugby again, at least not professional rugby. Bloody rookies. All brawn and no brain.

  His days as a star rugby player were over. Throughout his lengthy career, he’d suffered many injuries and bounced back, but not this time. No, this time, the doctor said he may have to undergo several surgeries before the pain eased enough to be considered bearable.

  As soon as Brock announced his retirement, Karen, his girlfriend of four years, broke up with him. She quickly hooked up with another rugby player, who just happened to play for the opposing team. He should have seen it coming. Karen was a camera hound. Nothing made her happier than being tailed by paparazzi and having her picture splashed all over the paper.

  During their four year relationship, she’d never pressed him for a marriage proposal, which may have been the main reason he’d stayed with her. A fact he wasn’t proud of, but it was what it was.

  He’d had his share of fame whores latching onto him and his wallet ever since he was picked up by the Griffins at the tender age of twenty.

  He had one of the longest careers in the sport. Apparently, it wasn’t long enough to wake him up to the fact that women couldn’t see past the cameras and the money. At least none he’d met. Fame was a cancer and he was glad to be rid of it.

  Truth be told, he’d used Karen as much as she’d used him. They were never in love with one another. She was smart, pretty, good in bed, knew just what to say when interviewed, gave him his space during training, and never caused him any scandal—with the exception of their breakup.

  Karen was a safe and comfortable option during a time when Brock needed to keep his focus on his career instead of his love life. She kept his bed warm without distracting his mind from the game. In return, he provided the lifestyle she craved. It was a fair trade, but it wasn’t love. He wasn’t sure he was capable of love. In all his thirty-eight years, he’d never experienced it first hand, and he blamed his mother. She’d taught him to create a tough rind around his heart, just like hers.

  THE STORM NO longer raged outside.

  Sam called down to Brock. “Brock, it’s time to get you to the hospital. You really shouldn’t put it off any longer. Why don’t you let me drive you, since your hand is in pretty bad shape.” She hoped he had sense enough to agree with her. If not, she’d have to call for an ambulance. He was going to the hospital one way or another, and that was that.

  She hurried downstairs.

  They’d have to take his car since her truck was at the restaurant. Her stomach tightened at the thought of driving standard transmission. She hadn’t driven a stick shift in over fifteen years. She assured herself that if she’d managed to drive one when she was sixteen, she could do it now.

  Brock moved his swollen fingers and winced. “Can’t say as I relish the thought of infection. I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  He tossed her the keys to his antique Mustang. They strode to the car.

  She got behind the wheel and stared down at the gearshift that had five gears for forward. I’m screwed.

  Taking a deep breath, she started the engine. With right foot on the brake and left foot on the clutch, she shifted into reverse. Easing out on the clutch, she gave the vehicle a little gas, and it lurched backward. She hit the brake. The car stalled out, and she tried again. This time, she lifted her foot off the clutch slower and pushed her other foot on the gas just as slowly. The convertible backed out of the driveway without jerking quite as much. She could feel Brock’s eyes searing into her, but he didn’t say a word.

  She studied the gearshift and tried to remember at what speed to switch to the next gear. She couldn’t remember. She’d have to go by the sound of the engine.

  Starting in first gear, she manipulated the pedals slowly, and the wheels rolled forward. She gave it more gas and jiggled the gearshift into second as she pressed the clutch. A grinding noise came from the engine.

  Brock grabbed the dashboard with his good hand. “Don’t you know how to drive standard transmission?” To call his tone terse was putting it mildly.

  She lifted her chin. “I learned on a stick, but it’s been a while since I’ve driven one. It may take me a minute or two to get the hang of it. Bear with me.”

  He pushed his back against the seat and extended his legs as if he were bracing himself for catastrophic impact.

  By the time they got to the drawbridge, she’d gotten all the way up to third gear, but the ride had been far from smooth.

  At the foot of the bridge, Brock put his hand over hers and said, “Pull over and let me drive.”

  “But you can’t drive with your right hand all bandaged like that.” She knew, if he just gave her a little more time, she’d get this changing gear thing down pat.

  He glared at her. “I’m sure I can do a better job of it than you’re doing. Why’d you offer to drive if you can’t drive a five speed? You’ve probably stripped the entire transmission. I thought your truck was a stick shift.”

  She looked at his bloody bandage. “I didn’t want you to hurt your hand any more than you already have. And for the record, my truck has a center gearshift, but it’s an automatic. You know—park, reverse, neutral, drive.”

