The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  I run faster. Arms moving. Legs lunging. My dress blowing in the wind, sand swirling in my wake, the water splashing me as I move along the shore.

  “Makayla, stop.” He’s catching up with me.

  I ignore him and his manwhore, slutting, gigolo ways.

  A hand grabs for me.

  Furious that he caught up with me, maybe more so that he struck a nerve I wanted to keep buried, I lose my footing and stumble. Before I can catch myself, I’m on the ground. Facedown in the sand, and he’s on top of me. Again. “Get off me!” I scream, pressing my arms into the sand and trying to push myself up.

  Gently, he grabs my wrists, and even more gently, he whispers in my ear, “I’m not going to hurt you; I just want to talk. That’s all.”

  The scent of him, no longer lavender, but so extremely man, is intoxicating. Yet it’s the feel of him on top of me that makes me freeze. My muscles clench and by body goes stiff. Strange thing is, it’s not fear doing this to me, it’s arousal. For heaven’s sake, my body needs to get a life. I twist my neck toward the sky. “Okay,” I concede. “You have five minutes.”

  With that, he rises from his prone position and plops down next to me.

  Pushing myself up from the sand, I sit beside him and wipe the granules from my face and hands with as much dignity as I can muster. Once I feel like I can face him, I turn my head his way.

  His palms are behind him in the sand, legs stretched in front of him, that body of his long and lean. “You’re fast,” he says, drawing in a breath.

  Ignoring the flutters in my belly from just catching sight of him, I swallow my attraction and resume my angry stance before I glower at him. “I ran track in high school.”

  Those gray eyes of his are looking out into the ocean. “I can tell.”

  Enough small talk. Time is ticking. “What do you want to talk about?”

  His head whips in my direction. “What do I want to talk about?” His tone is laced with bitterness.

  Matching his tone is easy. “Yes, that’s what I asked.”

  There’s a slight grunt-like noise of disbelief escaping his throat. “How about we start with the way you shut down on the plane after we got caught. I didn’t peg you to be such—” he stops there, not finishing his sentence.

  I do it for him. “An uptight bitch, right? That’s what you want to say. After all, it’s what you called me.”

  He briefly closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have called me an asshole, either.”

  Anger curls in my gut. “You’re right; there’s a whole other category of names I should have used.”

  Totally off topic here.

  Cam lifts his head, eyes heated. “What the hell are you talking you about?”

  My mouth trembles with emotion. I’m uncertain why I care about the way he treated Megan with a B, but deep down I know why. Is that the way he treats all women after he gets what he wants? Unwilling to let this pass, I put it out there without much thought as to the very unpretty light it casts upon me. “Two nights ago you were at Bar On.”

  His jaw clenches and the tension is thick between us. “Yeah, I was. How do you know that?”

  Okay, so any remaining dignity I have is about to be washed out to sea. I suck in a breath and decide to make my confession as quick and painless as possible. “I was there. I’d ducked into a private room to rest my feet and check my messages. I dropped my phone and had to reach under the table to get it. That’s when you came in with a woman.”

  Those gray eyes swirl like storm clouds in a hurricane. “You were in that room?”

  The night is warm, but my legs are wet and the wind blowing against them causes me to shiver. “Yes. I’m not proud that I didn’t say anything, but it all happened so fast. Anyway, I can’t undo that. Still, I saw you with that woman. Well, kind of. I never saw your face. Like I said, I was under the table. But I did see her open your shirt and, and,” I stumble on my words and gulp down the memory, “I saw your tattoo. It’s very distinctive.”

  More than likely struck speechless, because I’m certain I would be in his position, he just stares at me.

  Nothing else to do but continue to drown in his gaze, I go on. “Then, when we were in the bathroom last night, I saw that same tattoo. Up until then, I had no idea you were the same guy from Chinatown. And after seeing it, I freaked out because I felt like I was just another notch in your belt.”

  “A what?” he growls.

  “You know, another conquest, another love-them-and-leave-them encounter, another girl to do whatever it is you do with.”

