Peaks of Passion
Pleasure Point Series Book One
Jennifer Evans
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Reader Advisory: This book has deeply sensual, steamy love scenes described in graphic detail and is recommended for readers aged 18 or older.
To Kerry, my real life Jax.
Table of Contents
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
Rosalyn
Jax
THANKS FROM JENNIFER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Surfing is very much like making love. It always feels good, no matter how many times you’ve done it.”
—Paul Strauch
Point Loma, California
2000
Jax
When I look back on it, I know I’ve led an interesting life. By the time I turned twenty-nine I’d already experienced more love and loss than most people do in their lifetimes—four times by that point to be exact.
Surfing saved me.
I spend my days dropping into monstrous waves that explode with ferocity. And my nights? They’re spent riding glorious waves of passion with luscious females. I always hope, but none of these women ever compare to Rosalyn.
I need to tell this story.
It’s the only way I can make sense of what happened.
* * *
“Stand up!” I yelled.
I’d just pushed Rosalyn into her first wave. Her athletic body faltered a bit, then sprung right up until she stood on the blue soft-top surfboard surfers liked to use for beginners. Her arms spread out gracefully, like a ballerina. When she reached the end of the wave, she fell off the board into the ocean and emerged, laughing and clapping, her hands held high over her head. I whooped and hollered, clapping along with her. “Way to go!”
My mom’s friend, Rosalyn, had just moved back to Point Loma after living in Santa Fe, New Mexico for … well, since I was little I suppose, because I didn’t remember her.
“Be a sweetie and take Rosalyn out for surfing lessons will you?” my mom had asked me that morning. I guess Rosalyn was somebody who’d been super close to my mom when they were growing up. Whatever.
My days went something like this: When I got done with school and after homework was finished, I’d pull on my wetsuit, grab my board, and race down to the best local surf spot, Sunset Cliffs, for epic surf sessions. I spent all available daylight hours until the sun set, surfing, practicing my cutbacks, and ducking into those beautiful tubes. So, I was kind of irritated that my mom wanted me to take this person I’d never met out for surf lessons, but Rosalyn was turning out to be okay. Real mellow and fun to be around.
“Paddle back!” I yelled, mimicking the motion with my arms. Rosalyn made it back out to where I stood in my wetsuit.
“I did it!” she said, straddling the board, her long, curly, blond hair plastered on her skull and down the back of her wetsuit, a huge grin on her face. “This is fun. Can we do it again?”
I smoothed the wet hair out of my face, smiled, and said, “Sure. But I may have to charge you extra.” I held on to the board where I instructed Rosalyn to lay prone, and scanned the horizon for the next set of waves to push her into. When the next good wave rolled through, I said, “Okay, get ready world, here comes Rip-It-Up-Rosalyn,” and I pushed her into another wave while she squealed with delight.
When we were done with the surf lesson, I secured the surfboard to the top of Rosalyn’s sweet 1992 BMW 318i, and she got behind the wheel. “You strapped in, kiddo?” she asked. She put the car in gear and said, “I got this car for a thousand bucks. That’s a pretty good deal, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I got that kind of deal because it was in a flash flood in Santa Fe. Undercarriage is a little rusted, and it’s got almost two hundred thousand miles on it, but this baby runs like a champ, don’t you Betsy?” she said, patting the dashboard. “Open the glove, will you babe? Let’s play some music.”
I rummaged through the messy glove compartment, which was jammed with plastic forks and knives from fast food restaurants, and a whole shitload of cassettes. “What do you want to listen to?” I asked, pawing through her collection, which included Alanis Morrisette and Led Zeppelin. “Dude! You got Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
She smacked the steering wheel hard and laughed. “Dude? Is that what you guys in California call the girls?”
“Okay, dudette. Is that better?”
“Just gimme that Led Zeppelin.”
She popped in the cassette and cranked the volume while Robert Plant belted out “Whole Lotta Love.” Rosalyn sang loud and off-key while reaching into the ashtray and extracting a roach. “Roach clip’s in the glove compartment, sweetie,” she said. “And get my lighter out of my purse.” I found the roach clip and then searched around in her purse for her purple lighter. My mom had taught me to respect the privacy of others, but Rosalyn didn’t seem to mind me combing through her bag. Her suede handbag was one of those big hippie-type bags with fringe hanging all over it and inside along with the spearmint gum and the tissues was a round plastic container, which could only be Rosalyn’s birth control pills.
I flicked the lighter, and she lit the roach while steering with the other hand, took a deep toke, held her breath, and exhaled the smoke in a steady stream followed by a small cough. “Want some?” she asked, handing me the roach clip.
“No thanks. Trying to quit,” I said, which set her off on a fresh wave of laughter.
“You’re okay, kid.” She slapped the steering wheel again and said, “Dude, surfing’s the bomb! Why didn’t you tell me how much fun it was?” I started to answer that I didn’t have the chance because we hadn’t been around each other, but she went on to say, “As long as I’ve known you, Mr. Jax Priest … You been holding out on me?”
