by MK Schiller
I lift my head, wondering if I did know him. I think back to all the boys I went to high school with, but his face doesn’t register at all. It’s the kind of face that would register in triplicate. “How do we know each other?”
“No idea. I overheard the lady behind the front desk say your name.” He holds out his hand…his very large hand. “Mason Cutler.”
I’ve been curling my fingers around the railing so tightly that I have to shake out my hand before taking his. His handshake is firm. I’m about to let go when he flips my wrist over. He presses his thumb against the ruby red mark there. Very few people notice it against my brown skin. His thumb slides back and forth in a short caress. The stain disappears against the pressure. It comes back slowly, deepening in color for a moment. My pulse spikes ten notches…maybe twenty. After an eternity, he finally lets go. It’s really only been two seconds, but it feels much longer, or maybe not long enough.
“It’s not a tattoo?”
“It’s a birthmark. They call it a port wine stain.”
“A fire stain.”
“Right.”
“I thought this was inked on since it’s shaped like a heart.”
The car starts up with a jolt. He gestures to the screen that signals we are moving. “See? No reason to panic.”
The doors open, ending the weirdest elevator ride in the history of the world.
“This is me,” I say, my fingers clutching the handle of my suitcase.
He holds one of the doors by leaning against it while I get out. I catch a hint of spicy, manly cologne and delicious boy. “Thank you.”
“We made it unscathed.”
“So we did.” I nod, accepting what happened. He was just being nice and trying to distract me with an introduction.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, Shenoy,” he says.
“Maybe.”
I turn just in time to see the doors close.
Chapter 2
Kiran
After calling Papa to tell him I made it, I unpack my things in record time and head straight for the beach. I purchase a Rum Runner from the thatched roofed bar. After I adjust my straw hat and secure my sunglasses, I make my way toward the sand.
I nab the first empty beach chair I come across. All the chairs are in groupings of two. Figures. I throw my stuff on the other one and toss off my flips-flops. My feet sink into the soft, warm sand. For the first time in a long time, I feel at home. Rum Runners, a good book, and a beautiful view. What the hell else could a girl want? I plop down and stretch out, letting the sun warm me like a blanket.
This beach holds so many memories for me. I’d ride these waves for hours until exhaustion set in. The good kind of tired that makes you feel more alive. When it got too dark to surf, my friends and I would circle around the bonfire, a stream of music playing in the background. We’d talk for hours about our futures. I realize now I’d spent so much time thinking about the future that I never enjoyed the present. I miss those moments of laughter and freedom. I even miss the angst that's part and parcel to being a teenage girl. Now, here I am again thinking about my future. This time, I decide to enjoy the present.
I glance at the waves. Elevator boy is here too. He’s out in the water on one of those cheap blue surfboards the hotel rents. I squint to get a better look at Mason Let-me-feel-up-your-wrist Cutler. It was weird, right? I was sort of a shut-in since my accident three years ago so I’m out of practice when it comes to the art of conversation. Still, nothing normal about that moment.
I shake my head and hope the physical act will make the thoughts dissipate like I’m a human etch-a-sketch. I fish my e-reader from my knapsack and skim a couple paragraphs of the novel I’m reading. Then I reread them again because I’m not retaining anything. Having my mind hijacked by Mason Cutler has made it impossible to concentrate. So I peek over the screen and keep stealing glances at him.
One thing is for sure, he does not know a damn thing about surfing. He heads for waves right as they peak, wiping out every single time. But to his credit, he keeps getting back up and trying again. It’s nice to know not everything comes easy to him. He emerges from the water, all golden tan skin and hard muscles. He wears bright orange board shorts slung low enough on his hips they reveal those indented V-lines that are almost impossible for most men to achieve. I notice it’s not just me staring at him. He’s captured the eyes of many girls and a couple of boys as he walks up the beach. A striped towel is draped over one shoulder and the long board is secured with his other arm. Water drips down his chest, which has a smattering of golden hair that naturally edges into a happy trail. There is a tattoo of a star on his right arm. The artist has made it appear as if the drawing is seared into his skin.
He smiles at a group of girls, who all turn radish red in an instant. Either the sun suddenly dipped a few inches or he’s just got that effect on girls. There’s a swagger in his step and cockiness in his smile. I want to borrow some of it. I have a feeling Mason Cutler has plenty to spare. God, he even walks in slow motion as he passes me.
Oh wait, he’s not passing me. He’s slowing down. Slowing down until he comes to a stop…right in front of me. He wicks away the water with his towel. “Hello, Kiran.”
Are you there, God? It’s me, Kiran. If you help me through this Judy Blume moment, I promise I’ll do a special pooja tonight.
I struggle to come up with a great response. I settle for the all-encompassing, “Hi.”
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair next to mine.
I grab my stuff and bring it to my chair. “It’s all yours.” I wonder if he’s going to move the lounger somewhere. Perhaps by those giggly girls who were giving him the swoon-eye earlier. He doesn’t. Instead, he slams the board into the sand and plunks down.
