Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)

by Lyla Dune

  “Thanks. I think.” Mazy slid into the driver’s seat. “Hop in.”

  When they got back to Crazy Mazy’s rusty mobile home, the one she shared with her brother, Earl the Squirrel, they pulled the hearse into an enormous detached garage that was bigger than the trailer.

  “Hot damn. Earl left me the Harley.”

  A big, red motorcycle was parked in the garage. The chrome sparkled. Two helmets were on a nearby shelf.

  Mazy hung the helmets on the bike’s handlebar and pushed the bike out of the garage, locked the garage door, and straddled the massive machine as she put on a helmet. Sam climbed on the back, placing her legs on either side of Mazy’s thighs. Mazy passed Sam the other helmet. She strapped it on.

  They rode down Lunar Avenue with Sam’s arms around Mazy’s waist. The sun sat low on the waterway, casting an orange glow, making the water appear to be on fire.

  They neared Sam’s house. Brock stood in the front yard, planting roses along the property line. He was bare-chested and sweating. His skin glistened, and his five o’clock shadow made him all the more desirable. He looked up at the motorcycle headed toward him and picked up a bottle of the beer she’d bought for him. He lifted it into the air and smiled, as if to say thank you. She was glad he was drinking it and seemed to appreciate it. But something about the shadow under his eyes made her think he was sad in spite of her gift.

  Her cowardly behavior of avoidance was unfair to him. She needed to talk to him about that kiss. A case of beer from his homeland couldn’t take the place of an explanation for why she’d pushed him away. He deserved an explanation, but she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth—“I shoved you away because I really like you, in fact, I think I’m falling for you.” That would freak him out for sure.

  She waved back to him and swallowed down the lump in her throat. Just the sight of him turned her into a jellyfish.

  The vibrations from the motorcycle hummed through her body. She tried to convince herself the flutter in her belly was a result of that buzz, but she knew better—it was Brock, all Brock, and not just because he was hot enough to be a bare-chested model on the cover of a romance novel, but because he was a real gentleman, a caring, perceptive, genuinely kind and considerate man, the type of man she’d always dreamed about, but never believed existed in the real world.

  Mazy drove them across the drawbridge connecting Pleasure Island to Crystal Cove.

  When they pulled into the gravel parking lot of Provisions, the sky had faded to a hazy gray, but it was still fairly light outside.

  In front of the bar entrance, Myrtle sat atop an ostrich and was being interviewed by a local radio station. She wore a big straw hat, a pair of overalls, and a lime green t-shirt. She looked tiny on top of that giant bird. Carl had the ostrich on a leash and was feeding the bird something from his hand. He was dressed identical to Myrtle. They couldn’t have been a more adorable couple if they’d tried. Sam smiled then reminded herself she was mad at Myrtle and wiped the smile off her face.

  The guy holding the microphone placed it in front of Myrtle, and she said, “Y’all come on out. There’s three hours left to help us raise money for the animal shelter. Have a drink and support a good cause. Yee Haw.”

  PROVISIONS WAS CROWDED. Sam and Mazy went straight for the bar and took a seat near the pinball machines. They ordered a couple of beers.

  Mazy turned to Sam and said, “Brock was looking mighty fine working in the yard. If I were you, I’d get me a piece of that.”

  “He’s not the kind of guy you just get a piece of, Mazy.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “The kind you fall for and end up crying in your beer a month later when he moves on, in search of his version of Princess Diana.” A woman actually worthy of him, unlike her, a jazz musician who’d aced the dream section of the life test but flunked the reality section.

  “You don’t know that. Falling for someone might be exactly what you need.”

  “I can’t fall for him, Mazy.”

  “Why not?”

  Sam took a huge swig of beer. “For starters, I told him I was gay.”

  “You what?”

  “I told him I was gay.”

  Mazy’s lips curled into a pixie grin. “That explains a few things.”

  “Yeah. I know. I should have told you about it earlier, especially since he thinks you’re my girlfriend.”

  Mazy slammed down her mug. “What? Why me?” Her eyes gleamed like unsheathed swords.