  That stare of his could be deadly. “I know what you meant.”

  Feeling slightly bad at the way my angry little tirade came across, I go on. “I mean, obviously I know you didn’t screw that girl even though she wanted you to, so I guess that means something.”

  Hauling himself to his feet, he looks down at me. “You don’t know shit about what was going on.” He stalks off, leaving me feeling guilty.

  Getting to my feet, I chase him, wondering if I pushed too far. “Cam, wait—you’re the one who wanted to talk, so talk to me.”

  Waves lap up over his boots and onto the denim of his pants, but he doesn’t seem to care. I follow in his footprints, my toes sinking in the wet sand with every step, collecting my shoes along the way. When we reach the spot where we started, he takes a beer, opens it, and sits right down in the surf.

  Following suit, I do the same, beer and all. The first sip is hard to get down, but the second is a little easier, and by the third, I don’t taste the carbonation any longer.

  “I thought you couldn’t drink beer?” His voice is rough, and it reminds me of that night when I thought he was broken.

  I look over at him painted in the shadow of the moon. “I can’t, but I think right now is the perfect time to risk the consequences.”

  Shrugging, he takes a long pull of his beer. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but Vanessa and I were together for over five years. We met our sophomore year in college and then went to Columbia Business School together.”

  Okay, so she isn’t B.

  Surprised by his candor, I feel my own guard slipping. I know what’s coming next has to be bad. Not only from his tone, but also because of his demeanor with her that night. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Another swig of beer and he drops the empty in the holder and grabs another. “With you? I think I’ll pass.”

  Okay, I deserved that.

  Boy, did I make an ass of myself by referring to him as only a lifeguard. Just reflecting on that comment makes me feel like a catty bitch. And I’m not. I don’t judge. So, why did I say it? Because the situation was awkward and I act out in anger when I find myself in an uncomfortable position.

  I really need to work on that.

  Liquid courage. I need liquid courage. I down the remaining beer in my bottle and, like him, grab another. “Look, sorry can’t even begin to explain how I feel right now. Still, like it or not, we’re neighbors. We might not be friends who borrow cups of sugar from each other, but I really don’t want to us be enemies, either.”

  When he looks over at me, I’m surprised to see a smirk on his face. “Frenemies have benefits, you know?”

  The beer sloshes in my belly and I swear I feel it bubbling. The small hiccup that escapes my throat can’t be missed. My hand flies to my mouth and I cover it, repeating the word frenemies as a question around my fingers.

  This time, when he racks his beer, he doesn’t take another. Instead, he reaches over and wraps his long fingers around the neck of my bottle. Our hands lightly touch and I feel the slight impact like an instant shot of desire. The way his mouth parts tells me he does, too. “You’ve had enough,” he laughs, dropping my bottle beside his. “And frenemies are friends who are enemies. They don’t talk much, they have a hard time getting along, and they usually fuck.”

  That word again, bold and direct, but so freaking sexy.


  Not wanting to ruin the mood, I play right along. “I’m not sure friends who are enemies necessarily screw each other’s brains out.”

  That brow rises, the one I want to put on repeat. “‘Screw each other’s brains out’—that’s quite a visual.”

  I give a noncommittal shrug. “I said, I’m not sure if they do that. What if all they ever do is argue?”

  The wind blows my hair in my face, and he moves closer to push it aside. “If that is the case, that would be a dirty shame.”

  Breathing heavily, I want to lean forward to kiss him. To put all of this behind us and make frenemies with him, right now.

  “So Vanessa and I,” he starts, and I lean back instead of forward, “broke up because she cheated on me, with my father.”

  Oh, my God!

  That bitch!

  The gasp I let out can’t be stopped.

  His laugh is dry. “Yeah, right. The almighty Pearson Waters had to have what was mine.”

  I know he must have cared for her. I can hear it in his voice, see it on his face, interpret it from the words he uses. The fact that he called Megan with a B mine doesn’t get past me either.

