Anything but Love (Wingmen #3)

by Daisy Prescott

  “Yeah, saw that. She’s staring at me, not your hungover mess.”

  “Dream on, baby bro.”

  Sick of always being reminded I’m a year and a half younger, I take his words as a challenge. “Watch this.”

  After setting down my empty glass, I remove my sunglasses. Carter immediately grabs them and puts them on like I knew he would.

  I stretch and roll my neck, checking to see if I still have an audience at the far end of the pool. After confirming I do, I give her a little wink. She ducks her head behind her book, but I know she’s still watching.

  Standing, I do the typical reach around to lift my T-shirt from between my shoulders before yanking it over my head. I flex my pecs when I shrug it off my arms. The back stretch when I toss it to the lounger is a little over the top. So is scratching my six-pack as I saunter to the edge of the pool, but that doesn’t mean I don’t do it.

  Making sure she’s still paying attention, I lift my arms over my head before executing a perfect dive into the deep end. I swim the length of the pool underwater in a slow, exaggerated breaststroke. When I surface, water drips down my face, as I control my breathing like swimming twenty-five meters is nothing to me. I shove my hair out of my eyes with both hands as I exit near her chair.

  Her mouth hangs open.

  “Good morning,” I say as I pass by her, ducking my chin like I’m shy. I’m not. “I love your suit.”

  “Fine. Damn fine,” she mumbles and fans herself.

  Yeah, I just made her year.

  I strut over to my own lounger and lower the back. Lying on my stomach, I rest my head on my arms.

  Carter chuckles beside me. “Nicely done. You gonna go after that?”

  “Nah. When I walked by her I saw a diamond ring on her finger.”

  “Bummer. She’s definitely in the natural column.”

  We have rules. Frayed as our morals are, we don’t go after another man’s woman. We respect the wingmen code: no married women and no one’s sister. John and Tom will kick our asses all the way to Oak Harbor if they ever find out we’ve crossed that line. They threatened it enough times when we were growing up. Older and uglier than us, I don’t doubt they could still take us down.

  “There are always more boobs out there.” Fighting my own hangover, I close my eyes, letting the tequila and sun drag me into sleep while I listen to the white noise of the pool’s waterfall.

  Music pulses and throbs around me. A girl sways her hips while her ass grinds against my crotch. My eyes are closed, intensifying the bass-line beating through my body and her scent surrounding us in a floral and summer bubble.

  I grab her hips and pull her closer against me. I want her to know how my body is reacting to her dancing. We’re completely clothed and I’m fully hard.

  Her hands come up and rest on mine for a minute before she moves them up her side and above her head. Every movement graceful as she extends her tan arms up, pressing her back to my chest. One hand clutches my neck. The other she sneaks between our bodies, palming me through my shorts.

  Arching her back, she pulls one of my hands off her hip and rests it on her waist, silently inviting me to explore more of her.

  It’s an invitation I’m not going to refuse. I focus on the gorgeous woman with curves for miles practically begging me to touch her. I drag the back of my hand up her dress until it rests below the swell of her breast. Pausing for a moment, I flex my fingers before continuing. With the softest pressure, I trail my hand over the swell and am rewarded with the feel of her nipple hardening underneath my touch.

  If we weren’t in the middle of a dance floor, I’d cup both breasts and squeeze. I want to hear her moan from my touch.

  She grips me tightly, letting me know she doesn’t care if we have an audience. In fact, her fingers toy with my zipper as if she’s going to expose me right here in the middle of the club.

  Placing my own hand over hers, I tilt my hips away. We’re in public. I need to slow things down.

  I brush my mouth near the edge of her ear before whispering, “We have all night, babe.”

  She gives up the battle of the bulge near my zipper and instead uses that hand to pull my head down to her mouth.

  I grin and try to kiss her, but she pulls away.

  “I can’t wait to get my mouth on your wand. It’s so long and hard.”

