by Teagan Kade
She turns, eyes lit by the sun streaming down from the skylight above us. “I’m going with or without you.”
“You almost drowned and you want to go back out. Are you fucking nuts?”
“Maybe I am.”
I cross my arms. “If you want to surf Shipstern Bluff, and I mean really surf it, you’re going to need my help.”
She turns around, arms folded like my own. “And?”
“My services don’t come free.”
She takes a step backwards. “What exactly are you implying here?”
Fucking idiot. I put a hand up. “No, not that, Jesus, but if you want to learn, you’re going to follow my rules.”
She shrugs. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
That was easier than I thought. “Edict one, you are to take off that rubber right now.”
“I want to get back in the water as soon as possible.”
Fucking stubborn. I walk into the room, loom over her. “You still full of water? Listen to me. You practically died yesterday. Do you even comprehend that? You should be at the hospital right now.”
She pushes her chest out, stands to her full height—still a good six inches below me. “What, are you going to stop me? Restrain me?”
The thought of restraining her only makes my cock harder. “If I have to.”
She rolls her eyes and walks forward. “Bullshit. Let me through.”
I stand in the doorway. She bumps into my chest, shoves me. “Are you serious?”
“You said you’d follow my rules.”
She wags her finger in my face. “You’re an asshole.”
“So you keep saying.”
She walks back to the bed and sits down. “Okay, Mr. Alpha ‘I Do What I Want’ Standover Man, what are we going to do then, because I sure as shit don’t want to be sitting around here for days watching wallpaper peel.”
I reach down and pick up her panties. They’re still warm in my hand. I can almost smell her on them, the peachy, vanilla scent of her sex. I toss them to her. “Put your clothes on. You’re going to get your fresh air, but it won’t be in the water.”
CHAPTER THREE
LUX
We stand on the cliff line looking down at Shipstern Bluff, Deacon’s two brothers are out in the water carving it up. The swell has eased, but it’s still big out there.
The arms of Deacon’s leather jacket flap in the wind, my hair swept up into a messy funnel behind me. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, tuck my chin into the top of the sweater I borrowed from him. It smells like him—musky and masculine, leather and salt. It smells like trouble.
He points down to the break. “Notice how the end of the set closes out over the shallowest part of the reef. You don’t want to get caught in that.” He points to the left. “See there? There’s a pretty constant rip that runs out from the beach to the break. It’s handy, but don’t hang around in it too long unless you do want a free ride back to the States.”
I peer down. “It looks so small from up here.”
“Doesn’t everything from a position of stability?”
Whoa there, Socrates. “I’m not buying your tough-guy act, by the way.”
He turns to me, side-lit emerald eyes luminescent, jaw sharp and angular. “What makes you think it’s an act?”
“I’ve met a lot of criminals in my time. You are not one of them.”
He shakes his head, stuffing his hands deep into in his jacket pockets. “Let me see. You’ve known me all of a day, I fucking saved your life, and you’re still giving me shit?”
“It was a compliment.”
He huffs. “Some fucking compliment.”
“So, you are a criminal? Not exactly a hot spot for criminal enterprise here, I’d say.”
He looks back to me. “You’d be surprised what kind of scum and shit a hidden hole like this attracts.
“You guys hiding from something.”
“Of course we are.”
I should press him on it, find out who I’m bunking up with here, but I’m already short on cash as it is. I don’t know what I expected—come here, surf the wave, go home. My head’s been such a mess since Dad died. I know one thing for sure, though. He would not approve.
I mean, Deacon’s attractive. All three brothers are, in that so-bad-they’re-good kind of way with their ink and bulk, but they’re not the kind of guys I date—quiet, intelligent types.
Admit it. You wouldn’t mind being taken by this guy, ‘fucked’ as they so ineloquently put it.
I have no doubt he’d know what to do. He looks like the kind of man who’d pin you to the wall and pound you into orgasm through sheer brute force.
You could do with a good fucking like that, a sexual palate cleanser.
Ah, no.
I tell my head to shut up and watch the next set come through, Razor brutally heaved over the falls only to emerge a minute later bobbing cork-like well past the reef.
I grow tense thinking of myself under all that water. While I’m putting on a tough-girl act myself, I don’t know if I can actually bring myself to go out there again.
Deacon stands beside me, his scent stronger. I swear I can feel the heat of his body. He points into the distance. “Look, a whale and her calf.”
I see a large, blue-grey body roll up out of the water, spray ejected high into the air, a small spray to the side from the baby.
It is spectacular. “Wow. There’s something you don’t see every day.”
Deacon looks to me. “Hang around here long enough, Hollywood, and you’ll see a great deal more than that.”
*
It’s frozen pizza and beer for dinner, the kind of meal only three bachelors would appreciate. We sit around a fire pit outside, the sky shifting from pastel to silky blue, pinpricks of stars fanning out in the darkness.
“How do you feel?”
Deacon’s shifted his chair closer to mine, beer between his hands, his five o-clock shadow obvious even in the dim light. “Good. Tired, but okay.”
“You should rest, get your energy back.” For a moment I see genuine concern there, the façade dropping, the Wizard of Oz exposed.
