by Megyn Ward
He chats with Timothy and Diana and other people while I drink and watch the ocean and grow increasingly sad. I miss Mom. She was family and friends all wrapped up in one. We’d been each other’s person and now she’s gone. I have friends. I’ve even had a couple of boyfriends, one I thought I could’ve loved for a month or two. But Mom was my constant.
I thought about Blake. He likes me. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. It might be nice to have someone. If we were together I wouldn’t have to panic about finding a job. I wouldn’t have to worry about being alone. But Blake is too nice of a guy to settle for a girl who thinks the best thing about him was his security.
My eyes wander to Zach, watching while he jokes around with Timothy. He leans back on his stool and laughs, blue eyes sparkling with humor. Just looking at him makes me hot. Hotter than I’ve been in a while. Jesus. If I can feel like this about a random guy I don’t even like, but don’t feel like this about Blake, then I have no business even considering being with him.
I can’t stop looking at Zach. His strong hand, resting on the bar. Long fingers drumming against it in time with the music and I suddenly want them on my skin. His arms, muscular and tan would feel good wrapped around me, pulling me to him. Lost in my own disturbing fantasy, Diana’s throaty voice startles me.
“My god, it’s so hot!” She stands between me and Zach. With one hand she lifts her black hair off her neck, with the other she pulls her tight halter top out to fan herself, giving quick shots deeper into her cleavage. She licks her lips and smiles at Zach.
“You’ve got to be roasting in that shirt.” She reaches out to Zach and her long, blue-painted nails flick the top button.
He closes his hand around hers and looks into her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to make you feel better.” She purrs like a tiger.
Okay. Enough of this shit. I can’t watch anymore.
I just can’t.
“’Scuse me,” I mumble, sliding from my stool to wind my way through the crowd of vacationers. I stumble from the concrete base of the bar to the sand. It takes only seconds to wander from the halo of light from The Green Frog into the darkness of the beach. The cool of the sand eases the heat of tequila from my over-warm skin. How many shots have I downed?
Too many.
I make my way—probably not in a straight line—to the water. Suddenly, I want to feel the sweet relief of the waves and taste the salt on my lips. I wrestle out of my blouse and unzip the skirt. Shaking out of them, I leave them on the sand. With a flick of my thumb I unclasp my bra. With another, I send my thong to my ankles.
The water of the cove rises and falls in lazy surges. Clumps of seagrass and rocks cover the ocean floor and as soon as the water hits my knees I stretch out and start to swim. When I tire from my strokes I flip onto my back and float with my arms under my head, watching the half-moon in a night sky studded with stars.
Chapter 14
Zach
Diana’s trying her damnedest to get a rise out of me.
Literally.
She keeps glancing down at my cock, trying to gauge my reaction to her blatant come-ons and seems increasingly insulted when all I do is smile and ask her another question about Kylie.
To be honest, my dick’s been doing pushups all night. Watching Kylie laugh or shift her legs or stare off into the night. The long line of her neck. The way her silk blouse pulls tight across her breasts when she moves in her seat.
Diana is working it, no doubt about that but I’m not interested. I’ve been prey for girls like her my entire life. Diana likes money and the quickest, easiest way to it is to hook up with someone who has a pile of it. She might not be quite so friendly if she knew I’m teetering on the edge of poverty.
I push her hand away. On any other night I might take her up on her not so subtle offer. But tonight I’m not drunk enough. Even if I was, I doubt I’d bite. I have someone else on my mind. I lean around Diana to check on Kylie.
Her stool was empty.
Damn. I jump to the ground and survey the bar. “Where’s Kylie?”
Diana frowns, her flirty expression sobering with worry. “She was right here. Maybe she went to the bathroom.”
Or maybe she wandered off on the beach and passed out. Or some guy thought she was an easy mark and led her off into the dark. I don’t know just how much tequila she’s had or how well she handles her booze.
I push myself from the stool, throw more cash on the bar, and bounce off drunks on my way to the beach. I run straight to the shoreline, hoping she’s just come out for air.
A dark shape on the sand catches my eye and my heart climbs to my throat. Had she passed out? Is she okay? I sprint to it and discover her thong and her bra. Next to it is her skirt and shirt.
Christ, had she gone swimming?
I don’t hear any splashing and strain into the darkness, scanning the calm water.
There.
Something’s floating 50 yards from shore.
I rip off my shirt, unzip my pants and am out of them in a flash, running for the water. I don’t pay attention to the sharp rocks and grass as I propel myself out far enough to dive. I come up stroking as hard as I can.
My swimming and splashing cause undulations that rock the figure. The closer I get the more detail solidifies. She’s lying flat on her back, hands behind her head, resting as easily as if she lay on a raft. Even though the salt water of the ocean makes buoyancy easy, she seems to be more mermaid than girl. Bare-breasted. Blonde hair catching the moonlight, surrounding her like a halo. My cock hardens instantly, even as my heart keeps hammering against my ribs. “Hey. Are you okay?”
Her words came out slightly slurred. “I can run but I can’t hide.” She spits out a bit of water that slops into her mouth from the waves I created.
