Home is in Malibu where my beach house is. It’s the house that Max and I rented for our year off before we headed to college. It’s the place where I met Evie and where I spent the best year of my life with her—before she left me, and my world came crashing down.
The minute I graduated from Harvard and started working for my father, I was granted access to my trust fund. The first thing I did with that money was go straight to Malibu, and I offered a stupid amount of money to the owner of the beach house. He sold it to me on the spot.
For the three years that I had been away at college, I had kept up with the rent on the beach house. I didn’t go back there in all that time, but I couldn’t let it go either. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else being in the place that was hers and mine.
The first time I went back inside the house was torture. She was everywhere, in every room.
But no matter how much it hurt, I needed to be there. I needed to be close to her in the only way I could be.
I probably should sell it now, and buy a new house, as I know it isn’t healthy to hang on to the place. But it’s the only thing I have left of her, and I just can’t bring myself to let it go.
During the week, I’m forced to be in Beverly Hills because Gunner Entertainment is here. It’s my family’s studio that my great-grandfather started in the early days of making movies. When my grandfather took it over after his father had passed, he turned it into one of the biggest movie studios in Hollywood. After my grandfather passed, my piece-of-shit father, Eric, took over, and during his last few years, he almost ran the studio into the ground. He was too busy screwing any guy he could, pretending to me and the rest of the world that he wasn’t gay. All the while, taking the drugs, which eventually killed him.
And wasn’t I just my father’s son? Aside from fucking dudes, that is. I took on his form down to the letter.
It was always set that I would take over the family business. Didn’t matter that I didn’t want to. I never wanted anything to do with it. I hate the movie business.
My mother, Ava, is a self-righteous bitch of an actress. My father married her to get his heir to the business. And she was a beautiful up-and-coming actress, ruthless enough to marry a gay man and give him the son he needed.
In return, she got to star in every big blockbuster he could give her. He made her famous, just as he’d promised. She’s one of the biggest names in Hollywood.
I was just the transaction which gave them both what they wanted.
Ava was never around when I was growing up. She was usually filming on set somewhere, and even when she was home, I rarely saw her.
She didn’t give a shit about me. Still doesn’t.
My life was lonely back then. The only person I had in the world was Max.
Until I met Evie. And for the first time in my life, I felt wanted and loved by someone.
And, God, did I love her. Evie was everything to me.
She gave me the reason and strength to tell Ava and Eric to shove the studio up their asses. I walked away from it all to be with her.
I married her, and then a week later, she was gone.
I haven’t seen her since.
After she left, I was adrift. So, I grabbed ahold of the only thing I knew. I went back to the family business. I fell right back in with the sharks, and I’ve been swimming with them ever since.
Grabbing my keys off the side table, I let myself out and start the short walk to the hotel’s coffee shop to get my morning coffee.
Making my way through the hotel, I exchange pleasantries with the staff on duty. When I reach the coffee shop, I push open the door and step straight into the past.
Evie.
She’s standing behind the counter. Her face is turned slightly to the right, her attention on the TV mounted on the wall, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
But it’s her.
I feel like a speeding train has hit me, and I’m pretty sure my heart has stopped beating.
It’s really her.
She’s here.
“Evie?” I breathe out her name, like I’m taking my first real breath in a very long time.
Her body stiffens at the sound of my voice. And I watch as her face turns my way. Those big whiskey-colored eyes that I fell in love with all those years ago meet mine, and my world stands still.
She looks exactly the same.
How is that even possible?
Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m hallucinating. I mean, falling off the wagon with that chick might have tipped me over the edge, and now, I’ve finally boarded my very own train to crazy town.
I don’t know how much time has passed while we’ve been standing here, staring at one another. My hand is still holding the door open, my foot a step into the past, and my fingers are gripping the wood so tightly that I’m surprised I haven’t ripped a chunk out.
Then, her eyes shut down on me, and she looks away. It feels like she’s ripping my heart out all over again, and a rage I didn’t know possible floods my body and mind. And it’s all channeled in one direction—her.
I need to get out of here before I tear her and this place apart.
Turning, I step back and pull the door with me, slamming it so hard that the shop front rattles. I’m surprised I didn’t smash the windows.
I get about ten steps away before my blinding anger takes over and turns me back around, marching me straight back there.
The lobby is empty, which is a good thing because I probably look like an insane person right now—not that I actually give a fuck about what people think of me.
I yank the door open and stride through, banging it shut with as much force as I did the first time.
Evie’s big brown eyes are straight on me, wide and afraid.
Seeing her afraid like this should pull me back a step, but it doesn’t. At this moment, I don’t think a fucking dump truck could stop me.
I reach the counter and slam my hands down on the metal surface. Leaning forward, I stare at her with cold eyes.
“Why?” I say low, my voice hard.
“Wh-why, what?” Her tentative voice shakes, almost like she’s afraid to ask the question.
She should be afraid.