He glances over at me. “Aren’t you hot?”
No, but I was pretty damn cute once.
He’s talking about my choice of clothing of course. I divested myself of the hoodie, but I’m still wearing jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt. “I’m fine.” Yes, because this is normal beachwear.
Sheltered by my sunglasses, I drink in his face and cut body at close range. His lips are full, always twitching at the corners as if he’s fighting a smile, which is at odds with his strong, rigid jawline. Living close to the Gulf most of my life, I know all the different colors in a body of water. There are moments when the sun hits the water just right that causes it to shine with a slight gray reflection like hard glass over blue skies. That’s the color of Mason Cutler’s eyes—blue-gray beautiful.
My gaze shifts to his arm. There is writing inside of the inked star. He must realize I’m reading his tattoo because he holds his arm at an angle to make it easier.
“Did you know you mouth words when you read?”
Oh, that’s how he knew. “I’ve heard that before.”
In small, curling script it says It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
“It’s a bible passage, right?”
“Yeah, it’s from Corinthians.”
I have some working knowledge about the Bible. I try to remember what the “it” is referring to, but the answer doesn’t come to me.
He moves to his side so he’s facing me. “My dad quoted this particular passage to my sister and me before he tucked us into bed each night. The actual passage is much longer, but I don’t have enough arm to cover the whole thing.”
“That’s really sweet. You captured the memory.”
“It was a memory worth capturing.” A flicker of sorrow flashes on his face before the smile returns. He juts his chin toward me. “Rum Runner any good?”
I’m sure that is a cue to change the subject. “I’ve never had one before, but it’s really hitting the spot.”
“You’ve never had a Rum Runner?”
“I’ve never had rum before.”
He arches a brow. “Really?”
“This is
actually my first legit drink.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost twenty-two. You?” I can’t guess his age because he’s got that boyish smile, but everything else is carbon-dated man.
“I’m twenty-two.” He brushes a hand through his disheveled hair. “So, you didn’t get wasted on your birthday? That’s a rite of passage where I come from.”
“Is this really such a shocker?”
“Not a shocker, but definitely a surprise. Would you care for another or you planning to nurse that one?”
The glass is still half-full. If only my demeanor was. “I’m good.”
“Yes, you are. You’re incredibly good. You sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Positive.”
He stands and stretches. The hard, solid muscles on his waist shift for a second, confirming he is in fact not cast from marble. I force myself not to stare at his butt as he heads for the bar.
I change my mind, Mason. I do want something. Maybe a few more ice cubes in this drink. Or maybe just a cup of ice. Or a couple of polar ice caps.
There is no doubt I’m attracted to this wanna-be surfer boy, but I pretty much score an A+ in awkward, not to mention I’m a total loner. Yet there is something comfortable about him. Maybe because this is a vacation, and I won’t have to worry about seeing him again.
He comes back with an amber bottle.
“I figured you for a beer guy.”
He sets down the bottle on the small table between us. “Not just beer. This is Dos Equis.”
“That fits.” I laugh, thinking about the Most Interesting Man in the World ads.
His eyes are said to be lasers, so when they pierce a girl, not only do the panties she’s wearing melt away, but all the panties she’s ever owned in her life. He is the most interesting boy in the world. I’d end the commercial with a money shot of Mason taking a long drawn-out swig and then toasting the audience with the statement, “I don’t always pick a random girl to chat up, but when I do, I make sure there is swooning involved.”
Okay, so I’m definitely not cut out for advertising.
“Don’t get me wrong, I am man enough to admit I enjoy the occasional fruity brew, but I think I’ll wait to get my drink on. It’s early still. I might go back in the water and try to catch a wave.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“The sun will be setting. It’s the worst time to surf.” I watch him closely, thinking he might argue or do it anyway. In my head, I imagine him going under. “Just don’t do it, okay?” The words come out with more conviction than I meant.
“Okay, you’re right.”
We’re quiet for a minute, the sound of crashing waves and birdsong provide a soothing soundtrack. “What did you mean when you said I was very good?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me what you meant.” I cringe, realizing my inflection added urgency to the statement. “I want to know.”
“I just meant that you must be a very good girl to not consume liquor on your twenty-first birthday.”
“You’d be surprised.” A part of me wants to eat my words, while the rest is curious about his reaction.
He grins and cocks an eyebrow. There is a challenge in his expression. “Go on then. Surprise me.”
“I was kidding.”
“So you are fairly straight-laced then.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then tell me something naughty about you.”
An unwelcome heat uncoils in my belly like I’ve drank a whole pint of rum in one swallow. He wants naughty? I wish I could change directions here. I don’t have much in the way of naughty. At least nothing recent. “When I was fourteen, I told my mom I was spending the night at a friend’s house after school. I skipped that day and traveled for six hours and fifty-two minutes on a Greyhound.”
“You remember the exact time?”
“You spend that long on a Greyhound in a scratchy, sparkly top and tight shoes, and you’d be counting the minutes too.”
