Summer Girl (Summer Girl #1)

by S. Love

  Dumping the trash in the outside garbage cans, I decide I’m done with this party—and with Falcon. I’m not sure where he’s been this past hour, but I’m more than capable of getting Garrett back on my own. Falcon’s been no help, and this party was his suggestion.

  I head back inside, where the music’s been turned up louder. A group of girls squeeze through the open French doors in various stages of undress, making their way over to the pool. I stand back to let them pass before I’m mauled to death by the stampede.

  When the coast’s clear, I walk into the kitchen, running my fingers through the ends of my hair. I navigate my route, keeping my head down and filing between bodies. Upstairs, I let myself into my room and turn on the bedside lamp.

  My heart strikes against my ribs when I see I’m not alone. “My god!”

  Garrett’s sitting on my bed, not at all surprised I’ve caught him in here.

  “Can we talk now?”

  Chapter 10

  “Oz told me you’re working for him now. Got your own bedroom and everything.” The look on Garrett’s face is a disorderly tangle of confusion, sadness, and a sweeping measure of abhorrence. How could I, Lyla Teixeira, be seen cleaning someone else’s home? “Why would you do that?”

  “Why would I do what?” I stand with my back to the door, staking my territory. Poised when necessary to throw myself into Garrett’s arms the second he asks me to. Id’ thought I hadn’t missed him, right up until the moment I came face-to-face with him since the split, disturbing feelings I’d prematurely buried alive.

  “Be someone’s servant. Are you that desperate?” Garrett’s eyes are narrowed slits of wrongly discerned evaluation. I’ve witnessed this side of him before, but never toward me or another person. More in his jesting, and transitory remarks thrown around carelessly. He’s been in my small house with the broken wire fence in the yard, and he’s sat in my room that doesn’t even have a television in it. The divide has never felt wider, and I’ve never been made to feel smaller.

  “For money? And I’m a housekeeper not a servant. Since when is working anything to be ashamed of?”

  Garrett delivers me a probing look, like he expects the punchline any second now.

  “This is where I work. Sure, it’s for a trio of assholes who I’d rather not have to see on a daily basis—”

  “Trio?” Garret’s expressions opens into humorous disbelief. “Didn’t look much to me like you’d rather not see Con. You two are suddenly all over each other. It makes no fucking sense. What are you? His personal French maid?”

  Oops. First slip up. It would also be my last. This is the most Garrett has spoken to me in over a month, after what I was certain would be our final time breaking up. No more fights, no more open-ended arguments that we’d forgive each other for in heavy make-out sessions. I can’t lose him this quickly.

  “I’m having fun with Con.” The lie burns my tongue and fizzes in my stomach. “It’s not serious.”

  “Okay.” Garrett nods too many times for comfort, like he’s convincing himself of my answer. “So, he won’t mind you coming to watch me surf in two weeks?”

  My eyes widen, and I school my features into a more natural expression. Falcon would mind. And if Garrett’s surfing in the upcoming qualifying series event, then so is Falcon. I know who I’d rather be there to support, but I’m starting to see for myself there’s merit behind what Falcon’s trying to prove here. Garrett’s interest has peaked for the sole reason I’m unavailable to him.

  The realization slightly sickens me, but I’m still also hoping to prove his interest runs more profound than my inaccessibility. We had something real, even if we couldn’t hold onto it.

  “I don’t think I can,” I tell him coolly. “But I can make it out there on Saturday, so maybe I’ll see you.”

  It’s not the right time to ask about the blonde girl, but I’ll get to her eventually. She’ll probably be at the tournament. Wearing Garrett’s jersey number.

  His right thumb rubs at the corner of his mouth, the slip of a smile doubling into a grunt of laughter. “Right.” He stands, hooded gray eyes latching on to my face as he crowds me, reaching for the doorknob. The door opens a crack, the intrusion of music so thoroughly unwelcome. “I’m still going to text you, if that’s okay with your bodyguard.”

  “Uh-huh.” My response is one breathy splurge, Garrett’s nearness enough to make my palms sweat.