“You had me worried.” I tread water next to her, amazed at her total relaxation. “You disappeared.”
“Well, here I am. Safe and sound.” She lifts her arms from behind her head and lets herself sink.
I lunge toward her, reaching under the black water. My hand closes around her arm to drag her up the surface.
She gasps for air, then tips her head back and sinks the top of her head into the water to wash her hair back. She pulls on the hold I have on her arm. “Let go.”
I don’t. “Time to head back to shore.” I think she might protest, repeat the go-away chorus that’s been on her playlist all day. But she doesn’t. She just mumbles something and closes her eyes.
I slide my arm under her breasts and position us in the most elementary rescue carry. She doesn’t resist as I side stroke across the black water, following the moon trail to shore. Remembering the rocks, I gather her in my arms when we near shore and carry her. I go slow, searching out each step to avoid slicing my feet. She winds her arms around my neck and nestles into my chest, resting her face in the hollow at the base of my neck. Every step I take brushes her mouth against my throat. One hand splayed against her ribcage. The other hooked around the back of her firm thighs. Fingers inches from—
Nope.
Not gonna do it.
Not even gonna go there.
You got her drunk. That makes her your responsibility.
Yeah. But does my responsibility have to be so goddamned beautiful? And naked.
If I’m supposed to have only noble thoughts, then like in most things lately that don’t involve drinking myself blind and waking up on the beach, I’m a miserable failure. For the last several hours I’ve been fantasizing about her, wondering what her breasts look like. If she shaves her pussy. If she has a flat belly. Piercings. And here are the answers to all my questions, wet and naked and snuggled up against my chest.
My cock and I can’t take much more.
I finally make it through the rocks and grass, maybe stepping on a sea urchin because I have a terrible burning in the meat of my left foot. I lay her down, hating that I don’t have a blanket to protect her from the sand.
Jesus, don’t remind me.
I sit next to her. “Tequila can do that to you.”
She raises her hands to her forehead and presses. “Thanks for hauling me in.”
Finally, a thank you. It feels like a major victory. “You shouldn’t be in the water when you’ve been drinking.”
“Okay, Dad.” Her words trail off into another tiny moan. Without warning, she jerks away from me and pushes herself up on her hands and knees and lets loose, ralphing into the sand.
I grab a handful of her sea-soaked hair and hold it back while she wretches several times, not pulling up much solid but getting rid of the alcohol. It makes me wonder when she ate last. “Oh, god,” she moans, sounding miserable and embarrassed.
“This is good,” I say, trying to reassure her. I mean seriously, who am I to judge? “If you get it out, you won’t be so hung over tomorrow.”
When it tapers off, she flops to her side in the sand. “Please shoot me now.”
“Come on.” I slide my arms under her and pick her up, moving several yards away from the mess before I set her down again. I hurry back to bury her pile.
I lift her head and rest it on my thigh. Not in my lap because I’m as hard as a rock and I don’t want to freak her out. Even though it isn’t the part of her I long to touch, I firmly rub my thumbs along her temples.
“You’re a saint,” she mumbled, drifting off to sleep, leaving me to sit here and watch over her.
Chapter 15
Kylie
Jesus, I’m freezing.
If not for hair that feels like seaweed attached to my scalp I might be back in Massachusetts on a January morning. I roll over onto my side and wrap my arms around my chest.
Where the hell am I?
Sand everywhere. I mean, everywhere.
The sound of gentle surf lapping against the shore slowly reminds me of my location.
I open my eyes and sit up.
Naked.
Holy shit, I’m naked.
Zach, wearing nothing but a pair of snug boxer briefs, that don’t cover nearly enough. They stretch from the base of one hip to the next, revealing that enticing vee, lean with muscle. A few dark hairs curl from the elastic and just below that… holy shit. He’s hard, his cock tenting the damp fabric of his boxers.
“Hi.”
Oh god. Kill me. Seriously, someone kill me.
I jerk my gaze up to meet his.
Heavily hooded, as if just waking up, his blue eyes meet mine and he smiles.
Hi? What the hell?
Desperate, I try to piece it together. I drank all the tequila and wandered out here and…
Yes. My clothes are on the beach. I swivel around and try to get a visual. The Green Frog, now shuttered for the night, is silhouetted in the moon shine. The same moon that’d been on the other side of the sky when I decided that a drunken night swim was a good idea.
Good thinking, Kylie.
That must mean my clothes are… I follow the sight line from the bar to the shore. A bundle of something lumped in the sand just above the dampness created by soft waves. Another pile swishes in the shallows.
What’s worse, sitting in the sand with my arms crossed, leaving only a portion of myself exposed, or making a run for my clothes, flashing my full nakedness but having the chance to cover it eventually?
I might have whimpered a little before. I jump up and das for the pile I hope are my clothes. They aren’t. I recognize the cobalt blue of the shirt Zach was wearing earlier. Those must be the black pants, and yes, his shoes. The other pile, slowly being absorbed my Mother Ocean, must be what was left of my interview suit—and the money Zach gave me yesterday. I’d stuck it in my bra to protect it from pickpockets and now it’s gone.