  He pulls his knees closer and drops his head. “It was Thanksgiving, and Vanessa and I had spent the day with my mother in Brooklyn. While there, she got called into work, so we planned to meet at her place later. She worked for my father and I didn’t think a thing about it because it happened to everyone who worked for him—you were on call night and day. It was the first Thanksgiving without”—he stops, draws a breath, and then goes on, “since my parents’ divorce and my sister was in Paris on an internship, so when I left my mother’s, I felt bad that my father had spent it alone and decided to stop by his kingdom in Manhattan and check on him.”

  The moonlight reflects off the water and highlights his handsome silhouette. I want to reach out and provide comfort, touch him, soothe him in some way, but something tells me he’s not looking for that.

  Another breath. An even longer exhale. “When I got there, I used my key and walked in. I thought he might be eating Thanksgiving dinner alone, but what I found wasn’t what I expected. There he was all right, eating, just not turkey, and not alone. His face was buried right between Vanessa’s legs, and her ass was planted right on the dining room table.”

  Oh, my God, she really was the devil.

  “Cam, I’m so, so sorry.”

  Lifting his head in my direction, he stares at me with dead eyes. Like the thought of what happened had killed his spirit. I get it. For the longest time, I thought I might be dead inside, until he touched me. Again he gives a dry laugh. “Shit happens.”

  Boy, he isn’t kidding. “Want to hear about the shit that happened to me?” I ask.

  That puts a small light in his eyes. “Did you just swear?”

  “Oh, I swear,” I say indignantly.

  He laughs.

  “I do. Like a sailor. Shit. Hell. Fuck.”

  Cam gives a low whistle. “Wow. Total rebel.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m serious. In fact, when my shit happened, I threw two double middle fingers in the air right on the streets of Manhattan.”

  Done making fun of me, he grows serious. “Tell me more.”

  Without liquid courage, I have to dig deep to stop the burn of tears that threaten to spill at the memory. “Sebastian and I had met after college. He worked for a small, private wealth management firm on Wall Street. Our relationship progressed quickly and one year after we met, he asked me to marry him.”

  “You were engaged?”

  I nod. “For a whole four weeks before the shit hit the fan. Just enough time to start planning the wedding.”

  “What happened?”

  My white dress has turned an odd shade of dingy, the water is cold, the night air cooling, but still the heat of his body so close warms me. “One night I decided to surprise him.”

  Uncertain if I should go on, reveal the mortification of it all, I pause.

  “Surprise him how?” Cam prompts.

  This time it’s me who laughs. “Okay, this might be as embarrassing as witnessing you receiving oral sex.”

  Cam cringes. “At least call it what is was, a blow job, will you? And by the way, did you see anything?”

  Feeling a little hot and bothered at the thought of really seeing his big, thick cock, I know immediately when my nipples pop.

  Great.

  “No, I didn’t see anything. Only the back of Meg—” I stop and correct myself, “Vanessa’s head.”

  Cam’s eyes are on my small buds in an instant. To his benefit, in white, they must be really hard to miss. “Well, not sure if that’s good or bad, for you,” he says, “but we’re off track—finish your story.”

  Ignoring the sexual energy surrounding us, I settle my gaze on him and wait for his eyes to lift. And wait. And wait. And wait. “Cam,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he answers.

  “Could you look up here?” I point to my face.

  That does the trick. But then I’m distracted by the swipe at his lips with that tongue that had so expertly sucked and licked at my neck. Laughing, he clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m good now.”

  I find myself laughing along with him for no reason at all, especially considering I am about to tell him one of the most painful things that ever happened to me in my life. Weird how suddenly I find it rather funny and can even laugh at myself, which I do as I speak. “So, like I said, I wanted to surprise him. He’d been working late hours and we hadn’t had much time together. That night he was again working late. So I waited until I knew he’d be home to go over there. It was a rainy night, and I wore my raincoat and nothing else.”

  Cam’s chest rises and falls faster and faster. “Let me get this straight. You, the good girl, went over to your fiancé’s place naked?”

