Summer Girl (Summer Girl #1)

by S. Love

  Ozzie jerks his arm from my hands, a powerful left hook snapping the waiter’s head almost clean off his neck. Cindy cries out, lurching into action and shoving Ozzie by his chest. He stumbles back, more from reaction than actual force. And that’s all the attention he receives, Cindy fussing over the mangled waiter’s face.

  “Why would you do this?” Her back’s to him, but the frantic question’s for Ozzie.

  Ozzie grunts a throaty sound of disgust. “Fuck this.” He rakes his fingers through his disheveled hair, turns and books it down the stairs.

  “Go after him,” Cindy barks, throwing me furious looks while she tips the waiter’s head back to stem the blood flow. “Stop him from turning this into a complete fiasco. I hired you, Lyla. I can fire you just as quickly.”

  Any other time, a comment such as that one would get right up my ass. Now, though, I can’t escape fast enough. Sticking to the perimeter of the main lounge, I take hurried steps to the patio doors, to slip out into the night, where I expect Ozzie has disappeared to.

  Garrett emerges on the other side of the doors just before I reach them, eyebrows slanted over questioning gray eyes as he takes in the cloud of stress I’m storming around in. Considering the circumstances, it kills me to ignore him. But I do, opening the door and darting past him as his mouth opens to speak, his body whipping around in my proverbial dust. He shouts my name as I pick up my pace, and I curse under my breath, more pissed with Ozzie than I’ve ever been before.

  The first chords of an acoustic guitar float down from the terrace, laughter and a good time sinking into the scenery I leave behind as I hunt down Ozzie, winding through the pristine pathways carved between velvety banks of turf. Instinct leads me to the beach, where the waves pound the shore without mercy.

  That instinct pays off.

  A lone, dark figure sits in the pale sand on the other side of the picket fence, flanked by a meadow of sea grass swaying and bending in the breeze that’s barreling in from the ocean.

  I slow down, approaching Ozzie with the same caution I would a starved, angry bear. I’m sure he’d rather I left him alone, but my paycheck depends on him playing nice. Inside, I laugh at my unfair odds. And if by some miracle I do bring Ozzie down far enough to hold Cindy’s secret, there’s a teenager back there with a busted face and blood for days. Figure that one out, Cindy.

  I stay on my side of the fence. Ozzie’s knees are bent in front of him, his arms draped over them and his head slung low.

  “I, ah…” I tilt my head up to the sky, summoning the energy to sound like I care. Then I start over. “I came to check you’re okay. It didn’t feel right leaving you alone after… that.” Ozzie’s a dick, but no one should have to listen to their mom getting pounded by a guy barely out of diapers when her husband’s somewhere in the vicinity.

  Ozzie ignores me, sitting in solemn silence. His hair blows in the wind, whipping it about his forehead and over his eyes. I’ve got nothing to lose, so I pull my skirt all the way up, my underwear probably on display, and I straddle the picket fence, maintaining as much modesty as I can while lifting my legs over. Tugging my clingy dress back into place, I sit next to Ozzie, facing the ocean at the end of the long stretch of deserted beach.

  The sun’s disappearing behind the ocean, on the brink of extinction, the easy orange and pink sky dimming as late evening closes in. There’s a generous gap between us, and I soak up Ozzie’s silence, the crash of the high tide washing over me, calming me. I can’t pretend to understand how he’s feeling, and I’m not stupid enough to think he’ll open up to me. But I’m here. Whether he wants me or not. I may not agree with the beatdown, but Ozzie’s led by his emotions, that’s clear for everyone to see. He sees, he lashes out, and I doubt he ever regrets it.

  I decide to break the ice, testing the surface first for cracks. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting here with you, because I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Then what the fuck does it matter?” Ozzie says to the sand below him, shoulders hunched. “Loverboy’s back there. Sure you can stand to miss him?”

  I blink, long and slow, drawing in a salty breath of ocean air so I don’t grab Ozzie by the neck and wring it tight. “I’ll see him on Saturday.” I get so much satisfaction from saying that.

  Ozzie’s head lifts slightly as he turns it to look at me. “Saturday?”