  “I know what automatic means. So you thought you’d protect me from injuring myself further by inflicting whiplash on my neck as well?”

  “No. I thought I could do this stick shift thing…better?”

  IF HE LET this woman drive any farther, she’d ruin this fabulous antique car. He tried to control his temper, but she was pushing his hot buttons as hard as she could,
and the fact that he was in tremendous pain put her in grave danger. Extreme pain turned him into a monster. He took great care of his vehicles. She, on the other hand, obviously did not. Look at what she drove for God’s sakes. She had no appreciation for a fine automobile.

  He stepped out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side. His shoulder, hand, and head seemed to be ganging up on him with the intent to kill.

  She flung her door open and let out a grumbling noise he wasn’t sure was entirely human.

  He kept his demeanor calm, or tried to. As she stood, he said, “Thank you.”

  She stomped over to the passenger side of the car and slumped down beside him, promptly crossing her arms over her chest. “I can do it. You didn’t give me enough time. Five blocks isn’t much space to get a feel for a car.” The pitch of her voice was dialed to chihuahua—yip,yip,growl.

  As far as he was concerned, those five blocks were five hundred miles. Every jarring stop and start had sent daggers into his neck and shoulder. It was all he could do to keep from cursing at her.

  He wasn’t going to give her any more time behind the wheel. He wouldn’t be able to take it. “Tell me when and where to turn. Other than that, I’d appreciate if you’d keep silent. I have a splitting headache, and your southern twang is making it worse.”

  “Twang? Wot aboot the mahner in which you spake as if you hahv mahbles in your mooth, you bloody bahstard?”

  She magnificently butchered a British accent, and there was nothing endearing about it. But to hear her call him a bloody bastard made him want to kick her out of the car and leave her on the side of the road.

  He tried to convince himself that she didn’t realize exactly how offensive “bloody bastard” was. Bastard was rude, but adding the word bloody to it…well, let’s just say, it’s a good thing she wasn’t a man, or she’d being doing thirty-two pickup of every last tooth missing from her flapping gums.

  He caught her gaze with his and lowered his voice to a low growl so that chihuahua trapped inside her throat would be sure to understand every word. “You might want to think twice before challenging me in a name calling battle.”

  With a muffled whimper, she turned her face away from him and stared out the window.

  Smart girl.

  SAM WARRED WITH the notion of jumping out of the car and stomping back home or riding it out. He was being a jackass, but she knew he was in pain, and her driving hadn’t helped matters. Plus, she may have gone too far by calling him a bloody bastard. She was frustrated, and that never failed to cause her to morph into a bitch, she’d been told as much many times by friends through the years.

  When they entered the hospital, only a few people were in the ER waiting area. A beautiful brunette nurse walked into the lobby and batted her Disney Princess eyes at Brock. He held up his wounded hand to show that he was in need of assistance. She looked over at Sam as if to ask, “Is she with you?”

  Brock glanced at Sam and rubbed his eye while shaking his head no. She read his body language loud and clear. It said, “Hell no. She’s not with me.”

  The nurse stepped out of the lobby.

  Sam couldn’t hold it any longer. “Asshole.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you shaking your head like you don’t want her to think you’re with me?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I was rubbing my eye. Is that allowed in the States?”

  “In the States. You say that with disgust. Why are you even here if you hate the States so much?”

  “I don’t hate the States. I’m merely aware that it’s not the only country on the planet. And for your information, in other cultures, people are permitted to rub their eye and shake their head without being attacked.”

  “We’re back to that again are we? I ignored your little comment about me not being aware of other countries beyond American borders earlier today, but since you feel the need to bring it up again, let me just say—I know how to Google, and I can find out anything I want about any country, including places even you have never heard of, but you, well you’re screwed. I don’t care how much money you have. Last I checked they weren’t selling personalities on Amazon, or anywhere else for that matter. So if you’re too good for Americans, maybe you shouldn’t have bought a house in America, Einstein on steroids.”

  He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t buy it. I traded. If everyone else around here is as crazy as you are, I’m not so sure I want to live here after all. Besides, what’s gotten into you?”

  She blew out hot air. “I just don’t like—“ There were so many things about this set up and how she was feeling about him she didn’t even know where to begin.

  “You don’t like what, Sam? Please, enlighten me.”

  “I don’t like people to act snooty, like they’re too good to be seen with other people.”

  “I’m sitting here right next to you, aren’t I?”

  “But you’d rather not be.”

  “For the love of God, woman. Might I have a moment’s peace? I’m injured and have a migraine. I’m in no mood to argue with you.”