  Wow. She’s really into me. This is better than the owl showing up at my house when I turned eleven.

  Wait, did she say wand?

  Did I say owl?

  I glance down in surprise and blink to focus on her.

  Gone is the slinky dress she wore when we started dancing. Now she’s wearing black robes like at graduation. Or the kind worn by wizards. They match mine.

  Except she’s wearing a green and black scarf. My tie is yellow and black.

  No. This ruins everything.

  My hands drop to my sides and I step back, practically shoving her away from me.

  The purple streaks of her hair spin around her face with the movement.

  “Dude, you need to stop that.” Carter’s voice comes from the left, but I can’t see him.

  “Why do all the good girls have to be evil?” I ask him.

  “Stop your moaning. You’re so loud it’s embarrassing.”

  “You can’t even hear me over the music. It’s too loud in here.” I look around and no longer see the woman. However, tell that to my dick. I’m still hard.

  A hand, I assume it’s Carter’s, touches my shoulder, then violently shakes me. “Wake up, Erik.”

  I blink open my eyes. Carter stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “What’s going on?” I mumble, trying to shake off the dream.

  “You were asleep muttering about owls and wands. I was going to record you, but when you started grinding your hips into the lounger, I took mercy on you and woke you up.”

  I press my forehead against the cushion. Thankfully my erection is subsiding. “Great.”

  “You still traumatized about not getting into Hogwarts?” Carter teases me. For months he tortured me for crying when I realized he faked my Hogwarts letter.

  What the hell kind of dream was that?

  The purple-tipped hellcat from last night and her sweet ass are starring in my wet dreams now? No fucking way. That’s messed up. I only took a semester of psychology in college and even I know my subconscious has issues for going there.

  Must be the tequila.

  I make a silent vow to avoid the stuff from now until forever.

  Pissed off, but still horny from the dream, I need to get rid of some of this energy. I convince Carter to check out the cliff divers with me.

  We pass a cluster of bikini-clad girls sunbathing on the beach. I give them my best grin.

  “Meet us at The Office later!” one girl shouts. Her friends high-five her.

  “Is it clothing optional?” I joke with them.

  A burst of giggles and lewd comments I’d never repeat in mixed company follow us down to the water where we rent two paddleboards from Pedro.

  “It’s a good thing you spend most of your time deep in the woods and away from society.” Using his paddle, Carter splashes me with water.

  “Don’t mock my game.” I reciprocate, wobbling and almost losing my balance.

  “You don’t have game.”

  “And you do?” I try to knock him off his board.

  “More than you. I scored last night with that redhead.”

  “Do you even remember her name? Or recall anything about her other than she looks like Ashley?”

  He retaliates and I jump out of trajectory of his paddle into the water.

  “Tasha. From Ohio.” He looks so smug.

  I easily send him off balance and into the water by kicking his board from beneath.

  Breaking the surface, he curses. “You’re an asshole.”

  “I’m the Loki to your Thor. Watch out, golden boy.” I do the gesture of pointing two fingers at my eyes and t
hen at him.

  There are fewer boats in the water and no one is up on Pelican Rock when we arrive at the cliffs near Lovers Beach.

  “Are you insane, bro?” Carter shakes his head. “You want me to climb up there and do what?”

  “Jump.”

  “You go first, crazy man. If you live, maybe I’ll think about it. If not, Mom’s going to be pissed at me for the rest of my life.”

  I hand him my paddle and jump into the water. The cold is refreshing. Carter uses my paddle to keep my board from drifting away.

  With strong strokes, I close the distance to the rocks. Pulling myself up, my board shorts slip and I feel the breeze on my ass.

  “Quit mooning me,” Carter calls out.

  Brother to brother, such a comment is a challenge. I stand and drop my shorts.

  “Dude, no one wants to see that in the bright light of day.” He curses as I easily climb the outcrops of the rock face to the top. The biggest obstacle is all the bird poop. This should be called Pelican Poop Island.