And that was Rosalyn. Full of life, energy, a pep in her step and goddamn gorgeous.
“When’s the next lesson?” Rosalyn asked when she dropped me off in front of my house.
“You name the day.”
She smiled, put the bimmer in park, hopped out of the car, and jogged around to give me a big hug.
“Thanks, sweetie. That was so much fun.” She squeezed me so tight that I could feel her boobs and pelvic bones pressing into me. I hugged her back awkwardly then breathed deeply of her scent. She smelled sexy and earthy, like sandalwood.
* * *
“Yo,” my brother Tyler said when I walked into the room we shared. I switched off MTV where he was watching a Pearl Jam video. “Hey! Don’t touch that.” Tyler glared at me from behind a curtain of dark hair, his head bent, his fingers on the fret board of his Fender Strat. He’d begged and begged our parents to ge
t him that guitar for Christmas until they finally broke down one year and bought the damn thing.
“How can you concentrate with that stupid music playing?” I said.
“Shut up. You’re just jealous ‘cause you can’t play.” He looked up at me and pushed his hair out of his face. “So how was the surf lesson?”
I jumped onto my bed and landed like a gymnast executing a perfect landing into a safety net, my arms tucked next to me aerodynamically.
“Pretty cool.” I folded my arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling, my feet crossed at the ankles.
“What’s Rosalyn like?”
What was Rosalyn like? I was trying to figure that out because I was still tingling from where she’d hugged me, the heat of her body tattooed against mine. “She’s cool. Wonder why mom never talked about her much.”
Tyler shrugged. “Can’t say, bro.”
“She smokes pot.”
He leaned forward. “No fuckin’ way.”
“Yep. Made me light her roach for her.”
Tyler set his guitar aside, then let out a whoop. “Think she’ll let us smoke with her?”
“You can if you want. Not my thing.”
“Not really my thing either. But, if I want to be a rocker, guess I’m going to have to learn. Smoked some down at the beach the other day before surfing, and know what happened?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Paddled over a wave, and my board smacked me in the nose. Didn’t even feel it. Didn’t even know I was hurt until I saw blood pouring onto my board. Stuff’s strong. Not for me either.”
“Well, Rosalyn seems to like it pretty good.”
“Better not tell Mom.”
I made like I was zipping my lips up and throwing away the key. “Think I’m stupid?”
He smirked. “Not always the sharpest tool in the shed.”
“But I can kick your butt in the water any day.” I grinned, the feeling of Rosalyn’s body making me tingle and my mood lighten.
“Yeah, says who?”
“Says me, you pussy rock star wannabe.”
Tyler stood up and pulled his fist back like he was going to punch me, then jumped on top of me, his hair falling in my face while he put me in a headlock. “Take it back. Take it back, or I’ll—”
“Do you two mind?” my mom said, as she stuck her head in our room. “Think you guys can stop from killing each other and grace your father and me with your presence at dinner?”
We both burst into laughter as my mom left our room.
Tyler said, “You taking her out for surf lessons again?”
“Guess so.” I swung my legs out of bed.
“Well, just make sure you don’t catch a contact-high from her pot smoking.”
I could promise him I wouldn’t catch a high from the pot, but catching a buzz from being around Rosalyn—that was another story.
Rosalyn
My body was still aglow from the great time I’d had surfing with Jax when I got back to my apartment. The phone was ringing and I snatched it up with a smile.
“Hey lady,” Carissa said. “Do you miss Santa Fe yet?”
I collapsed on my hand-me-down sofa with a happy sigh, putting my feet up on the ottoman. “Hi, Carissa. And yes, I miss Santa Fe already.” I reached for my bong, balancing the phone in the crook of my neck while I lit up and took a deep inhale. “I went surfing today.”
I could picture my friend Carissa in her tiny studio apartment, probably dressed for another evening waiting tables at Jalisco’s, Santa Fe’s unrivaled Mexican restaurant.
“Surfing? You’re not wasting any time getting into the beach scene.”
“Yeah, Lydia’s son Jax is this totally cute surfer. He’s giving me lessons.”
“Cute? How cute?”
“He’s young, Carissa.”
“You, a surfer?” she said. “You did say you wanted to give it a try. How’s the art scene?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at my empty canvases and oil paints leaned up against one wall of the sunny apartment. The first things I had unpacked were my painting supplies, but somehow, things felt different in Point Loma. The weather was so gorgeous, who had time to sit inside painting? “First things first. I signed up for school today.”
“That’s cool.” She hesitated. “At least one of us is finally getting responsible in life. I suppose they don’t call us starving artists for nothing.”