  “South Beach Open qualifying event? He asked me to come and watch him, and I am, so…” I shrug, all nonchalant, even when my chest warms from thinking about it.

  Ozzie scoffs, a derogatory half smirk slanting his mouth. “If he makes it to Saturday, you mean. Bit fucking presumptuous. But you’ll show up with Falcon, anyway, dumb as a fucking brick believing Garrett’s jealous as hell. Man, Falcon’s got you brainwashed, huh?”

  I’m feeling extraordinarily brave when I say, “I think you’re the one who’s jealous.”

  “Of what?” he bites, hazel eyes narrowing under a weighty frown. “And don’t say you.”

  “Of other people getting what they want or actively trying to get what they want. Misery loves company, and you’ve got a seat wide open.” I shrug, pleased with myself for sticking around to get that off my chest and not scuttling off from Ozzie’s mean glare.

  The salty breeze sweeps through Ozzie’s hair, showing more of his face. He realigns his impartial gaze back on the ocean. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis no one asked you for, but you couldn’t be further from the mark.”

  Unlikely, but I don’t push my luck. We’ve both reached limits tonight one only suffers in sleeping nightmares.

  “Are you coming back to the country club?” I ask. I’d just like to know how long I might be out here for. Surely Cindy can’t fire me though if I’m doing what she asked?

  Ozzie lets out a derisive snort, dirt-dry laughter following. “What, for the shitshow 2.0? I’d rather sit here till the fucking tide comes in.”

  “Fine.” I nod, settling in by tucking my legs under me and leaning my weight onto one hand, propping myself up in the sand dunes. Sitting here all night’s a cakewalk when you compare it with the alternative.

  An endless amount of time later, the horizon now as black as the ocean, Ozzie slides me a reluctant glance when I shiver from the cold that’s drilling holes into my bones. “Come on,” he mostly sighs as he stands up. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Chapter 19

  The beach, centering around the pier strung with sponsorship banners, has been transformed into a colorful, lively hub of activity. Ray’s with Mariah today, so I’m here alone.

  By some stroke of luck, Kenya spots me meandering aimlessly through the throngs of beach bodies and gazebos, waving me over to where her and Lauren have snagged prime position near to the shore.

  I wave back to let her know I’ve seen her, and then wind my way through families and younger groups stretched out on towels under sunshades and loafing in folding canvas chairs.

  The overcast sky’s gradually clearing, and it’s great weather for surfing. Despite the overhead clouds, the climate’s high eighties, a far cry from the chilling storm that shook Cape Pearl late last night, almost calling off the final day of the event.

  But it’s still early, and the residual offshore winds are pulling in clean, bigger than average waves. There are already four surfers out there now, lying on their boards as they read the swells, looking for a maximum-point wave.

  The text Garrett sent me last night, telling me what time his heat takes place and what color jersey he’ll be wearing burns a hole through my cell phone. The fourth round of heats are taking place now, and by the end of the day, the winner of the final will be announced.

  Falcon left the house with Ozzie while it was still dusk, loading up the Jeep and strapping down the surf boards. He’s still pissed with me over the previous weekend, but honestly, he’s made stepping out on our deal that much easier, and now I can focus wholly on Garrett and exiting this job with all my sanity intact.

  Plowing through the sand, my backpack
tight across two shoulders, I pause at the edge of Kenya’s fuchsia towel, pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head. “It’s okay if I sit with you guys?”

  “Sure. Sure. Park your butt, Teixeira.” Kenya curls into a straighter position, leaning on one elbow to shield her eyes with a hand across her brows.

  I let my backpack slide down my arms and drop to the sand. I’m feeling the cloudy ocean chill, but I left my jacket at home, dressing for today in my stressed denim cutoffs and white bikini. I’ve got an old T-shirt over the top, but it isn’t doing much to keep me warm.

  Lauren frowns, tipping her sunglasses down her nose as her head dips and her eyes roam over my midsection. “I don’t know how you dare leave the house like that. You’ve got nuts the size of medicine balls.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I glance down at my band shirt. It’s washed out, sure, but it’s comfortable, and it does its job of covering me up. It’s overcast, but there’s still such a thing as the O-zone layer. A few clouds aren’t going to change that.