  “You’re a grease monkey, and when you stopped by the other day in your coveralls with a wrench in your pocket you looked the part.”

  “Stereotype much, Sam?”

  “Sorry. Listen, I don’t expect you to kiss me in front of him or anything.”

  “Good to know. For the record, I’m not kissing you behind his back either.” Mazy chugged her beer then whacked the empty mug on the bar. “The next round is on you, Lover.”

  Sam dug in her pocket, where her tip money was stashed. “I figured as much.”

  In walked Myrtle and Carl. “Hello, ladies.” Carl was always so polite.

  Myrtle rubbed her miniature-raccoon-hands together. “You girls kicking up your heels tonight?” She winked as if she thought Mazy and Sam were on a date.

  How’d she know Sam had said she was gay? Wait. We’re talking about Myrtle here. She has super powers. All Brock had to do was ask anyone on the island about Sam’s relationship with Mazy, and Myrtle would hear about it.

  Mazy wrapped her arm around Sam and gave Myrtle a sickly-fake-ass smile. “We’re on a date.”

  Sam shoved her away. “Stop.”

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Mazy crooned.

  “I see what you’re doing, and it’s wrong.”

  “But it’s okay for you to tell hot men I’m taken?”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in Brock.”

  Mazy glowered. “Would it matter to you if I were?”

  Sam scooted another brew toward Mazy and said nothing. They both took a big swallow of their watered down, cheap drafts. A mustache of foam coated Mazy’s upper lip.

  Myrtle removed her hat and pulled herself onto the barstool beside Sam. “Seems you gave our newcomer the impression you muff-dive.”

  Sam spewed her beer.

  Myrtle removed her hat. “You know. A man can tell if a woman is interested in him or not.” Myrtle winked at Carl, and he made a kissy face at her.

  Sam wiped her mouth and caught her breath then faced her nemesis. “Myrtle, why’d you start that voting thing? You took things too far.”

  “Oh honey, I meant no harm. I just thought it’d be fun. You and Brock make such a handsome couple. Don’t you want to find someone, even if it’s short-term?” Myrtle’s flattened, blue, frizzy hair hid her brows, but her wide-eyed Bambi expression said it all, she’d definitely put her money on Sam and Brock getting together.

  Sam motioned the bartender over and ordered another round. “Don’t think you’re going to use that psychology on me and get me to hook up with that man.”

  “I’m not using psychology on you, honey. When you get my age, you’ll understand. You don’t want to pass up a chance to be with a man like Brock. Do you want to sit in your rocker when you’re an old lady and talk about the man who once made you drool just from looking at him, or do you want to talk about the man who gave you the best orgasm of your life? Personally, I think an orgasm is better than drool.”

  “Myrtle! My sex life isn’t any of your business.”

  “What sex life, honey? Make believe lesbian sex doesn’t count.” Myrtle shimmied off her barstool and followed Carl onto the dance floor.

  Mazy whispered, “After the news you gave me, I feel like getting ripped. Can you drive us home?”

  “Hell no. I can’t drive a freaking motorcycle. We’ll split a cab. I’m in the mood to get ripped too.” Sam turned her mug up to her mouth and let the liquid elixir pour down her throat.<
br />
  A couple hours later, after she and Mazy had drank and danced and danced and drank, Sam felt around in her pocket for her phone. Damn. It wasn’t there. Where did she leave it? “Mazy, you seen my phone?”

  “I think you left it on the end of the bar.”

  Sam held onto the edge of the pool table to steady herself and looked to where they had been sitting earlier. The floor beneath her rocked as if they were on a ship at sea.

  Myrtle came up and said, “What are you looking for, honey?”

  “My phone. I’m calling a cab for me and Mazy.” Sam’s mouth didn’t want to cooperate, and her teeth were soft.

  “Don’t be silly. Carl can drive you girls home. He hasn’t had a thing to drink other than Sun Drop. Let Sadie the bartender know you can’t find your phone. She’ll keep a lookout for it.”