I stand up and brush myself off. “Best idea you’ve had all day.”
I wave to the others. “See you guys in the morning.”
They grunt a response, too hypnotized by the fire… or drunk. It’s hard to tell.
Night falls in full and I retire to my room. Outside, a sudden shower has started, the humidity growing even more intense. I’m sweaty, hot and unable to pull myself away from the feeling of helplessness I felt under the weight of the water, visions of Deacon’s hand reaching down, the strength with which he pulled me towards the surface. I owe him my life.
I’m undressing when I notice a slice of light in the corner of the room. I go over to it, run my finger down the glowing gap between the two panels of the wall. I press my eye to it, can see right into the bathroom backing my room.
Holy shit.
I mean, yes, the place is in disrepair, but isn’t this the kind of thing you’d cover up?
It’s a house of guys. I don’t imagine they get many guests.
I hear the door to the bathroom open.
Don’t you dare, Lux Louise Jackson.
It’s late. My powers of resistance are weak.
Deacon enters the bathroom in his board shorts. He turns the shower on and begins to strip, shorts disappearing down his legs and his firm buttocks showing up like a full moon… and just as pale.
I spin around against the wall, chest tight. Don’t look. Don’t look.
But I can’t help it. I peer through the slats again and watch as he washes, lathering himself up. When he runs his hands through his hair his whole body lengthens and tightens banded gold and white from his shorts. He’s a soapy god-damn Adonis.
I take in the tattoos on his back, his arms. There’s an odd block of black on his left bicep, as if something’s been hidden or tattooed over.
Weird.<
br />
He turns and I have to cup my mouth to stop myself gasping. His cock’s huge, a lengthy shaft swinging between his legs set in a soft nest of wiry hair. He soaps himself down there, dropping the soap and bending over. When he comes back up, his eyes open. He’s looking right at me. I spin around against the wall again, a sudden flicker of heat between my legs, my fingers tingling.
He can’t have seen me, surely. But deep down I hope he has.
*
The weather turns in the morning, rainfall too heavy to go out or do much but sit in the living room watching the fire while the boys busy themselves with laundry, video games, and leftovers. It’s actually kind of comical seeing them all in housemaid mode. A guy with a tattoo of the grim reaper folding underwear, a steaming iron in one hand, is a sight every girl should see at least once in their lifetime.
By late afternoon I’m struck by a sudden wave of tiredness, retreating back to my bedroom. It’s dark when I wake.
I tip-toe through the house. “Hello?”
No one’s here.
I find a note on the bench: GONE TO THE PUB. BACK LATER.
The pub?
It has to be the old building down past the motel, the bar.
There’s no invitation to join them, but I’m wide awake. Screw it.
I gather my things and head out into the rain, running up the hill with my coat stretched over my head.
I enter the ‘pub’ and expect it to be bustling, but there’s barely anyone inside.
Razor and Bo are at the bar speaking to the bartender, a middle-aged woman in a slate swimsuit who looks like she was bred in a concrete mixer.
I make my way over to Deacon, sitting by himself at a table in the middle of the place, finger tracing patterns in his beer glass.
I stop at the table. “Hi.”
He takes a pull of his beer, doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
What the hell’s up with you? “You know, I never properly thanked you for saving my life. You didn’t let me.”
He places the beer down and slowly looks up at me. “Honestly, I’d thought you’d be on a plane by now, jetting your way back to the States. You’re not, but you sure as shit should be.”
I don’t know where this sudden moodiness is coming from, this two-face routine. I thought we were making progress.
Maybe you thought wrong.
I take a seat. I’ve had enough of the attitude. “I have as much right as anyone else to be here, you know.”
He laughs, drums his fingers on the table. “You think the break cares about your rights? The ocean?” He leans over. “It doesn’t give a fuck about who you are or where you’ve come from. You don’t respect it, it will fucking destroy you.”
I bite my lip, containing myself. “I can handle it. I’ve surfed Pipeline, J-Bay…”
He laughs again, louder this time. “You think Shipstern’s anything like Pipe? Shipstern’s a fucking mutant of a wave, a destroyer of worlds, and you were out there in a baby swell. We would have been picking up pieces of you if was really working.”
“I thought I left smug arrogant assholes like you back in the States, but I guess you really are ubiquitous, aren’t you?”
He relaxes, leans back in his chair. “Curious way to say thank you.”
“I am going back out there. I am going to conquer that wave.”
“No one conquers a wave, Hollywood. You can respect the ocean, ride it, but you cannot fucking conquer it.”
I stand, the chair sliding back with a screech. “We’ll see about that.”
“You can ride me if you want,” comes an Irish accent from the table beside us, a snigger following.
I turn to see a small group of men, probably backpackers. “What do you say?” the one in the middle continues, “or do you need to ask your boyfriend first?”
I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.
Deacon’s over there in a second flat, the smartass still in his chair on the floor, Deacon’s arm up hard under his chin. One of the others goes to grab Deacon around the neck, but Deacon thrusts his boot out and hits him in the chest. The guy goes down, another lifting his bottle ready to smash it into Deacon’s head, but Razor gets to him first, a powerful right hook connecting with his jaw.