  He slips from my room, and I sag against the closed door, biting on my lower lip as a smile tears its way across my mouth and takes flight into a squeal of triumph. I allow myself a minute of elation and then go hunt down Falcon to let him know I’m fully on board with whatever he asks me to do.

  After searching downstairs and the grounds, I hear his voice in the last place I look: the first-floor study Ray uses as his office.

  Falcon’s standing facing the Palladian windows, with his back to me and his cell phone to his ear. The door was already open, so he doesn’t hear me come into the room. I’m not here to intrude on a private phone call, so I walk back out, freezing on the other side of the open door and then flattening my back to the wall so he doesn’t turn around and notice me.

  “It’s me. I know you’re screening my calls, but that won’t stop me trying or wanting to speak to you. In what world is it okay for you to do what you did, and I end up the bad guy? You can’t ignore me forever, Dee. I won’t fucking let you. I’ll be calling you every hour of every day until you answer your goddamn phone. So unless you want me to show up at your door, you’ll pick up next time.”

  The phone crashes onto the mahogany desk, chased by loud swearing.

  I walk quietly to the end of the wing, across the balcony landing and down the stairs to get a glass of water. The name Dee ping pongs in my brain but, unsurprisingly, I don’t know anyone by that name. She must be who Falcon’s going to all the trouble for. His conversation with her voicemail both disturbed and scared me. He wasn’t directly threatening her, but the undertone was clear as glass.

  He’s serious, though. About hurting her or getting her back? I’m not entirely sure after hearing what I just did.

  In the kitchen, I ignore everyone around me and take a bottle of water from the refrigerator. It’s barely to my lips when the cold goodness is ripped away from me. “Hey,” I yell in protest, trailing the bottle with my eyes.

  Falcon peels the cap from my fingers and screws it back onto the bottle. “This is a party,” he says, sliding the bottle onto the countertop. He pushes a half tumbler of something that looks like the water he just took away from me into my hand. One eye-watering sniff confirms it’s undiluted vodka.

  I offer him the glass with a shake of my head. “I won’t drink this. It stinks.”

  “Fine.” He takes the glass and then a mouthful of liquor. Lifts me up and drops me onto the counter, the bottle of water rolling to the floor with a bounce and a smack. Falcon’s hands frame the curves of my waist and he dips his head, his lips parting and covering mine, warm vodka flowing from his mouth to my mouth. I swallow the recycled vodka, cringing on the afterburn and almost gagging.

  Fitting snugly between the invite of my open thighs, Falcon curls his fingers behind my knees, guiding me toward him. I don’t talk my hands into resting on his mountainous shoulders, they just do, the instinct natural.

  His eyes glaze over as I reach up, using his body as leverage. One thick, strong arm circles my back, bringing me nearer. Not that there’s any space left. We’ve used every inch of it, and now we’re sharing the same oxygen. I shiver from his breath against my lips, and he tips me over the edge when he opens his mouth, sliding his tongue against mine. He grips my thighs to wrap around his waist, pushing himself against me, into me, sending me hurtling into a realm of sensation my body doesn’t know how to deal with—has lost all control over.

  His hands are everywhere, and I could be anywhere, consumed by Falcon and how deeply he’s kissing me, possessing me. Pulling me below and under, towing me away fr
om myself and into him, until I can no longer distinguish one from the other. Separate one jumbled thought from the next.

  The soft moan that escapes me snaps on a light, and I tear my mouth from Falcon’s, my wide eyes searching his hooded ones, shadowed in heat and lust. “It’s working,” I tell him in a rush of adrenaline, my lips still throbbing from the kiss. “Garrett asked me to watch him surf in the South Beach Open.”

  Falcon’s eyelids creep open, that drowsy, satisfied, sex look making my stomach swish. “You aren’t watching him surf. You can watch me surf, and then you can watch me win.”

  “I told him already.” I feel oddly proud. Like I’ve achieved something massive.

  “Good.” Falcon’s thumbs trace circles over my hipbones, where he’s holding me in place. “Now let’s show him we aren’t fucking around, and why he should think twice before he drops you again.”

