The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

Cam is waiting for us just at the end of the hall. “Let’s go get another drink!” he shouts over the music.

  Anxious, he holds out his hand for Makayla, and she grabs it, then she holds out her hand for me, and I grab it. We make a chain through the crowd toward one of the many bars set up around the club’s outer walls and squeeze our way in.

  Cam had already ordered before coming to retrieve his maiden, and he hands Makayla and me each a shot of something orange and fizzy looking. “Happy New Year!” he cheers.

  “Happy New Year.” I sip mine. “Oof, what is this?”

  “They’re called Fuzzy Fucks,” says Cam. “Jägermeister, orange juice, and peach schnapps. Drink it.”

  I push it back his way. “I think I’ll have a whiskey, but thanks.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “I liked the name.”

  At least he’s honest.

  Cam turns and orders something different for me, and then tosses his shot back, and mine too. Makayla is nursing hers with a sour look on her face.

  As soon as Cam gives me the amber liquid I asked for, I laugh and point to the small glass in Makayla’s hand. “You’re supposed to shoot it. Watch.”

  I tip my head back and down all 1.5 ounces. The initial burn jolts me, but after that the taste spreads deliciously across my tongue. When my gaze returns to eye level, it lands on the most absolutely gorgeous-looking man I have ever seen, and he is headed our way.

  In a simple white shirt and plain black pants, you wouldn’t think someone could be so sexy. Yet he so is. I watch his slow strides, and I swear every part of me goes on alert, and I mean every part.

  As clichéd as it sounds, this man is tall, dark, and handsome as hell. Messy yet perfect dark hair, a lean build that makes him look like he could bend a woman over with ease, a wide mouth with full lips that I bet can drive a woman to her knees with one kiss, and the bluest, most glimmering eyes that must make the best magic.

  Holy crap! I think he sees me staring, because his lips curve into a slow, sexy smile.

  He looks naughty.

  And so my type.

  He’s going to say hi, and ask me to dance, and we’re going to kiss Happy New Year, and then move the party to my room. Pronto. I just know it.

  Here it comes. Something like, “Hey, how are you?” Or, “Hi, where have you been all my life?” Or if I’m lucky I’ll get a “Hey, beautiful, you belong with me.”

  Fingers crossed I’m lucky.

  That mouth of his opens.

  Here it comes. A line meant to whisk me right off my feet.

  I watch everything about his lips as they begin to move.

  “Cam,” he says. “How the fuck have you been?”

  No.

  No.

  No!

  That is not the line I wanted to hear.

  Immediately, my head snaps to Cam.

  “Keen, you made it, asshole!” Cam shouts excitedly.

  Keen?

  The Wall Street wolf?

  Keen Masters, as in Brooklyn James’s half brother?

  No.

  No.

  No!

  This man is the man I want to take to bed tonight. He cannot be my fake date’s brother. Is that almost incestuous? I hope not. No. No, it isn’t. No, it can’t be. Never mind. Forget I said that.

  The two men collapse into a flurry of backslapping and insults. Keen grabs Cam around the neck and knuckles his hair until Cam stands straight and shrugs him off.

  Makayla and I give each other a look. “I guess they missed each other,” she whispers with a little hiccup.

  My teeth start to worry my bottom lip. I wonder if he’s sleeping in their bed tonight. I keep that little thought to myself. I doubt Makayla is into that anyway. Then again, she did have that special book-club time with Cam last summer about the threesome. I give her the once-over, and can’t tell. No. I know better. Not my sweet Makayla. There, with that out of the way, I feel so much better now.

  When the adolescent boys finish their greeting, Keen swoops in and kisses Makayla on the cheek. He whispers something in her ear that I can’t hear, and I’m not really that happy about it.

  I’m about to clear my throat when Keen steps back from Makayla to fix me with an intense gaze. Now I know I fall easily, but the fire blazing in his eyes tells me so does he.

  I’m so in.

  Cam puts a hand on Keen’s shoulder and then a hand on mine. “Maggie, this is Keen Masters. He’s my best friend. Keen, this is Maggie May, Makayla’s best friend and my former lifeguard cohort.”

  Keen’s slow grin is a heat-seeking missile that goes straight between my thighs. “Maggie May. Like as in the song?”

  Sigh. The line is perfection.

  Unable to help myself, I smile at the touch of flirtatiousness in his voice that screams naughty. “That depends.”

  Unabashed, he blatantly scans my body. It’s quick. Socially acceptable. Not blatant. Yet, I still notice. “On what?” he asks low and slow.

  Cam and Makayla have started sucking face again, and he and I for all intents and purposes are alone, for now. Taking advantage of this, I stand tall, tits out, and lean a little closer. “On if you know who sings the song?”

  The look in his eyes tells me he’s never wrong. “And if I do, what do I win?”

  Charmed by his slickness, I smile again, holding back a laugh. “The pleasure of my company.”

  First he takes a slow moment to allow his gaze to lazily lower, taking me in, and I mean taking me in, and then within seconds his hot breath gusts along my skin when he breathes, “Rod Stewart.”

  We’re not quite eye level, but close enough that I can turn my face to find his ear and whisper, “You’re good.”

  There’s a slight cocky nod of his head. “I am,” he murmurs, and that hot gaze of his pins me, holds me in place.

  Practically letting me know just how good he is. I think I just gulped air.

  After the longest intense moment, he breaks our connection and extends his hand as if to shake. When I take it, he pulls me close enough that he can whisper directly in my ear. “I bet just like the song says, you wreck every man’s bed you’re in.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  That sound. Those lips. The way he moves. The way he talks. All resulting in words that blow across the sensitive skin of my neck just below my earlobe. It’s too much and I simply cannot suppress a reaction.

