Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  “Must kinda suck.”

  People don’t kid if they think you’re crazy, right?

  “Sucks donkey balls.”

  He grins. “An unpleasant flavor.”

  Suddenly I can breathe again. “And you’d know how?”

  A second crawls past. He keeps his veiled eyes trained on the road.

  “Bran?” Finally, I can’t take it. I need to say something. “You acting nice is unfamiliar, and, frankly, uncomfortable, territory.”

  “Is being interested a crime?” He kneads the back of his neck. The deep, massaging rhythm is mesmerizing. His thumb is a little wide. He keeps his nails neatly cut.

  “You’re interested?” I’m off-kilter, like I’ve taken back-to-back rides on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the boardwalk.

  “In your quirks. Let’s hear another one.”

  “One more. That’s it. Then we’re done for the day.” I kick off my flip-flops and cross my ankles. “I can’t fall asleep without reciting this long poem, Paul Revere’s Ride.”

  How is this even possible? We’re talking about my most shameful secrets like it’s just another thing. Why isn’t he pointing a judgmental finger at me, crying, Shun her, shun the freak?

  “And you call me kinky? What do your boyfriends say when they sleep over?”

  “I repeat the words in my head, not out loud. And I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

  “Wait, how is that even possible?”

  “What? The no-boyfriend situation?” The words make me sound like a bigger loser when spoken aloud. There’s a very good reason. Too busy obsessing over my sister’s big love. But I don’t say that. Even in this sharing mood, some words strangle. Still, I’ve hinted at my blackest secret and wasn’t smote down, laughed at, or ridiculed.

  A new song starts that’s all angsty and instrumental—dramatic violins, slow guitar riffs, and measured drumbeats. I don’t want to go dark, not right now, when everything almost glows.

  I spy Bran’s iPod up on the dash and reach forward. “We need different music—”

  “But we haven’t finished talking about— Wait! Hold up.” His hand darts but I’m quicker.

  “What?” I dangle the iPod out of reach. “Cool guy like you have something to hide? Maybe a secret Beyoncé playlist or…” I flick on the screen. “Oh to the Em Gee.”

  “Go on.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t hold back.”

  “Justin Bieber?”

  “I watched my nieces yesterday. They have a dance recital to the song next week. I helped them practice their routine.”

  “You? That’s so normal.” And sweet.

  “Yep. I broke it down to the Biebs.”

  “Please, tell me there’s a video.”

  “I’m secure in my manhood, Captain.”

  “Clearly.” I can’t hold back a snicker and within seconds we’re both doubled over. My heart swells until I feel like I might burst with pale, pink light.

  The feeling lingers until we turn off at a faded, salt-worn sign that reads POINT ROADKNIGHT. After a few sharp turns, we pull in front of a sleekly modern beach house, all steel lines and wide windows facing the Bass Strait coastline. Dozens of cars line the sandy street. Heavy bass throbs from inside.

  Jazza bounds through the crowded balcony, leans over the rail, and raises a rum bottle in greeting. “What’s up, bro? California! Lookin’ gorgeous, baby.”

  I give a little wave before glancing back. Bran’s bent deep in the trunk.

  “Are you coming up?”

  “Nah, not yet.” His voice is muffled. “Tell Jazza I’ll be around in a bit.” He emerges with a wet suit flung over his shoulder and deftly unstraps the board from the roof rack, avoiding my eyes.

  “What we talked about—”

  “Don’t forget your thongs, Captain.”

  My brain blanks, rational thought grinding to a halt. “Excuse me?”

  He opens the passenger side door and grabs my flip-flops. “Your thongs,” he repeats slowly, holding them out.

  Holy God, talk about being lost in translation.

  “Wait, you thought…bloody hell.” He smirks as my blush extends to the tips of my bare toes.

  I’d be perfectly content if the ground beneath me happened to be quicksand.

  “Sorry. Guess I’m never going to get this Aussie lingo down,” I mutter, sliding my feet into my thongs, flip-flops, things-with-a-sole-and-toe-strap.

  “No worries, Captain. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.” He moves to turn away.