I stare down at the counter and take several deep breaths in and out, trying to control my rage. I can barely hear with the blood pounding in my ears.
One of my hands curls into a fist as I lift my eyes back to hers. “Why. Did. You. Fucking. Leave. Me?” I harshly bite each word out.
I want her to feel the pain in my words. I want her to feel every second of agony I’ve felt since she tore my heart out and shredded it to pieces.
Her lower lip trembles. She wraps her arm over her stomach and takes a small step back, away from my anger.
In all the time I knew Evie, I never really yelled at her—well, not like this anyway. And I never wanted to have to, but this is what she has reduced me to…reduced us to.
We’re two almost strangers with a world of hurt sitting between us.
Her eyes sweep the floor. “I-I can’t…”
She lifts them back to mine. I can see anguish and indecision in them.
“I…don’t know what to say.”
My chest is pounding so heavily that air is gusting out of me. “You don’t know what to say?” I yell, punching my fist on the counter. “How about the truth? How about telling me why you upped and disappeared on me a fucking week after we got married?”
Her eyes go to the wall over my shoulder. I see a shine of tears in them. It makes me ache for her, and that just pisses me off further. What right does she have to cry?
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I erupt again. “I don’t want your fucking apologies!” Well, I kind of do, but I want an explanation more. I want to know why she destroyed us…destroyed me.
I take a deep breath and try to even out my voice as I say, “I just want the truth, Evie. I just want to know why you left.”
Her eyes flicke
r to the window, looking at the people passing by. “Please, Adam,” she beseeches. “It’s my first day here, and I need this job. Can we talk later?”
My head nearly explodes. I half-expect to see my brain splattered all over this counter. “Are you fucking kidding me? No, we can’t fucking talk later! Ten years, Evie! Ten fucking years! You owe me an explanation, and I’m going nowhere until I get it.”
The door to the café opens, the sound yanking my eyes away from Evie. I don’t want any interruptions right now.
A seriously overweight middle-aged guy stands just in the doorway. I don’t recognize him. Must be a guest at the hotel.
He looks between Evie and me as the door shuts behind him. His brow furrows, and concern flitters over his face.
We can’t look like a picture of heaven right now. More like the very definition of hell.
Evie looks like she’s about to burst into tears, and I’m pretty sure my face is bright red from the rage burning up my skin. My hands are now curled around the edge of the counter, and I’m leaning forward over it, invading Evie’s space.
Ignoring the guy, I stare back at Evie. “Answers, Evie. Now.”
“Is…everything okay here?” Fatty asks.
Letting out a pissed off sigh, I swing murderous eyes his way. “Things are just fucking peachy.”
Then, out of nowhere, I feel her hand on my arm.
The touch sends me reeling, searing into my skin, heating me right through to my bones. I haven’t felt this way since…since the last time I felt her touch.
“Adam, I know I owe you my time. But, please, can we talk later?” Her voice is soft.
And I’m reminded of all the times when we used to lie in bed after making love, and we’d talk about nothing for hours. Her voice was always so soft, so sweet, in the darkness.
“I have my lunch break at one, or I get off at five. Whichever works best for you, I can do. But just not right now. Please.”
My eyes move down to her hand. I need her skin off of mine, yet I need her to never let go again.
She removes her hand from my arm.
The instant her touch is gone, I feel cold. And the iciness seeps straight back into my ruined black heart.
I watch as her fingers curl into her palm, like I just burned her skin.
I lift my eyes, boring straight into hers.
“Five. I’ll come back here.” Releasing my grip on the counter, I step back and stride toward the door, passing Fatty as I go.
I yank the door open and then stop before passing through. I turn back to Evie to find Fatty already at the counter. Guy sure can move fast.
My eyes meet with hers, and I pin her with my stare. “Five o’clock, Evie, and you’d better be here. Otherwise, I will come looking for you, and you can bet your fucking ass that, this time, I will find you.”
Then, I get the hell out of there and slam the door on my past.
She’s here again—rock girl. She’s sitting up on that same big rock, a hundred yards away from my beach house, where she sits every day. Hence, the nickname, Rock Girl.
God, I’m lame.
With her sketchpad resting against her bent knees, her eyes are fixed on the paper like her life depends on it while her hand freely moves the pencil over the paper, drawing…I have no clue.
I wish I did.
I mean, I could take a wild guess and say she’s drawing the scenery—the pier, beach, sand, sky. There’s plenty of shit like that here in Malibu. But still, I want to know exactly what she’s drawing that has her so enraptured.
Like, I really want to know.
I’ve been watching Rock Girl for a week now.
I saw her on the first day when Max and I arrived at the beach house, which will be my home for the next year. This will be my year of freedom before I have to go to Harvard, and then once I graduate, it is on to work for my father to learn the family business.
Can’t wait. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
Until then, I’m here to surf my ass off—and apparently stalk cute blonde artists.