I had grown up in Point Loma and my parents who were aging hippies had encouraged me to fly the coop as soon as I was legal, which is exactly what I’d done. When I turned eighteen, I packed up and headed out to Santa Fe, where I’d slept on a friend’s living room floor, waiting tables until I scraped together enough money to rent my own tiny place. My vision of becoming the next O’Keefe seemed romantic. The reality was, I romanced myself straight into debt while I painted oil canvases of sunsets in the desert and waited tables at a local Southwestern Mexican restaurant that had arguably the world’s best green chili pozole dish. Ah, that wonderful Hatch chili with its spicy, crisp and smoky taste. Went good with a cold beer and a bong hit.
“What’s up with the surfing thing?” Carissa said.
I smiled. “Like I was telling you, Lydia’s son surfs. Lydia’s trying to make me feel welcome.”
“Well, that’s cool. She’s got two, right?”
I took another toke of my bong, and the Point Loma afternoon became much more mellow. “Yep. Tyler just turned eighteen, Jax is seventeen.” I smiled thinking about Tyler with the long, dark hair and that guitar constantly strapped to his body like an appendage and Jax with blond surfer boy good looks and those crazy blue eyes.
“How old’s Lydia now?”
“Thirty-three.” Lydia had married her high school sweetheart and had her first kid when she was sixteen. Yikes! Then, twelve months later, she’d popped out another. There was actually one week in the year when they were the same age. Shoot, having two boys in diapers must’ve been wild. I had a hard enough time taking care of myself.
“Are you going to check out the SRF? You’re only a few towns over,” Carissa said. The Self Realization Fellowship was a meditation temple in Encinitas that was built by Swami Paramahansa Yogananda some eighty-five years prior.
I looked out the window, my mind straying to how fun surfing had been. “Yeah, guess so. But I’m kind of busy—”
“With surfing? My friend Rosalyn, the surf bum.” Carissa’s teasing laughter made me homesick for my bohemian life in New Mexico. All those years in Santa Fe I’d lived with other artists, writers, people who had this crazy illusion that it was hip to suffer for your art. When the landlord came knocking on your front door demanding the rent, it wasn’t cool anymore. Santa Fe was an awesome place to live. High altitude, fresh air, and the pot was flowing. All kinds of New Age stuff happening there too. I’d gotten involved in crystals, aromatherapy, astrology, tarot card reading, yoga, meditation, reiki … you name it.
I stood up and stretched the long telephone cord across the small living room, peering out the picture window that overlooked a spectacular California Live Oak. “Stop making fun of me.”
“Surfer girl, surfer girl,” Carissa chanted.
“Well, my beautiful artist bum,” I said, “I, for one, am going to take all the stuff I learn in physical therapy school and do what I really want to do. This way, I’ll get to help my clients with all the holistic stuff I absorbed in Santa Fe. And make some money.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I guess it’s time we get serious about life. Hey, maybe now you’re back in Cali, you’ll meet a cute surfer guy.”
“Not interested.”
“Why not?”
“I need to get busy and stop screwing around.”
“I’m not talking about screwing around. Maybe you’ll meet somebody you click with. We’re thirty, Roz. We’re not getting any younger.”
“Quit reminding me.” I glanced at the clock. “Hey, gotta go. My shift at the Yacht Club starts in a half hour.”
I
hung up and stood by the open window inhaling the faint smell of the ocean breeze. My new life was so different from what I’d been used to. I missed Carissa, and wondered if I could find that same kind of friendship with Lydia. We had grown up on the same block in Point Loma. She had three years on me and neither of us had siblings. She’d made it her mission in life to treat me like her baby sister. We’d become great friends. The whole time I’d lived in Santa Fe we kept in touch via phone calls, letters, and my occasional trips to Point Loma. I thought it was sweet the way she’d welcomed me with open arms, wanting to include me in her family.
I wasn’t counting on what would transpire between Jax and me.
Jax
The morning after I took Rosalyn for surf lessons, I woke up with a hard-on. That was nothing new because I was always waking up with stiffies in those days. I’d be so embarrassed when I had a wet dream, and I’d guiltily wad up my sheets and throw them in the washing machine before my mom found them. But was it wrong that the first thing I thought about that morning was Rosalyn? My cheeks felt hot with shame.
Rosalyn rented a tiny apartment that connected to one of those fancy houses right by Sunset Cliffs. When I finished surfing that day and rode my skateboard home with my surfboard tucked under my arm, I wasn’t surprised to see her standing in front of her place as I rode by.
“Hey Jax,” she yelled, waving crazily. “Come on over.” I quickly turned my skateboard her way and skidded to a stop. “You gotta see my new place,” she said.
I followed her as she skipped up the steps of her porch, her long, curly hair pulled back into a thick ponytail. I checked out her gorgeous body. Nice butt, perky boobs, in a skin-tight pair of black yoga pants and a skimpy tank top.
We stood in the living room, and Rosalyn twirled around. “Pretty groovy, don’t you think? Got it for six hundred and fifty bucks a month. Including utilities.”
I glanced around the neatly kept apartment. “Sounds like a great deal.”
Peaks of Passion: Pleasure Point Series Book One Page 1