  Kenya snorts. “Nothing if you’re sanding drywall when you leave here.”

  Lauren snickers, rolling from her back to her front and crossing her feet at the ankles. “Sit down, Lyla, you’re giving me shade.”

  I tilt my head up to the clouds. The entirety of the sky is shade. I sit down on the other towel cross-legged, dragging my bag in front of me.

  Tents have been set up all across the beach, chaos descending over Cape Pearl for the past two days. I missed the first three rounds through work, but not being able to spend eight hours analyzing every move Garrett pulls in the water is hardly a bad thing. Time and space are good, and besides, I downloaded an app on my phone to fill me in on how the event’s been going. And for Garrett, it’s been going. I haven’t told him I’ve been keeping up with his progress even though I’ve been kept away from the beach, and I don’t plan on telling him, either.

  While using the app, I couldn’t help noticing Ozzie sweeping through his heats, bringing his total points in his last heat to a very respectable 16.83. He’s leading over Garrett, but that could change depending on the quality of the waves. Falcon isn’t far behind, and Topher isn’t competing.

  “Have you been watching since Thursday?” I ask Lauren and Kenya. The loudspeakers cackle as the announcer’s voice reverberates across the beach, and one of the surfers starts paddling for a wave.

  “Yeah,” they both say, eyes on the surfer in the yellow jersey. He doesn’t look behind him once as he’s paddling, and he catches the wave too late, flailing in the foam as the lip spills over and he eats most of it. Not a pretty sight, but he’s paddling out to get back in the lineup. There’s five minutes left in the heat.

  “Bummer.” Kenya rummages in her beach bag, pulling out a pack of gum. She slots a stick in her mouth and offers round the pack.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  Lauren takes a piece. “Someone’s gotta win this thing, right?” she says as she unwraps her gum. “And I’m available for a victory kiss when they do.” She winks at me, sticking the gum onto her tongue and closing her mouth.

  The heats are grueling—for me—and each one feels longer than the last. There isn’t too much waiting around since the waves are ripping pretty fast and frequently, but I haven’t seen anything yet that’s blown me away. Just looks like a lot of average so far, not that I’m an expert. I’m really not. But the low scoring points being read over the speakers kinda backs up my theory that nothing spectacular has come out of the day yet.

  It feels like three-hundred and sixty-five days have passed before Garrett runs into the surf for his heat, his red jersey tight across his back and his board under his arm.

  “Oh, there he is.” Lauren pulls herself up from the towel, scooting forward on her hands and knees to sit beside me. “He’s who you’re here to see, right?” she turns to me and asks.

  “Actually… no.” So much for stepping out on Falcon. I can’t bring myself to do it when it wasn’t verbally agreed. “Falcon invited me to watch him.”

  I don’t react to the lasers Lauren beams into the side of my head, fully engrossed in what’s going on in the water for the next thirty minutes.

  Garrett takes off for the second wave, paddling frantically to catch it. I slide my thumbnails between my teeth, but the smile peels across my lips as he lifts his chest off his board and the nose lifts. He glides across the lip and sends all his weight into the drop. Crouches to throw power into his bottom turn and snaps his board at the top of the wave, whitewash arcing through the air. He cuts back into the pocket from the shoulder and carves through the face.

  I’m up on my knees, shielding my eyes with two hands as he loads up for a vertical backhand snap, and he explodes at the top, smashing into the frothing peak over and over, draining the wave until it loses power, crumbling and flattening behind him.

  With minutes left in the heat, Falcon jogs across the sand to where we’re sitting. I glance twice at him, surprised he’s coming over here when he’s given me the icy side of his shoulder all week. I followed through with what I said I would, but I wasn’t sure he still wanted me here.

  “Hey, Con.” Kenya twirls her fingers in a sweet, little wave. Then leans back on her elbows. There are no glasses dark enough to hide how she’s obviously checking him out.

  His white jersey’s distractingly snug, and he’s covered neck to ankle in his wetsuit, but you can’t hide a body as defined as his. The wetsuit only emphasizes his honed shape.