  The sun feels amazing on my skin. “No one is even around,” I shout down to him. I reach a wide ledge and carefully make my way to the edge about thirty-feet above the water.

  “They’d need a telephoto lens to see anything.” Even though he is out of range, his words make me want to do a canonball and knock him off his board.

  I spread my arms over my head, slightly arching my back. Above the water, sun flashing across its surface, I feel like I’m about to take flight. With a pause to inhale, I spring off the solid rock into the nothingness of air. I touch my toes before straightening my body into a long line.

  The three story fall takes seconds.

  My hands together, I plunge deep into the clear, sapphire water.

  When my head surfaces, I inhale with a grin. Before I think, I’m swimming to the rocks for another dive.

  “How was it?” Carter paddles closer, his voice curious.

  “Fucking amazing.”

  My wet shorts sit where I left them. With a glance around, I see a few kayakers have entered the cove along with a couple of rental boats. Eh, I’ve got nothing to hide. I scale the rocks again. Naked and happy.

  I decide on a flip this time. I arch backward, diving through the air with my arms outstretched. I fly.

  My fingers slice the surface of the water before my body breaks the plane with barely a splash. I let the momentum propel me into the depth and open my eyes. Tropical fish surround me. It’s like being inside an aquarium. Unbelievable.

  The need for oxygen burns my lungs as I pull myself toward the sunlight with strong kicks.

  Applause from Carter and random kayakers greets me while I catch my breath.

  “Well done. You’ve convinced me.”

  “You gonna try it?” I swim to him. Resting my arms on his board, I wipe salt water off of my face and push my hair out of my eyes.

  He answers by diving over my head into the water. I latch onto the other board before it drifts.

  “Hey, grab my shorts while you’re over there!”

  After he reaches the rocks, he tosses the wet fabric in my general direction. My suit lands on the paddleboard with a wet slap. The only issue is how to put on my shorts while holding onto two boards. I tread water for a moment while I figure it out.

  Glancing around, I notice more kayaks and boats in the area. Two guys climb the rocks behind Carter. Female whoops of encouragement from a nearby boat cheer them on.

  “Fuck it.” I’ve already been naked for everyone to get an eyeful. I loop one of the paddles through the bungee cords on the front of the boards to hold them together before bracing myself on my arms to get on mine.

  Clapping and whistling follows more yelling from the boats as my naked ass is exposed above the water. Giving my audience a show, I stretch out into a plank before slowly standing, picking up my shorts after I find my balance.

  “Ten!”

  “Nine-point-five!”

  “Let’s see the front view!”

  My cheeks heat from the beginning of another sunburn. I give a wave behind me, but don’t turn around as I step into my shorts.

  “Boo!” A collective round of female hissing follows when I tie the drawstring and finally face my audience.

  I bow with my arms out wide.

  “Ass guy, I think I love you!” a woman screams. With her arms outstretched wide, she’s leaning over the side almost in the water. Her friend yanks her back into the seats as the wake from another boat rocks theirs.

  That same wave tips me ass over elbows into the water in a spectacular back flop.

  I sputter out a mouthful of water, reaching for the boards. From the water, I catch Carter executing an awkward somersault, which he manages to land feet first at the last moment.

  “That was awesome!” He slaps his hands on the water before swimming to me.

  “Take off your shorts!” Our audience is back to catcalling us.

  “What’s that all about?” He kneels on his board.

  “I had to get out of the water to put on my shorts. I gave them a little show.”

  “Dumbass.”

  “Huh?” I hand him his paddle, making sure to knock his head with it.

  “They probably have a dozen pics of your junk on their phones now.”

  I hadn’t really thought about pics. “Fuck. You should’ve mentioned that when you let me climb up there in the first place.”

  “I’m not the keeper of your dignity, little brother. That’s a career commitment I’m not willing to invest in. My ass will never be memed like Kim Kardashian.”

