Now we’re out past the “takeoff zone,” floating peacefully. I’m learning the rhythm of the ocean, its sets and lulls, the restless motion of it beneath me, vast and beautiful and dangerous. I could be riding the back of an enormous dragon, gliding through the air.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Ever since I moved here. I’ve been obsessed with the ocean since the first time I saw it. Topeka, Kansas, is about as far away from any ocean as you can get.”
“Homegrown in a fly-over state, hmm?”
He cuts a sharp gaze to me. “Are you serious? I can’t believe you haven’t Googled me! We’ve been eye-fucking each other for two years!”
“A year and a half.”
He grins. “I know it’s a year and a half. I just wanted to see if you did.”
I smile mysteriously. “That was a lucky guess, actually. I have no idea when we first met. I just didn’t want you to feel bad that I’ve never bothered to Google you.”
He splashes me with water. I scream—because for whatever bizarre biological reason, that’s what girls do when boys splash us with water—and then laugh. I splash him back. Then we’re in a water fight, dousing each other with big handfuls of cold salt water, kicking it at each other, laughing like mad, playing like a couple of schoolyard kids on recess.
It’s then that I spot the fin.
Dark and triangular, it’s about fifty feet away from us on my side, cutting through the surface of the water as easily as a knife cuts through butter. It’s moving fast in our direction.
This time when I scream it’s for real.
“Sharksharksharksharkshaaarrrk!”
I whip my legs up out of the water. That causes me to lose my balance, which then causes me to topple over sideways—into the shark-infested ocean.
I come up kicking and screaming, panicked, gasping for air. Salt water stings my eyes. Inhaling a mouthful of water, I cough, my arms flailing for the safety of the board. Brody’s calling to me. I can’t make out what he’s saying, I’m shrieking and splashing too loudly, but when I manage to drag myself halfway onto the surfboard I can finally hear him.
And the bastard is laughing.
Laughing.
“It’s only a dolphin, Grace! Look!”
A pale gray body whips past us in the water, not ten feet away. Then like a rocket it blasts through the surface and flies glinting into the air. It hangs there for a moment, sleek and shining, raining drops, and then angles down and slices back into the ocean, leaving barely a splash in its wake.
“Here’s another one!” shouts Brody, pointing behind me.
Breathless, my heart hammering, I spot another fin headed toward us. There are four more behind it, flared out in a V formation. They fly past us and then break the surface as the first one did and leap high into the air.
My mouth drops open. A circus act couldn’t be more perfectly timed.
“They’re playing!” Brody slides off his board and paddles the few feet that separate us. He hangs onto the edges of both of our boards, making us a little flotilla. His smile is brighter than the sun as he faces me, bobbing in the water only a foot away. “They’re playing with us!”
I can’t speak because I’m still too traumatized by the thought that I was about to become a tasty hors d’oeuvre for a great white. Half a dozen more dolphins speed past, jumping and blowing, splashing and jostling, having as much fun as a bunch of unleashed dogs in a doggie park.
Curious, they circle back and fly past us again, and I swear as each one surfaces from the water they look at us with their merry little eyes, like, “Hey, there, ungainly land creature! You sure are strange looking but you’re welcome here!”
When they finally go, disappearing into the deep blue without a trace as quickly as they came, the ache in my chest tells me I’ve witnessed something special.
Something sacred.
Brody sees how moved I am. He swims closer and plants a wet, salty kiss on my cheek. “Yeah,” he says, his voice husky. “There are still miracles in the world, Grace. You just have to know where to find them.”
As we float in the water, smiling into each other’s eyes, I can’t help but wonder if Fate is finally extending me a long-overdue olive branch.
Or setting me up for a soul-shattering fall.
Side by side, our surfboards under our arms, we trudge silently up the beach through the sun-warmed white sand to the path that leads to the lawn. The path eventually meets up with the stone walkway that takes us through Brody’s yard to the large patio, shaded by swaying palm trees, their stiff fronds glinting in the light. I’m physically exhausted but feel high, buzzed, as if I’ve been drinking, but my mind is sharp.
Everything around me is crystalline sharp, painfully bright, saturated with brilliant color. Every crack on the pavers beneath my feet seems made by design. Every drop of water falling from my hair is a tiny, perfect reminder of one of the most wonderful mornings of my life.
Something powerful and mysterious is moving in me. A kind of seismic shift is taking place, and it’s all because of the man walking in quiet contemplation by my side.
I don’t want to examine too closely what’s happening. For now, it’s enough to just feel.
And God, do I.
Everything from awe to terror to glee, along with a strange sort of friction, like my skin has grown too tight. Like at any moment I might crack open the shell of my body, shed it like a cocoon, and take flight in a riotous burst of color.
I wonder if he’s feeling this, too. This . . . change. This electricity. All my senses crackle with the anticipation of what will happen when we get back to the house.
It doesn’t help that I’m naked under my wetsuit, and I know he is, too.
“We can rinse off over there, get the sand off our feet before we go inside.” Brody points to an outdoor shower on the side of the house. It’s open on three sides, with a smooth bed of stones underfoot and a removable showerhead above.