  Falcon drags his gaze over Kenya, a light frown indenting his eyebrows. “Hey…” He doesn’t know her name.

  “Kenya,” I say for him. “And this is Lauren.”

  “Right,” he says, like’s he’s suddenly remembered. Maybe he has, he moves on too suddenly to tell. “Oz’s in the next heat, then I’m up.”

  “Where’s Ozzie now?” Lauren asks. She lifts her sunglasses to her forehead, eyes scanning the beach.

  “Under the tent over there with a few of the boys,” Falcon says, tipping his head in the direction of the tent. “You hanging around all day?” he says to me.

  I smile, but really, I want to know what Garrett’s doing. Where he’s going when he walks out of the water. That’s not why I’m here, though, so I put all my attention on Falcon. “You mean it hasn’t been all day already?”

  “You’re bored?” He crouches beside me, at the edge of the towel, then sits down, bending his knees slightly in front of him. I shiver from his cool touch when his fingers hit the base of my spine and slide up my skin, drawing me closer to him in front of the entire beach, or anyone who’s watching, if I’m being less theatrical.

  Kenya or Lauren cough from behind me, and I consider borrowing the plastic shovel from the little boy one towel over and digging a hole in the sand to bury myself in.

  “I’m fine,” I say, pushing my smile back to the surface.

  Falcon glances over my face, his expression dry. “You sure?”

  I nod. “I’m sure.”

  I feel it instantly he’s here for the pretense and not me, and I guess that’s fine. It’s an agreement we’re in, not a relationship.

  He drapes his arm around my shoulders, hugging me to him, and I reluctantly lean into his side to watch the next heat before he’s called out to the water.

  His breath warms my ear as he lowers his head. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “Me too,” I whisper back. This will probably be the last time we do this, and it’s a load off now the charade’s fizzled out before things between us become more complicated than they already are.

  We all shut up as the next heat starts, and Ozzie cuts through the water with the other surfers. He has priority, and he finds a wave quickly.

  “He makes those other guys look like they don’t know what they’re doing,” Falcon says as he watches Ozzie’s ride. His arm’s relaxed around me, but his expression’s tense.

  Ozzie’s the one in the aqua jersey, and he builds up his wave cou
nt, crushing it every time. Either the waves are on his side, or this is just how he does it under pressure.

  Lying flat on the deck of his board, he paddles for the peak of his fourth wave with strong, deep strokes. Two more powerful strokes, a quick glance behind him, and he vaults to his feet. Surfs the shoulder then drops down the face of the wave in a low crouch, gliding into the hollow curl. Steep into the wave, he twists into the turn, his body low. He carves a three-sixty, leaning his body into the maneuver as he drives his board toward the lip. He cuts back from the shoulder, burying the rails of his board in the curl.

  “He’s ripping it out there,” Falcon almost boasts. “But this isn’t really his style.”

  “It isn’t?” I ask.

  “Nah. These are fun waves to him.” The crowd claps and hollers, and Falcon peers down at me with a soft grin as the wave Ozzie’s riding winds down and he rinses it for every drop of whitewash. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  We hang around the beach as the crowds disperse, most spectators leaving with the surfers. It’s been a long day and then some. Forgetting to bring snacks with me, holding out from buying food from any of the vendors setup on the boardwalk, Kenya, Lauren and I go hunt down something edible.

  Moving throngs of people head home and toward the parking lots, but plenty more people loiter on the pier and outside bars and restaurants, the buzz from today electrified in the warm air that clings to me like a second skin.

  Garrett made it all the way to the quarterfinals before he was knocked out by a twenty-one-year old Brazilian who’s a regular on the qualifying circuit. Falcon was kicked in the same round, and Ozzie went one step further, missing out on the final with a clutching distance of 2.5 points.

  “I could go for a tuna salad.” Kenya pauses to read the menu taped to the window of a popular seafood place. There’s room inside for one counter that runs along the wood-paneled wall opposite the cash register and deli-style display case, the five stools they have all occupied. You eat here if you prefer your food to go. The lack of seating’s a small sacrifice for how fresh the menu is.