Every day, at least for the last seven days, at just a little after five p.m., Rock Girl walks along the beach, passing by my house, with a bag on her shoulder, usually wearing a pair of ass-hugging jean shorts and a red tank, which shows off her perfectly formed tits. They’re not too big or too small, just the right size to fit my hands, I imagine. And from what I’ve seen, they look to be real—meaning, when I watch her climbing up the rock, they jiggle about.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a hot girl with a real pair of tits, not in the silicone world I’ve been raised in. Everything in my world is fake, even the people, especially the people.
On Rock Girl’s shirt is a logo, covering the left breast, that I can’t quite make out. And trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve nearly gone blind, staring at that fucker, trying to work it out—not that staring at her tits is exactly a hardship.
I’m assuming her clothing is her work outfit. Either that, or she has a really limited wardrobe, not that I’m complaining because her body looks smoking hot in those threads.
She keeps her long blonde hair, which I would really like to get my hands all tangled up in, tied back into a ponytail.
When she reaches the top of the rock, she sits down and pulls a sketchpad and pencil out of her bag. Then, she spends the next hour drawing. At just a little after six, she packs her things back into her bag, climbs down the rock, and leaves the way she came.
And I watch her.
Every day.
It’s not creepy at all.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy.
But I just can’t help myself. There’s something about her, something that has captured my attention in a way no one ever has before. And it isn’t just her sexy tan legs, great rack, or tight ass—even though those are amazing.
There’s just something…captivating about her.
I don’t know if it’s the way she seems to put all of herself into her art the moment she presses that pencil to the paper or the way she looks so totally free while sitting up on that rock with the wind blowing through her hair, like nothing or no one can touch her.
For that hour, she’s free.
But when she steps down off that rock, I can see a heaviness falling down on her, like a cloud of responsibility.
And I know what that feels like.
When I’m out on my board, riding the waves, nothing can touch me.
But the minute I’m back on shore, that momentary freedom I felt is gone.
Sure, I have freedom in the sense that my parents haven’t given a fuck about me since the second I was born. So long as I don’t bring disrepute to the Gunner name, tarnishing their smoke-and-mirrors lifestyle, then I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want.
But there has always been an expectation of me.
I’m the heir to Gunner Entertainment, the oldest and largest movie studio in Hollywood.
After this year off—that my parents graciously granted me after I’d threatened to do some seriously crazy stuff if they didn’t give it to me—I’m expected to go to Harvard and graduate with honors. Then, I’m to take my place at my father’s side until the day I take over and become the King of Hollywood.
Sounds like a dream to most. To me, it’s a fucking nightmare.
I despise everything about it and what it represents.
The glitz and glamour cover the lies and deceit. My world is filled with frauds, each one with a dirty little secret to hide.
Soon, I have to become one of them, and when I do, I fear that I’ll turn into someone I’ve never wanted to become—my father…or worse, my mother. She’s a fame-hungry, soul-sucking bitch who cares about no one, except for herself.
I paint a nice picture, right?
Well, call me a cynic, but growing up with the parents I have, you’d be one, too.
I don’t want any part of the life they’re forcing me to have.
All I want is to become a pro surfe
r. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I just want to be in the ocean, chasing that never-ending wave.
When I was fourteen, I tried telling Ava that I didn’t want to take over the family business, that I wanted to become a professional surfer. She laughed in my face and then reminded me exactly what would happen if I did.
They’d cut me off cold. I would have nothing.
And believe me when I say, they would leave me penniless, living on the streets, and they would do it without losing a second of sleep.
Especially Ava. She is as hard as the Botox filling her face.
I wish I were brave enough to go it alone. The problem with being brought up with unlimited funds would be to have to live without it. And I don’t know if I could do that.
So, for now, I’m my parents’ bitch.
Although I might be their bitch and screwed up in more ways than I can begin to explain, I’m not a fucking weirdo. I don’t usually hang out on my balcony, watching chicks, like some creeper.
I’m not exactly the shy type. I’m confident—probably too confident sometimes—and when I want a girl, I tell her. I don’t hide in my house, afraid to approach her.
And I’m not an asshole—well, not all the time—but I am aware of how I look. When your mother is one of the most beautiful women in the world—even if she is a demon from hell—you stand a damn good chance of scoring lucky in the gene pool.
And I scored well.
At six-three, with an athletic body that I’ve gained from all my years of surfing and swimming, I keep the scruff on my face overgrown and my sun-bleached hair longer.
I have no problem at all with getting chicks. It’s getting rid of them that is usually the issue.
But for some reason, I can’t seem to get my ass off this balcony to go over there and talk to Rock Girl.
I’m seriously starting to worry about myself.
For fuck’s sake, Gunner. Just go down there and talk to her. What have you got to lose?
“Hey, fuckface. You still watching that chick?”
Releasing a sigh, I turn to look over my shoulder at Max. “I’m not watching her. I’m…looking at the scenery.” I gesture weakly with my hand.
Max snorts out a laugh. “Sure you are, limp dick.”
When I Was Yours Page 2