  Well, shit. Too late to do anything about it now, I laugh it off. “My ass is much nicer. The world would be so lucky.”

  DROPS OF WATER slide down the windows of the plane while we taxi to our gate at SeaTac.

  “Ugh. Welcome home to us,” Carter says from his window seat.

  “Another month and it’ll be Daylight Savings Time. We only have to hang on until then and the days will get longer and sunnier.”

  After I pull out my phone and turn it on, it displays twenty missed text messages.

  Three text messages in a group thread with John and Tom teasing us about the trip. I swear they’re jealous now that their women own them, balls and all.

  I show Carter the screen.

  He leans over the empty seat between us to read the text. “How many are about Dad?”

  I scroll through the ten from our mom. “Only four. Looks like Bert gave him a ride home from the VFW on Saturday.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “At three in the afternoon.”

  He twists his mouth. “He’s an adult and responsible for his own decisions.”

  There’s really nothing more to say we haven’t said a thousand times or more.

  We pick up my Bronco out of long-term parking. The heat blasts a stale gasoline smell into the cab as we head north back to the island.

  The silence continues during our drive. I fiddle with the radio, unable to find a song I can stand.

  “At least it’s green here. Cabo’s cool and all, but so brown.” I complain about the weather as much as the next person who lives in the PNW, but I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

  “Yeah, but all the endless sun makes up for it.” Carter turns down the heat.

  “You mean the endless bikinis.”

  “Of course. Flannels and jeans cover way too much skin.”

  After we turn off of the I-5, I ask if he wants to stop for coffee, knowing where he’ll want to go.

  “Nah, I’m pretty tired. Let’s head home.”

  His rejection of a caffeine stop surprises me. I stare at him for a couple of seconds, swerving into the other lane. Some lady in a BMW honks at me.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” I draw out the word. He never turns down the opportunity to stalk Ashley’s coffee huts. Maybe he knows she’s not there. That must be it. No other real explanation.

  A fe
w cars sit in the ferry waiting area, but we’ll make the next boat. I roll down the window and let the damp sea air fill my lungs. I’ve had enough of being off the island for a while. I can’t wait to get back to business.

  I’m alone at work. Been here roasting beans for three hours.

  It’s pretty close to heaven.

  The two weeks since we came back from Cabo have been busy. If it weren’t for the peeling on my nose and shoulders, the whole trip would seem like a lifetime ago. I make a note to search for a paddleboard online soon.

  The hum of the cooling tray fans creates a comforting sound. Despite the light rain, both garage doors are open to the fresh air, cooling the space and letting some of the smoky coffee-scented air escape into the woods surrounding our building. Off a quiet road near the small plane airport, this location provides us the space and privacy I crave while still being a few minutes drive from downtown Langley and Bayview Corner. We can work at odd hours and not hear complaints from nosy neighbors.

  Jonah stops by for our cupping sessions, but roasting is really my gig. He’s happy to design blends, but taking a coffee bean from raw to perfectly roasted and delicious falls under my part of our business.

  Not that kind of cupping. I know when I first heard the word I thought about balls, not beans. Cupping involves sniffing and tasting coffee like oenophiles taste wine. It’s completely pretentious. I own that.

  When the raw beans arrive in Seattle from our farmer partners in Central and South America, we test roast them and hold a cupping session where we analyze the aroma and flavors.

  Life is too short to drink bad coffee once you’ve had the good stuff.

  My stuff is the best.

  Nothing humble about my brag.

  Bent over a cooling tray, I scoop up the beans to pick out any raw ones that haven’t roasted.

  A flash of light casts my shadow on the wall behind the roaster.

  I jump, spilling a handful of beans onto the cement floor. Waiting for the thunder to follow the flash of lightning, I catch my breath as I chastise myself for being frightened by a storm.

  When another flash isn’t followed by the boom of thunder, I turn around, and drop my scoop.

  Connie, one of my mother’s friends, is standing a few feet away, holding a digital camera with a big lens.