  “Hey, wait, one last thing…”

  He freezes and I bite my top lip. There isn’t anything profound to say, yet something should be offered to recognize the connection we shared in the car. Bran’s practically a stranger, but now he knows some of my most classified information. I carry all this weight inside me, each secret, a tarnished stone. This afternoon it’s like I’ve split my belly, pulled one out, and washed it clean.

  “Thanks for listening.” I take a deep breath and say the next words super fast, afraid they won’t come out if I overthink. “You’re a good guy, underneath the general saltiness.”

  His gaze darkens as his jaw sets.

  I cross my arms. “Maybe we can, you know, be friends?” My words hang like a half-flown peace flag. A single foot separates us, and the narrow space hums with a hidden current that spreads goose bumps up my neck. My shorts ride up my thighs and I tug the legs down. The fidgety gesture draws his attention toward my exposed skin. I shift and my cotton underwear rubs between my legs. This sudden oversensitivity isn’t doing wonders for my inner calm.

  “I’m off to check the waves.” His voice is carefully bored. Too careful. He’s not going to accept my offering. “You should head inside, have fun with Jazza and the crew.”

  We’d shared a brightness, something flitting and elusive, like a late-summer firefly hovering just out of reach, but the moment’s gone, lost in shadow.

  He doesn’t hold my questioning gaze. Instead, he shrugs, face expressionless, and strides away down a narrow footpath through the heath-covered dunes.

  My swallowed response sticks in my throat. The one where I almost said, “But I’d have more fun with you.”

  Chapter Six

  Talia

  I hunch alone against a stark-white wall in Jazza’s living room. The airy home is lifted straight from the pages of Dwell magazine and brims with beautiful tanorexics and ripped surfers trading inside jokes and easy banter. I’m as vital to the scene as the angular modern sculpture to my left. A few steps ahead, three dudes in identical neon Ray-Bans slaver over a ridiculously fit girl named Bunny. Either that’s an unfortunate nickname or her parents were porn stars.

  Jazza, the only person I recognize after Bran ditched me in the driveway, perches on a stainless steel barstool, holding court before shaggy-haired guys who hang on his every word. I catch enough stock phrases—sick ground swell, hell munched, and caught inside—to know he’s getting off on some chest-beating big-wave story.

  He catches me staring and before I can divert my attention to the massive abstract painting above the fireplace, the one that vaguely resembles two tangoing penises, he shouts, “Yo, California, get your bad self over here.”

  Add being the center of attention to things that churn my stomach. Wingman is so much more my speed. Time slows as I shuffle across the state-of-the-art kitchen, openly scrutinized by unfamiliar faces. What if I say the wrong thing? Accidently insult someone or make a complete and utter fool out of myself?

  Deep down I know I probably won’t, but the what-ifs send my heart slapping between my spine and ribs.

  Because what if this time’s different? What if this is the time when I blow it?

  Jazza casually hooks his big, wide hand around my waist, drawing me close while his crew scatters. “Having a good time?”

  “Yes. Great. Amazing. This place is incredible.” Three lies and a truth. The house gleams with natural light and sleek architecturally designed lines.

  “
Bangin’.” Jazza’s fingers travel up my shorts and I shift toward the bar. He’s drunk and flirty, and I’m neither.

  “What should I have?” When in doubt, trust in alcohol. Maybe a drink will take away the sting of watching Bran walk away.

  If Jazza notices my subtle rebuff, his cheerful face doesn’t let on. The bronze skin around his turquoise eyes crinkles and his hair is sun-bleached nearly white. He’s unquestionably gorgeous. So why is my inclination not to rip off his tight Rip Curl shirt, but rather pat him on the head like an oversized man-boy?

  “You dig shots, California?” He leaps up and fists a saltshaker.

  Maybe if I pretend his cheesy nickname for me doesn’t make me want to tie my eardrums in knots, it will be so. Funny how when Bran calls me Captain, it has the opposite effect. “Well, let me see. I have kind of a love-hate relationship with tequila.”

  “Tonight is all about the love.” He pushes me a glass and flashes an orthodontic-swooning smile.