“I don’t own any sparkly tops and all my shoes fit me so I wouldn’t know. But I’ll take your word for it. Were you running away from home?”
“No.” I pause, not certain if I want to tell him the story. He waits patiently, the silence stretching but not awkward. “I went to a concert.”
“All by yourself?”
“My friends and I made a pact to go together, but everyone bailed on me. I thought about forgetting it, but in the end, I decided I wasn’t about to miss it. Who knows if I’d ever have the chance again.”
“Well, now, you’ve got me curious. Who rocks it so hard for Kiran Shenoy that she’d take such a risk?” He holds up his hand. “Wait. Don’t answer. I’m going to guess.” He tilts his head, pressing his mouth closed as if he’s giving it some thought. Bet he’s counting back the years and matching it up to billboard charts. “Justin Timberlake?”
“Love Justin, but not enough to suffer slow death via Greyhound.”
“Lady Gaga?”
“You’re getting colder.”
“Backstreet Boys?”
“One of my favorite bands, but no.”
He gives me a wise-ass look. “Just when I thought you were cool.”
“Have you ever listened to them, really listened? They have some great stuff.”
“Eh, music is subjective.”
“It is. But there’s a difference between judgey and subjective.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Boy bands are pretty much the bottom feeders of the musical ladder.”
“Let me blow your mind for a second.”
He narrows his eyes and nods at me in challenge. “Blow away.”
“When you think about it The Beatles were the original boy band.”
“Now that is a shocker.”
“I know, right?”
“No, I mean it’s a shocker you’d even make the comparison.” He shifts his head toward the sky. “If you can hear me, please forgive this girl. She knows not how she sins.”
“Are you asking God to forgive me?”
“No, sunshine. God will forgive you. I’m asking John Lennon to forgive you.”
Did he just call me sunshine? “So there’s no convincing you?”
“About the merits of boy bands? No ma’am. I’m an open-minded guy, but I will stand my ground on this subject. But now, I gotta know who you wanted to hear sing so bad you snuck out of your house and hopped on a bus for six hours all by yourself.”
“Over six hours, thank you very much. It was Bon Jovi.”
Mason nods in appreciation. “You do surprise me. You also won back a few cool points.” He crosses his toned legs and stares at the waves. “The craziest thing I ever did was drink a mason jar of homemade liquor. I must have been about twelve at the time.”
“Homemade liquor?”
“Nothing but moonshine. The stuff was strong enough to strip rust off steel.” Mason winces as though the thought of it still makes him ill. He smacks his stomach. The sound is as solid as a steel drum. No bounce. No jiggle. “A friend of mine snuck a few jars from his daddy’s liquor stash. I was sick for a week.”
“That’s really the most rebellious thing you’ve done?”
“Yeah, it is. I’m tame. Though I’ll tell you if you can’t hold your liquor back home, even at twelve, you get a lifetime of razzing.”
I ask another question before I can analyze it too deeply. “Where is home?”
“South Carolina. I’m from a small town about forty-five minutes outside Charleston.”
That sounds right with his accent. South Carolina must have a decent crop of beautiful boys too. Why did he come to Florida to hang out by the Gulf when he was so close to an entire Ocean? I want to ask him and find out more about this small town that produces boys with such delicious accents.
“Do you like living there?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice plac
e to call home. Tell me more about this concert.”
“It was an amazing show.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Oh yeah. The friend who was my alibi can’t lie to save her life…or mine. I should have known better. You can’t disappear for a whole day and night without getting caught. I was grounded for a month. God, my mom was so angry with me.” I shudder, remembering the fury in her expression. But behind her anger were fear and disappointment and distrust. I’d put her through all that with my silly teenage rebellion.
“Was it worth it?”
I shrug. “No.” It wasn’t worth it to put my mom through that. But thinking of the show, I can’t help but smile. Pinching my fingers together I say, “And maybe a tiny bit yes too. To hear Jon Bon Jovi sing ‘It’s My Life’ was special. When I think about hearing that song in a crowded auditorium with a million other people and Jon’s voice washing over all of us. Well, it’s just one of those things that will always stay with me. Whenever I’m sad or I need a little push, I put on my ear buds and play that song. It helps.” I laugh nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. So silly.”
“It’s not. I get it.” He places a hand over his heart. “I have a go-to song myself.”
“What is it?”
“‘Home’ by Chris Daughtry. Know it?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s kind of sad, though.”
“Maybe. But there is something powerful about it. I listened to it all the time right after my dad died.”
Maybe this is part of the connection I feel. We both lost a parent.
“I’m so sorry, Mason.”
“Thank you.” Holding the bottle by the neck, he takes another long drag of his drink. “Would I be a total douche if I ask you to take off your sunglasses? I can see my reflection in them. It feels like I’m having a conversation in the mirror.”
I slip them off and lower my head. “Not at all. Sorry.”
“You have pretty eyes.”
I almost snap my sunglasses in two. Did he really say that to me? “Um…thanks.”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe me?”
“No one has ever said that to me before.”