It’s chaos. The brothers and the backpackers go sprawling across the room. I see one of the backpackers literally fly into an old pinball machine, the glass breaking under his back.
“Hey!” calls the bartender.
A bottle smashes by my feet.
I get under the table on my knees, breathing hard.
In all the chaos what strikes me most is the way Deacon is going to town on the guy who made the wise crack in the first place. He’s smashing his head left and right, the guy’s collar fisted up in his hand, the other swinging into his face. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He’s going to kill him.
I run over there, dodging another bottle.
I reach down and try to pull Deacon away.
He spins, fist raised and eyes wild, but he lowers his hand when he sees it’s me, lets the guy he was working on slump groaning to the floor, his face a mess of blood.
“What the farkin’ hell is going on here?”
Everyone looks to the doorway. A man stands there in blue shirt and black pants, a man I’m assuming is a local police officer.
Deacon stands, his brothers flanking him. The backpackers are dotted around the room in various states of disrepair.
Deacon puts his hands out. “Sergeant Wilson. Nice to see you.”
Sergeant Wilson looks to the bartender, the woman who looks like she was brought up on a breakfast of shrapnel and broken dreams, the tattoos on her arms worn and weary. She’s solid, too, the kind of lady you wouldn’t want to mess with, and I don’t intend to start.
“Sarah?” the sergeant calls to her.
Sarah shrugs. “I don’t know, Bill. I didn’t see who started it.”
The sergeant looks around. “Why is it wherever you guys show up somewhere it turns into a shitstorm? You can’t help but cause trouble, can you? Who’s going to pay for all this?”
Deacon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a clip of cash, thumbing out bills onto the closest table. He looks to the bartender. “Will two-grand cover it, Sarah?”
She nods, arms crossed. “Should do.”
The sergeant steps over one of the backpackers and takes Deacon by the shoulder, spinning him around and pulling out his cuffs. “Don’t know why you fuckers even hang around.”
No one seems to complain or act surprised. It’s like this happens every night.
Cuffed, the sergeant walks Deacon to the doors, speaking into the receiver by his collar.
Razor waves. “Seen you soon, bro.”
Deacon turns to me as he walks by, expression dark. I’m starting to think he doesn’t know how to smile, how to even get his face to switch to anything other than ‘maximum brood’.
Razor and Bo walk out in turn, Razor kicking one of the backpackers in the ribs on his way out. He winks at me. “See you back home, Hollywood.”
With the brothers gone, it’s just the bartender and I.
She picks up a glass and shakes her head. “What a fucking mess.”
I step over glass. “Does this happen often?”
She clears the bar with an arm. “More than I’d like, but they pay up plenty every time—enough to keep the place running. Can’t say I can complain about that.”
She nods to the door. “You with them, the Hunt brothers?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you’re American too, right?”
I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leans over the bar towards me, turning a glass over and throwing a cloth over her shoulder. “Got a name?”
“Lux.”
“Want some advice, Lux?”
I smile. “Sure.”
“Stay away from those three, especially the tall one.”
She must be referring to Deacon. “Why?
”
A groan follows from an unidentified backpacker.
“People don’t come here for a holiday, love. This place is thick with thieves.”
“You’re saying they’re criminals?”
She shrugs, picks up the glass and begins to clean it out. “You come here to die or you come here to hide. I used to be a prison guard, you know. Twenty years up at in Sydney at Parramatta Jail with some real nasty cookies. Your boy? Deacon? The way he fights, the shitty tats, way he watches his back—he’s done time, mark my words. Maybe they all have. Question is, how long and what for? I can guaran-bloody-tee you it wasn’t for jay-walking.”
I look back to the mess. “They seem harmless enough.”
“They’re quiet, keep to themselves, sure, but you ask me, that makes them even more dangerous. They’re trouble and in my experience you want to stay as far away from trouble as you can around here, especially a cute little get-up like yourself who probably hasn’t had her heart broken yet. Leave,” she warns, “before Finke, or the brothers, get the better of you”.
She might be right.
She puts the glass back down. “How long were you planning on staying?”
“The brothers were nice enough to put me up, actually. It would be nice to pay them, though, show my gratitude. I don’t suppose you know where I could get some work around here.”
“You done bar work before?”
“In college, yes.”
“You work hard?”
“I do.”
She looks me up and down. “I suppose I could do with a hand. I don’t imagine the local crowd would say no to the eye candy either. It would be a nice change from the ax wound of a face god gifted me with.”
I swallow. “I think you’re—”
“Shut it. I value honesty in my employees. You want to bullshit, become a politician.”
I nod. “I understand.”
She puts down the glass again and wipes the bar even though it’s now spotless. “You start tonight, help me clean up this cluster-fuck. Ten bucks an hour.”
I extend my hand. “Done.”
*
I arrive home well after midnight to find Deacon sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “They let you out.”
“They?” he laughs. “Sergeant Wilson’s the only policeman in town, and yes, I’m out. He can’t seem to stand me for more than a few hours. Heard you got yourself a job?”