  Three shots and a beer later, the sixty-odd faces take on a dreamy appearance. The floor-to-ceiling windows capture the steely blue waves under a sky exploding in a fiery sunset. A few surfers bob near the point.

  Which one is Bran?

  Jazza offers to give me a tour and staggers up the crowded staircase, pausing occasionally to clap a guy on the back or chat with some girl in a string bikini and microskirt. As soon as he opens a door and tugs me inside, it becomes clear there’s only one stop on this itinerary.

  His bedroom.

  My fight-or-flight response kicks in hard. There’s a framed poster on the opposite wall. A surfer crouches inside a massive barrel, enclosed by a whitewater tube that looks poised to crush down, consume him whole. Neither the Talia 1.0 nor 2.0 version thinks being here alone with a heavily inebriated Jazza is wise. “Hey, you know what? I forgot to go and—”

  “You drive me mental, know that?” He digs both hands into my back pockets and hauls me close, grinding his pelvis into my upper stomach. No way he’s wearing boxers beneath his board shorts. “What colors are you wearing underneath?” His cologne makes me woozy and not in a good way. “I’ll bet black, tell me black silk.”

  “Wait, Jazz—” But he’s already in for the kiss. His breath smells like sour limes. His tongue flicks over my tight-closed mouth while he makes these creepy, guttural grunts.

  I struggle free. “Seriously, this isn’t—”

  “We’re not leaving the room until one of us comes.” From the frantic way he’s mouth breathing, it won’t be long before he whips out little Jazza for a playdate. His hands reach for my breasts like overeager octopuses. Or is it octopi? Who cares—I’m not getting off tonight. I’ve never been close, and I don’t feel even the slightest whiff of attraction toward him.

  “Easy, Tiger.” I clamp Jazza’s wrists.

  “What?” He pants hard but freezes.

  “You are super sweet, Jazz, but I can’t do this.”

  He stiffens. “Why not?”

  I stroke his ridiculously chiseled jaw. “I want to be friends, not get complicated.”

  “Fuck buddies.” Jazza’s face lights like he just solved a riddle. “That’s cool.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I get it. You don’t want anything serious. Me neither.” He swoops in for another kiss.

  Yeah, he so doesn’t get it.

  “Yes to the buddies.” I plant my hand firmly in his sternum. “No to the fuck.”

  “No?”

  I shake my head gently.

  “Really?” The feverish expression fades from his eyes, leaving behind vague puzzlement.

  “Truly.” Something tells me getting denied is new territory for the Jazzster.

  He runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. “Bloody oath, I feel like an ass.”

  “This is going to sound so cheesy, but it’s all me, not you.” And I mostly tell the truth. He’s a bit of a slow bear, but still a nice enough guy. From the way other girls check him out, I doubt he’ll lack company for long.

  A muscle twitches near his ear. “Bran was bloody keen to drive you here.”

  My heart forgets to take the next beat. “He was?”

  “He asked a lot of questions about you, after that night in the pub.”

  Really?

  His lower lip juts out. “Am I pissing in his pool?”

  “First, sorry, I’m not a pool. Second, no way are Bran and I a thing.” I scrub my hands through my hair to erase the tiny voice whispering, Maybe. “Absolutely not.”

  “I don’t check out dudes or anything, but chicks don’t find him repulsive.”

  “He’s so…” Cocky, brash, nosy. An all around pain in the ass who’s a magnet for everything I want to remain deeply buried.

  “He’s Bran.” Jazza completes my sentence with a sage nod, or at least a knitted brow.

  “Yeah.” I reach out an open hand. “So are we cool?”

  He meets me with a halfhearted fist bump. “Sure, California.”

  * * *

  I wake from restless sleep to someone puking down the hall. Sweat prickles my chest and my mouth fills with saliva. Bodily fluids aren’t my strong suit. Vomit ranks just behind blood on my personal gross-o-meter. I kick free from tangled sheets, rearrange my camisole, and survey the empty guest room. After our failed make-out session, Jazza proceeded to get blindly obliterated. As did pretty much everyone else at the party with the exception of me. Bran never put in an appearance. What gives? He wouldn’t go back to the city without me, right?