He leans his board against the side of the house. He takes mine from me and does the same, standing them so close together they’re touching. I know I’m a fool but it feels symbolic.
Purposeful.
“They’re making out,” jokes Brody, seeing where my gaze lingers.
“Must be awkward, making out with no lips,” I joke back, hoping he’ll attribute the color in my cheeks to our time spent in the sun.
He flashes me a smile. “There are all kinds of ways to make out.”
My stomach flips. I can’t wait for him to show me what that means.
He turns the shower on for me. I rinse off my feet first, then rinse the salt water from my hair and face. I’m aware of his gaze on me the entire time, warmer than sunlight.
When I’m finished, he quickly rinses off, too, shaking his head under the spray like a dog. Then he turns off the spigot, reaches behind him for the long tether on the zipper at the back of his wetsuit, yanks it down, and peels the wetsuit off his arms and chest. He lets it hang at his waist so his entire upper body is bare.
A wave of intense heat flashes over me.
I once read an article about spontaneous human combustion. It’s an extremely rare phenomenon, but there are documented cases of people igniting out of the blue from no visible cause. Apparently the fire starts within the body due to some bizarre combination of factors, and the person is consumed within minutes. There’s even a Wikipedia page dedicated to the subject.
A picture of the smoking pile of ash that used to be me will soon be featured on that Wikipedia page.
Brody’s body is, in a word, stunning.
He’s not bulky in the least, but he’s beautifully muscled, with the definition of a long-distance runner, all sculpted planes and breathtaking angles, an incredibly poetic symmetry of form. The muscles in his biceps bulge as he raises his hands to rake them through his wet hair. Water runs in glistening rivulets down his chest and over the six-pack of his abs, channeling into the V below his wa
ist that leads down to his pelvis.
His shoulders are wide, his waist is narrow, his skin is a gorgeous golden hue, burnished from all the time he obviously spends in the sun.
The tattoo that spans the breadth of his chest is a pair of angel’s wings, flared wide, with something written in black ink just below his collarbone, in a language that looks like cursive hieroglyphics.
I have no idea how long I stand there stupidly staring, but at some point I become aware that Brody is saying my name.
“What? No. I mean yes. I’m listening.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “How you doing there, Slick?”
“Uh—good. Fine. I’m great.” I toss my wet hair out of my face and attempt a nonchalant expression, like he didn’t just catch me ogling him with drool running down my chin.
“You sure? You look a little . . . flushed.”
He grins. I’ve never seen a man’s smile look so goddamn smug.
Turnabout is fair play, Kong.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Scott, I was just admiring your breasts.”
His brows shoot up. He glances down at himself, and then back up at me. “My . . . breasts.”
“Yes. They’re quite spectacular.”
He shakes his head slowly, still grinning. “Just out of curiosity, how many men’s fragile egos have you crushed in your life? Because honestly, Slick, you’re the worst at giving compliments. You’re, like, the anticompliment queen.”
Feeling cheeky and emboldened because I’ve narrowly escaped death by instantaneous combustion, I ask, “Does that mean you don’t want me to touch them?”
He stares at me. “Do you want to touch them?”
I think he was aiming for casual, but there’s a telling edge to his voice, a rough little growl beneath the lighthearted delivery. It gives me a thrill.
“I would very much like to touch them, yes.” I step closer.
He doesn’t move, but the pulse in the base of his neck quickens. I take another step closer, and another, and then we’re standing only inches apart.
Holding perfectly still, he gazes down at me. His green eyes are half-lidded. A drop of water glistens on his chin. I resist the urge to stand up on my toes and lick it off.
“Well, go ahead then,” he says gruffly. “Touch them.”
The pulse in his neck throbs.
I reach out and touch his arm. The muscle in his biceps tenses. I slide my finger up to his shoulder. His nostrils flare. I trace the elegant line of his collarbone down to the hollow of his throat, where I let my finger rest for a moment on that wildly throbbing vein.
He’s holding so still. His eyes are so hot. I feel like we’re on the cusp of nuclear fusion.
I flatten my hand over the center of his chest. I feel the heat of his body, the clamor of his heart, and that crackle of electricity passing back and forth between us on a fast, repeating loop.
With a crack in his voice he says, “You’re trembling.”
“So are you.”
“Those are shivers. I’m just cold from being wet. And the wind.”
I let my hand drift down his chest until I feel a small, peaked nub under my thumb. “Is that why your nipples are so hard?”
He swallows. “Yep.”
As he struggles to remain still, I slowly circle his wet, hard nipple with my thumb. I whisper, “You must be very cold, Mr. Scott.”
“Not everywhere.”
It’s a husky, needy rasp, and I love the sound of it.
“No?” My hand drifts lower.
His breathing grows irregular. The muscles of his stomach contract under my touch. Just beneath his belly button there’s a fine down of hair. I stroke it, moving my finger languidly lower.
He licks his lips. His entire body tenses. At his sides, his hands curl into fists.
I ask, “Are you trying not to touch me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He exhales a small, shaky breath. “Because if I start I won’t be able to stop.”