  I lift my eyebrows in apprehension, sensing this is the segment in the night Falcon goes one-mile father than he needs to. “Show him… how?”

  Standing by the edge of the pool, I peer into the aqua surface, illuminated by the underwater spotlights.

  “I don’t have my bathing suit on,” I say to Falcon, swiping a hand over my tee and denim shorts to fully relay the message.

  He tosses his T-shirt and jeans into an unruly heap on the lawn and bombs into the water, soaking me and everyone around the pool. A quick swipe of his dark, dripping hair, and his hands encase my ankles.

  “Please, no,” I beg through laughter that’s making me weak, my legs loose like Jell-O. “These are my good Vans. Let me take them off first.”

  Falcon retreats, the shackles around my ankles unclasping to give me the space to undress. Except he’s lost his mind if he thinks I’m stripping down to my undies in front of everyone here. Sure, there are girls in and around the pool in bikinis small enough to fit a four-year-old child snugly, but they’ve had more to drink than I have.

  “I’ll change into my swimsuit,” I negotiate with Falcon. He shakes his head no, his grin feral and lopsided. I don’t let it sway me. “I’ll be back.”

  Before he can argue or climb out of the pool and wrestle me to the ground, I hurry into the house and up to my room. I quickly change into my swimsuit, throwing an oversized T-shirt over the top.

  Downstairs, Garrett’s leaning against the center island talking to two other typical surfer guys in outfits bright enough to damage retinas. His eyes rise till they’re level with my face as I walk by him, and I roll out a polite smile, relishing in his gaze trailing me to the dining table, where I mix myself a drink. I’ve got no intentions of getting drunk, but liquid courage is a must if I’m facing-off with Falcon again.

  I flick one last glance in Garrett’s direction and step out into the sweet night air, the tepid breeze caressing my bare legs. The vodka and soda is so strong, a tear springs to my eye, but I keep sipping. The glass is verging on empty once I’ve crossed the deck and made it to the pool. I shoot the last mouthful, my burp disguised by my hand and the bass from the music.

  Cutting through the narrow opening between two occupied sun loungers, the hem of my T-shirt stretches out behind me, and rough fingers wedge under the elastic of my swimsuit.

  “Hey!” I turn and slap at the encroaching hand, knocking it from my ass and my clothes.

  The boy with the black faux hawk tips his head back against the lounger and laughs, bringing a cigarette to his lips with the hand that wasn’t just breaching my private barriers. He makes a lewd gesture with his tongue through a dense ring of smoke.

  “Watch where you put your hands, asshole.”

  My eyes shoot to the person on the other lounger, promptly battling with the urge to narrow when I notice who the owner of the voice is.

  “Sorry about that.” The smirk pours from Ozzie’s eyes as well as his mouth. “My boy Brandon here hasn’t been taught how to act around females.”

  I lower my chin. “And you have?”

  Ozzie winks, his hand lodging under the waistband of his sweatpants, directly over his groin. “I’m an expert in the field of pussy. I’m available to teach you how to use yours, if Con hasn’t already. He’s been inside a hole or ten, but no one knows their way around one like I do.”

  Brandon chokes on guttural laughter and pot fumes, staring at the spot between my thighs like he can see through my shirt.

  There’s plenty I’d like to say to Ozzie—many ways to put this stupid, little boy in his place—but I take the high road, compartmentalize both losers to the back of my brain and promptly kick them right out the emergency exit.

  A girl in a black, stringy two-piece hovers around Falcon, lazing on a pink inflatable flamingo as he lounges against the pool wall, his arms spread either side of him along the surrounding quartz rocks. He stares down at the girl with heavy-lidded eyes, and despite his gaze never wandering, he’s giving off vibes he isn’t interested in what she’s got to say. These boys think they’re above and more important than everyone. I don’t know who told them that’s the case, but they’ve been misinformed.

  I pull my T-shirt over my head, catching sight of Garrett walking across the wraparound porch to the path that leads down to the beach. I expect someone else—the girl with the blonde curly hair—to walk out of the house after him, but no one does.