  I go to the door and turn the knob and step into the corridor. An open condom wrapper lies on the polished hardwood floor. Thank Christ I took preventive measures and locked the door before crashing. The house is a black vault of silence. The time is probably well past midnight, nowhere close to dawn, but the coast is clear as I pad toward the kitchen, holding my breath while tiptoeing past Jazza’s room.

  The kitchen is empty, at least of sentient beings. Drained beers, crushed chip packets, shot glasses, and demolished limes litter the marble countertops. I hunt through cupboards, unearth a champagne flute, and run it under the tap. Tangy salt air blows in from the open window, caressing my face. Three empty tequila bottles guarantee the pukefest is sure to continue upstairs. Crashing out on the peaceful balcony is a vast improvement over a return to the vomit lairs.

  I slide open the glass door, step out, and tilt my head toward the star-filled sky. The ocean’s rhythmic roar washes over me. I could almost be home, except the Southern Cross constellation replaces the Big Dipper.

  “Nice night.” A deep and already familiar voice cuts the silence.

  My breath catches. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

  “What’re you doing up?” Bran sprawls on a rattan lounge, his face cloaked in shadow.

  “I’m good,” I respond automatically, realizing a second too late that wasn’t the question. And that I took off my bra to sleep, leaving on my tight-fitting white camisole.

  His gaze drops, takes in my unbound girls, and he clears his throat. “Uh…okay.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, hunting for anything to reduce the tension. “I didn’t think anyone remained standing.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Yeah, yes. Good. All right.” I need to shut up or get to a point sometime this century. Bran has no idea Jazza grilled me about him. Does he? Or is that why he can’t sleep? I chew the inside of my cheek. Unlikely. Guys never talk. “So…”

  “So what?”

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “Haven’t been to the beach in ages.” He swings his legs to the ground and shoves to the far side of the couch to make room. “Surfed until after dark and then went for a walk.”

  “Loner much?” I take a seat.

  His broody expression lightens. “A regular Scott.”

  Thrown, I cock my head. “Excuse me?”

  “Scott No Mates. It’s a childhood burn on the play yard.”

  “Like calling someone a loser.�
�� I set my water on the armrest and try to ignore the fact that the dimple in his left cheek kills me. Can he tell my heart gears into fifth from his proximity?

  “Yeah. As in, ’S got no mates.”

  His posture relaxes when genuine laughter erupts from my chest.

  Even from here, I smell his clean soapy scent and a lingering hint of sunscreen. Tingles spark behind my knees. A shiver skims my spine. Here he goes again, casting that magnetic voodoo that wakes up my whole body.

  His green eyes glow in the porch light. He has smooth, olive skin. Despite his dark hair’s rumpled, scruffy appearance, the texture is thick and glossy—definite Latin ancestry. “Do you have a little Spanish in you?” I blurt.

  One of his brows arch, a talent we apparently share. “Is that your version of a pickup, Senora Random?”

  “Egotistical much?”

  Surprisingly, he looks more amused than annoyed. “Indirectly Spanish—Mum’s from Argentina.”

  Jesus, this guy’s genes don’t play fair.

  “Your mom?”

  “I didn’t hatch from an egg, Captain.”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  Silence marches on until I’m almost reduced to humming the Jeopardy! theme song.

  “Party looked all right.” Bran inclines his head toward the house. The dim security light reveals his calves are cut. A runner?

  “Just your average wasted gropefest.”

  “Great.” His hands clench and release. “How’d you do? Any conquests? Where’s Jazza?”

  I choke on a sip of water. “Otherwise occupied.” Last I saw him, he had the lovely Bunny set in his crosshairs. She seemed to welcome the target.

  Bran faces me dead-on and his pupils are huge. “Can I have a drink?”

  My hand shakes a little as I pass the champagne flute. “The kitchen’s a mess. Couldn’t find a normal glass.”

  “I’m sure we can find a reason to celebrate.”

  Anxiety swims around my stomach like a trapped snake. Did he sidle closer? No. Must be my imagination. Don’t forget to breathe. Oxygen. Get some.

  “Do I make you nervous?”