I tilt my head up, daring him with my eyes. My hand drifts lower. “And that’s bad because . . .”
He grabs my wrist and winds my arm behind my back. He pulls me against his chest, bunches a hand into my wet hair, and rasps, “Because the first time I fuck you, Grace, it’ll be the last time either of us fucks anyone else, and you’re not ready for that yet.”
To punctuate this shocking statement with an exclamation point, he angles my head toward his and kisses me, deeply, greedily, feeding on my mouth like he’s starving and the key to his survival is the taste of my lips.
I kiss him back just as hungrily.
I can’t get enough of this—of him. I thread my fingers into his wet hair and pull his head down harder, greedy for every possessive little growl he’s making in his throat, desperate for there to be no space between us. I want, so badly, to feel him inside me. I want to feel him everywhere.
“Señorita Grace!”
With a groan, Brody breaks off the kiss. He glares at Magda, standing at the open patio doors. She’s holding my handbag in her hand. On my way into the party yesterday, I’d stashed it in a covered basket beneath a table in the entry.
Magda holds out the bag. “Esta es tuya?”
I answer in Spanish, “Yes, Magda. That’s mine.”
She tells me the handbag has been ringing for an hour.
Brody demands, “English, devil women!”
“Apparently my phone’s been ringing nonstop while we were out.”
Brody drops his forehead to mine. He chuckles. “Saved by the bell.”
“I don’t need saving, Kong.”
His smile is devastating. “I wasn’t talking about you, Slick.”
On cue, my phone—buried inside my handbag—begins to ring again.
I sigh and pull away from Brody. As much as I’d like to continue this lovely moment, I’ll need to deal with whoever is on the other end of that phone first.
I take the bag from Magda, dig my phone out, and frown at the caller ID. It’s the main office at my condo building.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Stanton?”
It’s the building manager, Linda Conley. She sounds panicked, but the woman is as high-strung as an overbred Chihuahua, so I don’t give it a second thought.
“Hi, Linda. How are you?”
When she exhales an anguished cry, a twinge of alarm zings through my stomach.
“Oh thank God! You’re safe!”
The twinge of alarm balloons into fear. “What’re you talking about? What’s happened?”
Brody looks at me sharply. Magda turns around and wanders back inside the house.
Linda breathes, “Oh, Miss Stanton—Grace—there’s been . . . there’s been a terrible accident.”
Everything inside me freezes. My blood stops circulating. My lungs refuse to contract.
“Accident?”
In a few long strides, Brody’s at my side, his hand on my shoulder, his worried gaze on my face. Linda tells me the news, her words all running together.
“Yes, there was a terrible accident, Mr. Liebowitz in unit 1302, you know he was on oxygen for his emphysema, he wasn’t supposed to be smoking, all the doctors told him not to smoke but he was a stubborn man—God forgive me for saying that—and you know how volatile those oxygen tanks are—what could he have been thinking? Everyone’s in a panic, the fire department is here, so many paramedics and fire trucks, it’s absolute pandemonium! And the mess! It’s such a terrible mess, I don’t know how long it will take to clean everything up, it’s like 9/11 over here—”
“Linda!” I shout. “Tell me what happened!”
There’s a short pause. Then Linda says quietly, “Mr. Liebowitz blew himself up.”
He lived in the unit directly above me.
I close my eyes, already knowing what Linda’s going to say next.
“I’m so sorry, Grace, but . . . your home was also destroyed in the explosion. There’s nothing left. It’s gone.
”
I can’t move. I can’t speak, even when Brody desperately begs me to talk to him, to tell him what happened, to tell him if I’m all right.
I’m not all right.
I’m homeless.
“Grace, you’re scaring me. Please. Look at me.”
The freeze abruptly thaws and all my bodily functions slam into high alert at once. I start to shake, sweat, and hyperventilate.
Brody grips my arms. “Is it Kat? Chloe? Did someone get hurt?”
I moisten my dry lips, swallow the bile rising in my throat. “My condo . . . the man who lived above me had these big tanks of oxygen delivered every Saturday. He was a smoker. There was an explosion. My . . . my home is gone.”
My voice is surprisingly steady, but that’s all I can manage to say in one breath.
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“Destroyed,” I say. “Blown up. All my things . . .”
I have extra copies of my bible at work—that’s what I call the binder where I keep everything pertinent to my life in case I wake up one day a blank slate—so at least I have something left.
I have paperwork left.
Thank God I didn’t own a pet, because it would be dead. If I hadn’t slept at Brody’s house last night, I’d be dead.
Getting drunk saved my life.
Kat saved my life.
Brody’s housewarming party saved my life.
Brody saved my life.
My mind is a soup of chaotic thoughts, swimming in stress hormones, churning with what-ifs. Only one thing’s for certain: I’ve escaped death twice. That’s two more times than most people get.
Which gives the phrase “third time’s a charm” a whole new meaning. That warped thought makes me laugh, only it sounds more like I’m choking.
Brody’s brow wrinkles with worry. “Let’s go inside.”
Sin With Me (Bad Habit) Page 12