  “I’m not arguing. I’m just making observations.”

  “Shu—“ He stopped himself, but she knew he was on the edge of telling her to shut up, and for some reason she felt proud of herself for getting under his skin.

  He shook his head. “You’re a strange bird, Miss Carlisle.”

  The nurse popped in and gave Brock a syrupy smile and said, “Just a couple more minutes. Don’t run off anywhere.”

  “I’ll wait right here, love.” He raised his eyebrow in a flirting gesture that Sam suspected he’d rehearsed in front of a mirror on numerous occasions. It was the kind of look that could charm the panties off a nun. That bimbo nurse was easy pickings.

  Sam gasped when she realized she was jealous. Dear Lord, she was actually jealous of that nurse. What was wrong with her? They weren’t a “couple.” She had no reason to be jealous of his attention to other women. She wasn’t actually falling for the guy, was she? Falling…having only known him one day and without even kissing him first? Had going without affection for so long made her that weak? That needy? He was the source of all her current misery. If that wasn’t a giant red flag she didn’t know what was.

  She was embarrassing herself with the jealous woman act. She had no right to inflict that on the poor guy.

  “Brock, I’m sorry. I know I’m being weird.”

  He rubbed his forehead with his good hand. “I’ve come to expect weird from you, Sam. No need to apologize for being yourself.”

  Damn. That was harsh. Maybe she’d accidentally fixed her problem. He no longer liked her.

  AFTER SEVERAL MINUTES of silence, he said, “Sam, why don’t you go on home. I can drive myself back. I remember the way.”

  She didn’t really want to abandon him. Considering the dreadful ride over to the hospital and the way she’d barked at him when the nurse peeked in, no wonder he wished her gone.

  About that time, Myrtle hobbled out of the ER on crutches. Carl was at her side.

  “Myrtle, what on earth happened to you?” Sam rushed over.

  “I’m fine, honey. Clutzy me slipped and fell. It’s just a sprain. After the swelling goes down, I’ll be good as new, thanks to the quick thinking of my man.” She gave Carl’s arm a love pat, and he beamed as his gaze traveled over Myrtle’s face.

  Sam wondered why Myrtle needed crutches for a sprain, but didn’t press the issue.

  Myrtle looked over at Brock and waved. “Ain’t you the young man from the bridge this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you hurt your hand?”

  “A bit. I was trying to cover a hole in the roof and ended up putting a hole in my hand. Nothing serious.”

  “Bless your heart. Glad it’s not serious. So you two are getting right friendly I see. That’s good. Sam’s been needing a man in her life.” Myrtle just smiled like she
didn’t have the foggiest notion she was stirring the pot, but Sam knew her well enough to see right through her charade.

  “Actually, Myrtle, Brock has just acquired the Marshalls’ home. I’m in the process of looking for a new place to live. In the mean time, he’s letting me stay on until I find something. Do you know of anything?”

  Myrtle looked Sam up and down. “So you two are staying at the house together?”

  “Temporarily.”

  Myrtle curled her lips into a crooked smile that made her look like a mischievous elf.

  “It’s not what you think,” Sam insisted.

  The nurse walked in and Myrtle said, “So you two are shacking up. Well…I’ll be.”

  Brock rolled his eyes and cut Sam a dirty look. Honestly, dirty didn’t do it justice. It was more like an “I can’t stand the sight of you or your entourage a moment longer” kind of look.

  Sam asked Myrtle and Carl, “Would it be too much trouble for y’all to give me a lift home?”

  “Not at all. You sure you don’t want to wait for Brock to finish up though?” Myrtle widened her eyes and tilted her head toward Brock, indicating she really thought Sam should stay at the hospital.

  “I’m positive.” Sam glanced over at Brock, who huffed out air, making his cheeks appear blown up like a damn toad-fish.

  That brunette nurse could take care of him just fine all by herself.

  “Brock, I’m getting a lift home with Myrtle and Carl. You’re on your own.”

  “Good.” He scowled then flashed an icky, fake smile. “I mean, goodnight.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Privacy

  The power was back on when Sam got home, but the house was eerily quiet.

  She decided to clean the mess upstairs. While she squeezed out the sponge mop, she thought about the day’s events, and Brock’s amazing body. She mopped in a daze.

  Okay, so she thought of his gorgeous body more than anything else. Even as a grumpy rhino, the man looked incredible. She stretched her back. The water in the bucket was murky, but she was too exhausted to deal with it.