Too naked to cry about it, I grab his shirt, flapping it out to get rid of sand and any critters that might have taken refuge, and slip into it. The little bit of warmth was a relief but covering myself was the biggest advantage.
Zach stands up and shakes himself before sauntering toward me. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all that he’s wearing little more than a strip of fabric to cover himself or that the part that is covered is standing at full attention.
Holy shit, Kylie. Stop looking.
Stop.
Looking.
“Sorry.” He gives me another grin, running a hand over his ridiculously chiseled chest. “Morning wood is a real thing.”
I know that. I live with a guy after all but instead of a snappy come-back, all I can do is bob my head while trying to focus my attention on working the buttons of his shirt through their loops between sneaking looks at him through my eyelashes.
His hair is plastered against the back of his head and salted with sand. It’s sticking straight up in front, and still, the bastard looks great. Sexy-great, like you’d fantasize about a god waking up in bed next to you after a night of mind-blowing sex.
Right.
And here I stand, not looking nearly as sexy with my ocean-do, shivering in his shirt. And he’s the enemy for Christ’s sake. Why the hell was I even noticing anything attractive about him?
Uhhh, because you’re horny and stupid, remember?
And not blind.
Finished with the shirt, I reach down and snatch his pants from the beach and hold them out to him.
He takes them, sticks his hand in the pocket to check for his wallet but doesn’t put them on. Jesus, it’s like he wants me to look at him. “How are you feeling?”
I consider his question, appreciating the distraction. “Aside from freezing and needing a shower and a good teeth scrubbing—surprisingly, not so bad.”
“Good.” He lets his eyes drift to where I’d crossed my arms over my chest before averting his gaze. “I hoped tossing your cookies last night would do that.”
I have a sudden flash of memory. Naked and on all fours, puking my guts out. Zach next to me, holding my hair. Wiping my mouth. Holding me while I slept it off.
And just like that, he not the enemy anymore. I can’t hate him. Can’t be mad at him anymore.
Shit.
And, to make matters worse, I want him.
I want him bad.
All of my life I’ve been the good girl. Pulled in the grades, worked all the jobs, did everything right. So many of the girls at the sorority house goofed off, ran through boyfriend after boyfriend, didn’t seem overly stressed about being perfect.
I wanted Mom to be proud of me, be the kind of kid to make all her sacrifices and hard work and frugal living worthwhile. And what happened? In the end, she died before I’d been able to give her the life she deserved.
Nothing.
I have nothing.
And why is that? Why the hell shouldn’t I have something I want, when I want it, just because I want it? Standing here, I can’t think of a single reason I should keep denying myself.
More importantly, I don’t want to.
“Come on.” I say, scooting past him on my way to building behind us.
Chapter 16
Zach
By the time I catch up with her, Kylie has produced a key, seemingly out of thin air, and is using it to open the back door to the bar.
“Where’d that come from?” I ask. Not because I care but because I’m trying to distract myself from how fucking hot she looks wearing my shirt. I have this insane urge to burn every stitch of clothing she owns so she’ll have to wear it forever.
Preferably with no panties.
Like she can read my mind, she shoots me a quick wicked smile over her should while she jiggles the key in the lock. “I could tell you but then I—” she gives the key a final jerk and lift and the door swings open. “I’d have to kill you.”
She ushers me into the dark interior of the bar before shutting the door and locking it be behind us. Leaning against it she looks up at me. “I need to wash the sand out of out my mouth.” She cocks her head down the corridor and flips on a few lights. “Yo
u can wait your turn in the bar.”
I nod and make my way in the opposite direction, listening to her shut the bathroom door behind her.
Like most of the places to get drunk on Cayman, the main bar is an inside/outside type place. Nothing more than a tin roof and wood pillars to hold up the large shutters that open up onto the view of the bay. Last night, this place’d been packed with drunks—loud, boisterous tourists and rich kids like me, looking to slum it.
Empty it’s just a concrete slab, a few wood beams, a beat up old bar and some tables and chairs. It’s like seeing a girl without her push-up bra and hair extensions the morning after a one-night-stand. Disappointing. Like you’d been cheated somehow.
Like the thought alone conjured her into being, Kylie appears. She’s scrubbed most of the sand away and washed her face. Rolled the sleeves of my shirt up to her elbows and wound her mermaid hair into a loose bun on top of her head. Her long, lean legs disappearing under the hand-tailored hem of my shirt.
There’s nothing disappointing about her.
Not one goddamned thing.
“Bathroom’s yours if you want to…” Her voice trails off, her gaze trailing across my chest. Dipping lower to graze my abs. Darting lower. Distance put between us, my hard-on softened to a semi. Totally unashamed, it jerks under her gaze. Her cheeks turn pink and she steps behind the bar. “Last door on the right.”
I find the bathroom and clean up. Rinse my mouth out and shake the sand off. Run my fingers through my hair. Considering I’ve spent the better part of two-weeks blind drunk and face down in the sand, I’ve looked and felt worse.
Heading back to the bar, I find Kylie sitting at it, peeling a banana, a glass of ice water, and a bottle of aspirin open in front of her.
Looking up at me, she breaks the top of the banana off and offers me the other half. “Breakfast of champions.”