  Sam was woozy, and the visage of the gnome she called Myrtle wavered, as if the poor, blue-haired creature was trapped inside a crystal ball, a vision from an alternate universe. Sam’s eyelids seemed to be caked with glue. She scanned the dark, crowded bar, until she spotted Mazy, staggering toward her. Sam licked her dry lips with a fat, semi-numb tongue and slurred, “All right. Sounds good to me.” Oops. A little spit trickled down her chin. She pulled her shirt up to wipe it off.

  Myrtle shoved Sam’s hand back down. “You probably don’t want to flash the hound dogs sniffing about your hindquarters, honey. Here. Use this napkin.”

  THERE WASN’T ENOUGH room for all four of them in the front seat of Carl’s truck. Sam volunteered to ride in the back with the ostrich.

  She climbed into the livestock trailer and onto a bed of straw as Carl locked the tailgate. The ostrich turned its back to her, raised its tail feathers, and expelled gloopy, white poop.

  Sam covered her nose. ”Gross. God. What do they feed you?”

  The ostrich faced her with one of its eyes half closed. “Cluck.”

  “Proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Wings rustled, and the ostrich nodded then lowered its long neck so its face was eye level with Sam’s. Its big, black, shiny eyeballs took her in. Sam struggled to focus on her reflection in the marble-like, bulging globes. She resembled a watermelon on toothpicks. How bizarre.

  The truck pulled out of the parking lot, and she stumbled backward. When she put her hand down to brace her fall, something slimy squished between her fingers. She’d palmed that fresh pile of bird crap. “Gross.” She searched for something to wipe her hand on, but there was nothing.

  The ostrich inched closer. She petted it, wiping her hand on the bird’s feathers. “Good bird. That’s a good birdie. Stay right there, Robirrrda. May I call you, Robirrrda? It’s a good birdie name. Wait. Are you a boy?” Sam searched for genitals, but saw nothing but feathers. “Nope. You have no balls. Don’t feel bad, neither do I.”

  The bird craned its neck downward and sniffed at Sam’s petting hand then pecked at it.

  “Ouch.” Sam drew her hand back quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t know where else to wipe it. Jeez. It was yours anyway.”

  The ostrich stamped about and scratched at the straw.

  “I’m sorry.” Moving to the far corner of the trailer, Sam glared at the bird. “I know what it’s like to be cooped up with someone against your will and being unable to leave.”

  The ostrich let out a little cluck and sat in the straw, then gazed at Sam, seemingly giving her its undivided attention.

  “It sucks. I know it does. Especially when you feel you can’t move around as you please.”

  For the remainder of the ride home, Sam poured her heart out to the attentive bird. Wiping her running nose on her sleeve, she whispered, “Thanks for listening.” Sam wrapped an arm around the bird’s long neck and mumbled, “I love you…”

  They were good friends now. They shared that bond that only beer could provide. Well, at least from Sam’s perspective. The ostrich may have viewed things differently, but Sam chose to ignore that fact.

  BROCK WAS WATCHING television when he heard a knock at the door. Peering out the window, he saw an older gentleman he’d met at the restaurant. What’s his name? Carl. Carl, that’s it. Brock opened the door. “Hello, Carl. May I help you?”

  “I sure hope so. I got three drunk women in my truck and two of’em requested to be dropped off here.”

  “Drunk women?”

  “Yep. Sam and Mazy.”

  Brock stepped out onto the porch and saw Sam hugging an ostrich in the trailer towed by the truck. Mazy was in the front seat, leaning on Myrtle, the charming older woman from the bridge.

  “You certainly have your hands full.” Brock went down stairs, and the farmer opened the gate to the trailer. The ostrich squawked, and Sam lifted her head slowly and squinted out of one eye at Brock.

  Wagging a smelly finger with some sort of chalky substance on it toward him, she said, “You…I…wish you weren’t hot.” Then her head slumped back down.

  He climbed into the trailer and pulled her out. She stunk and it wasn’t just the alcohol. He was scared to toss her over his shoulder for fear she’d get sick so he cradled her in his arms and went up the stairs. Halfway up, she looked at him and smiled. “Am I dreaming?”

  He forced himself to keep a straight face. “Yes.”

  “Good dream.” She nestled her head against him.