  Embarrassed, I look down at the sand and find a seashell. Picking it up, I toss it out into the ocean. “Not naked. I told you: I was wearing a raincoat.”

  There’s a shell in his hand and he’s throwing it. “Yeah, I got that.”

  Fingers still in the sand, I rake them through it over and over and watch the water wipe the marks away. If only life’s scars disappeared so easily. Ripping the Band-Aid off quickly, I decide to go on and just put it out there. “Like you had at your father’s, I used my key to get in. He was standing in the living room on the other side of the couch. Feeling triumphant, I unwrapped my coat, flung it open, and yelled ‘surprise.’ Imagine my surprise when I saw Sebastian was naked on the other side of that couch, with someone dressed in leather on their knees.” I raise my gaze to his. “Don’t you dare make a joke about me seeing another, as you so kindly told me to say, blow job.”

  His hand covers mine in the sand. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good, because unlike you, who were with an ex-girlfriend, my fiancé was with a hooker. Later, I found out his boss had been pressuring him to take on more of a family role if he wanted to move up the ladder. And I was the one who fit the bill for the family role.”

  Instead of throwing me a pity party like most people do when they hear the story, Cam surprises me when he asks, “Were you not giving him what he wanted in the sack?”

  Shocked, I pull my hand away and hop to my feet. “I am not an uptight bitch.”

  Cam rises as well, wetter than I in his jeans. “I didn’t say you were.”

  Giving him my back, I head toward the house. “Well, Sebastian did. In fact, it was the last thing he said to me.” I toss the words over my shoulder.

  This time when Cam catches up to me, he whirls me around to face him. “I asked you a question.”

  I ignore him.

  “Hey, I’m just asking because I can’t figure out why any guy would want anyone else when he had you.”

  Hot tears stream down my face. “If you must know, he never gave me any indication what we had wasn’t enough. If he wanted more he only had to ask. I’d have given him anything. Turns out I couldn�
�t give him the one thing he wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “Cock. The hooker was a male dressed as a female.”

  His reaction is to let out a stream of expletives. “Then you have nothing to be upset about. It was all him. He’s a fucking needy john who obviously wouldn’t know a good thing if it were staring him right in his fucking face.”

  In the midst of the heaviness, I find myself laughing. “Did you just call him a john? Isn’t that like from the turn of the century or something?”

  He shrugs. “No fucking clue. All I know is that he was using a hooker for sex, and that makes him one.”

  Practically bending over with laughter, I wish so much I would have thought to say that to him. Called him a john. Shouted it from the rooftop. Sebastian would have keeled over in embarrassment and probably had a heart attack. Wouldn’t want to tarnish his shiny image and all. I never found out if he preferred males to females; I doubt he did. I think he was just looking for adventure. Honestly, I didn’t want to know.

  Mirth glitters in Cam’s eyes as he looks at me. “We both definitely ended up with two very fucked-up people.”

  Finally able to stop laughing, I look him over from top to toe. “And you know what I say to that?” I tell him.

  The sexiest smirk lifts the corners of his mouth. “What?”

  Raising my arm, I turn toward the east and salute the sky with my middle finger. “Fuck them.”

  “Hell yeah, that’s the way to do it, naughty girl,” he says, and follows suit. “Fuck you, Vanessa!” he shouts.

  “And fuck you, Sebastian!” I yell.

  “May you have the worst sex of your life for the next hundred years,” Cam tacks on.

  Both saluting the people we left behind in New York, we laugh until we can’t laugh anymore.

  When we lower our arms, Cam places his hands on my hips and pulls me a little closer. Within moments, his fingers trail up to my neck and then stop at my cheeks. Holding my face in his palms, he smirks, “With all the talk about blow jobs, I can’t stop thinking about you wrapping your mouth around my cock.”

  Trembling under his touch, I say what I want to say without worrying that it sounds too forward. “And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing just that, and giving you the best blow job of your life.”