  “Don’t go after him unless you know what to do with him.”

  Falcon stands below me, the girl straddling the pink flamingo showering us with irritable glances from the other side of the pool.

  “Do you know what to do with him, Lyla?” The look he gives me hits me in an unfamiliar way, and his tongue darts out to lick his full lower lip.

  I think I’ve swallowed five or more times, and my throat still feels dry. “I don’t think your brother likes me.”

  “Oz doesn’t like anyone. I’ll talk to him, get him to ease off.”

  “He doesn’t believe us.”

  His eyes sweep over me, like he hears me but doesn’t care one way or the other what I’m saying. “He’s not the one we’re trying to convince. I’ve already told him I couldn’t give less of a fuck what he believes.”

  I lower myself onto my butt, dipping one foot into the heated water. Falcon tugs in my other foot, helping me into the pool. This end of the pool’s deep, and my legs wrap around Falcon’s thighs as he walks me to the wall, my back pressed to the smoothed-over stone.

  He leans in, his voice trembling along the shell of my ear. “Tell me how far you’ve gone, Lyla. Because I can take you further, if that’s what you’re ready for. Just say the word and I’ll make it so G can’t get enough of you.” The tips of his fingers pry between my swimsuit and my skin, cupping and kneading my cheek in one large hand. “Pretend I’m him, because I’m pretending you’re her. You look like her. Same hair, long enough to wrap around my fist while I entertain myself with other parts of your body.”

  The back of my neck’s secured in Falcon’s other hand and he realigns himself, so his mouth is slightly above mine, and his hips rock forward, the sampling of friction almost too much for me to coherently deal with.

  The words stumble from my mouth while I recapture my next breath. “I heard you in the upstairs study talking to her. I know you love her. I heard it in your voice.” I’m taking a running leap, but I’m confident it’s in the right direction.

  The pressure around my neck intensifies, and Falcon’s nostrils flare. He swells between my thighs, and an unquenchable thirst drains my insides, rushing through my belly and crashing down to my center. I’m so sensitive I whimper when Falcon brings one knee up between my legs, loosening them from his waist so I’m straddling his carved thigh.

  I bear down, seeking another illusive atom of friction to quell the throbbing that’s clouding my brain. I forget we aren’t alone, until my lusty gaze clears enough to notice Garrett rounding the porch at the side of the house. One arm snakes underneath his T-shirt, pulling up the hem as he scratches his pectoral, and I’m graced with velvety sunned skin ri
ppling with generous muscle. His eyes are on the porch floorboards, and the second he looks up, his steps falter as his gaze find me.

  He watches me in the pool with Falcon, his eyes on me bringing me to near explosion. No physical touch could be as consuming as the intensity of my body reacting to Garrett’s outside attention. The lascivious darkening of his eyes pulls the cord in my lower abdomen tighter, my raging appetite for more expanding like a rubber band stretched to snap.

  I’ve got Garrett right where I want him, but I can’t help worrying I’m right where he wants me.

  Chapter 11

  Talia yawns through the phone, the grueling sound contagious. I cover my own yawn with the back of my hand, my eyes watery and my body weary from a full morning clearing up last night’s mini explosion.

  In St. Charlotte, there’s nearly always one stray body discovered the morning after a house blowout, but Falcon’s done thorough work of clearing everyone off the property.

  “Is the job going okay?” Talia asks.

  I prop my chin in my hand, uttering a weak sigh. “It pays, and that’s all I care about. Everyone mostly leaves me alone, and Cindy’s never here. It’s only for the summer, Tal. Stop worrying about me.”

  “And you’d tell me if they were giving you any shit? I might be six hours out of reach, but I’ll come back and beat those clowns down if you need me to. I mean it, Ly. Let me know if their spoiled asses step out of line.”

  Like Garrett, I’m starting to think Talia views this job as beneath me. Like me cleaning is a form of degrading myself, or an open invite for the stigma and criticism. She’d tell me constantly how much she hated working at the country club. Groans and moans were regularly heard before one of her shifts, but like every woman in my family, she’d finish each shift and punch in for the next.