  His lips brushed her forehead, by accident. He’d secretly wanted to kiss her forehead, but he didn’t. No. It was just a brush of lips on skin, due to proximity. That’s all. It was not a kiss. He took her to the bathroom and washed her hands then carried her to the living room and placed her on the couch. He spread a blanket over her and said, “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

  When he returned to the truck, Mazy and Carl were missing. Myrtle pointed toward the ocean. “She wanted to go skinny dipping.”

  “Blow me.”

  Myrtle snickered. “Carl would get jealous, but thanks for the offer.”

  “What?” Brock shook his head unable to understand what this woman was on about. He turned and saw a redhead with a white bum in some very skimpy black panties run around the corner of the house. Carl gaped breathlessly, shaking his head with Mazy’s shirt in his hand.

  Brock approached the older gentleman. “Couldn’t talk her out of it?”

  “Crazy kids.” Carl panted. “I wouldn’t…mind…if she…” He paused to take a few big breaths. ”Wasn’t so damn drunk.” He gulped and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Swimming in the ocean… at night after drinking… is a recipe for disaster.”

  “I got it.” Brock kicked off his shoes and ran after Mazy. She was a few feet from the breakers and yelling up at the house. “Sam. Sam. Get your sorry ass out here.”

  Sam came to the porch railing and waved. “Be right there.”

  Christ. One drunk at a time, thank you.

  Carl came around the corner as Mazy splashed through the water and fell. “Mazy, you ain’t got no business in that water right now. Get yourself out of there, or I’ll call your brother Earl.”

  Mazy glared at him. Her pink body shivered in the moonlight. In different circumstances Brock may have found the sight of an attractive young woman in nothing but her bra and panties to be arousing, but right now it pissed him off. He didn’t sign up for this.

  While he was wading through the water toward Mazy, Sam ran up behind him. Long blonde hair. Bra and panties. Sheer white lace. Rebel stood at attention. She dove into the breakers and soon came up sputtering, flailing about. She acted like she couldn’t get up.

  Carl helped Mazy out of the water while Brock rushed to Sam’s aid. She was tangled in seaweed.

  After freeing her from the seaweed, she flung her arms around him and cried.

  Reflexes took over, and he pulled her trembling wet body to him. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I got you.”

  Carl escorted Mazy up the stairs and into the house. Brock picked Sam up and carried her back inside.

  Mazy was curled up in a big chair with a blanket when Brock l
owered Sam onto the couch.

  Carl looked at the two women and smiled. “Lovely sight, these two beauties.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and gave Brock a satisfied nod. “Welp, I should get Myrtle home. You got it from here?”

  Mazy started snoring.

  “Yeah, I got it.” He walked Carl back to the door and said goodnight. When he returned to the living room, Sam was gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hairbrush

  Sam wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the bathroom. Where the hell was she?

  He went upstairs. A grating sound came from the master bedroom. Brock was rendered paralyzed when he peeked inside the room.

  Sam stood naked in front of the opened sliding glass door that led to the balcony. Sheer white curtains billowed behind her. Her long blonde tresses resembled macrame. A sodden bra and panties formed a mound of wadded lace on the floor in front of the dresser.

  The reflection in the mirror above the dresser revealed a view of her backside. She had the most enticing tan lines that made him want to run his tongue along the boundaries where honey skin and sugar flesh collided. He envisioned her writhing beneath him, crying out his name, wanton and begging.

  He closed his eyes and desperately attempted to fight the urge to toss her onto the bed and ravenously feast upon her delectable buffet of womanly morsels, starting at her feet and working his way up those long toned legs, and further up to the treasure cradled between her thighs.

  She bent forward and stomped about as she tugged the handle of a hairbrush embedded in her hair. The brush didn’t budge.

  He stepped into the room. “Sam.” He called to her in a quiet voice as not to startle her.

  Remaining bent at the waist, she whirled toward him and nearly tripped on the ends of her hair. “I need scissors so I can cut this hairbrush out.”

  She’d lost her mind. There was no way he was letting her cut her hair right now. “Here.”

  He led her to the edge of the bed and sat her down. Then he carefully untangled the brush from her tortured locks.