  Already primed by the fantasy of him and me anyway, my body reacts at once. Not only do my nipples push against the fabric of my dress and outline themselves among the tiny silver sequins, but my clit pulses, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to settle the tantalizing sensation.

  Oh, and as the fire courses through my veins, all I can think is that I’m so ready to get burned. Not holding back, I keep my voice low and say, “Keep playing your cards right and you just might get to find out.”

  His body jerks like John Travolta in Grease when he sees Olivia Newton-John’s transformation. And like John, I swear he’s electrified, his gaze brightens that drastically. “Good thing I’m an excellent poker player.”

  My breath catches and holds, until I let it hiss out between parted lips. “Just how excellent?”

  Just then his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, and I feel myself getting wet somewhere else entirely. “It’s all or nothing, sweetheart. All or nothing.”

  “So you’re an all in kind of guy then?”

  His nod is wicked.

  We’re standing very close. If I step an inch in his direction, I’ll be pressed up against him. I imagine the push and pull of the muscles in his arms if I put my hands on them. And I start imagining so much more. I dare myself to take that one step.

  “Tell me, Maggie—” he starts to say.

  Just then Cam shoves a shot in his hand. “Come on, man, you need to catch up.”

  No.

  No.

  No!

  Tell me, Maggie, what? Should we take this to your
room? Do you prefer the top or bottom? Do you like to fuck in the shower? Against the wall? On the floor? What? What!

  Our gazes remain locked until somehow Cam manages to put himself between Keen and me.

  That’s when the guy-fest starts all over again. Talk about Keen’s job, Cam’s job, New York, California. And toasts. Lots of toasts. The Jameson Irish Whiskey goes down smoother and smoother with each shot, though, I have to say. Soon the liquor makes my belly feel like a fire is being stoked deep inside me. Or is that the burning stare Keen is giving me?

  Makayla has stopped drinking and is looking pretty out of it right about now. She’s a lightweight, and doesn’t usually drink so much. Which is evident by her having to lean against Cam for support. Noticing her wobble, he leans down and whispers something in her ear, and she whispers back with only a slight stumble.

  Cam looks over at me. “We’re going to head to our room. Will you be okay here?”

  Ummm…hell yes! “Sure, I’ll be fine.”

  Makayla gets up on her toes to find my ear. “Go get him,” she slurs.

  I raise a brow. “I intend to.”

  She’s talking about Brooklyn, of course, but that’s not who I’m going to get.

  No, my sights are set on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, and when I say tall, dark, and handsome, I mean…the Wall Street wolf in his designer pants and hundred-dollar haircut who looks like he just stepped out of GQ magazine.

  Heaven help me.

  Just as the lovebirds leave, and Keen takes a step forward as if to pounce, his brother spots him. “Keen!” Brooklyn hollers loud over the music.

  Keen darts his head in his brother’s direction and grins from ear to ear.

  Brooklyn is on the dance floor with three women, and he’s waving his brother over.

  “Brooklyn!” Keen calls, looking as if his brother is made of fabulousness, which clearly by the happy expression on his face, in his eyes, he must be.

  Me, I’m not so happy with my fake date right now.

  “Hey, I’ll be back,” Keen tells me.

  Then, just like that, he struts across the dance floor. And I swear the pulsating lights only seem to highlight his gorgeous silhouette as the distance between us grows ever wider.

  More than a little stunned by his rapid departure, I watch as the jutting lines of his shoulder blades urge me to chase after him, but then he disappears into the crowd and I realize I’m left standing here all alone.

  Hey, wait!

  What about me?

  2

  WILDEST DREAMS

  Maggie

  New Year’s Eve is about resolutions and change and everything new. This one means more than that to me. It marks the start of my reemergence into the real world.

  Everyone said fashion wasn’t the field for me because I hate to match. The thing is, I do match. Stripes with polka dots. Studded boots with frilly dresses. High heels with casual shorts. Leather and lace. One black and one white Converse. They are perfect combinations. I’m a fashion merchandiser with my own sense of style. But sadly, no one approved, which is why I was fired from almost every major boutique in SoHo and ended up in Laguna Beach lifeguarding for the past few years.

  But I found the solution—men’s apparel, not women’s—and in two days, my life will forever change.

  I can’t wait.

  Focusing my attention on the here and now, though, I am not any too happy about my current situation.

  Returning from the ladies’ room yet again, I’ve pinned my hair up and tossed some cold water on my face to help sober me up. I walk around and then when I see a space open up at the bar, I lurch for it. As soon as I take a seat, the bartender gives me his immediate attention.

  This one is super cute. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered guy clad in a tight gray T-shirt and worn jeans. His eyes are dark. And one of his ears boosts a small gold hoop. His head is shaved close to his scalp all over, and although it isn’t a look I normally like, it works on him.

  He smiles at me and I smile back. I know he is paid to flirt as much as to mix drinks, but his smile still floods me with warmth. With my own smile remaining falsely in place, I order a glass of water. Time to lighten up on the liquor and sober up.

  “Going for the heavy stuff,” he laughs.

  “Wait,” I call out as he turns to grab a glass. “On second thought, make it a whiskey.”

  Why bother sobering up?

  The bartender grins. “Sure thing, baby doll.”

  I suppose if I wait around until closing, I could have him, but he is not who I want. Tapping my fingers on the bar, I look around again. Still no sign of Keen anywhere.

  Very unlike me, I rushed off to the ladies’ room after he left me standing all alone instead of just moving on, and I haven’t seen him since.

  And yes, admittedly I have been looking.

  A man sits beside me. He, like the bartender, is attractive. This one is more clean-cut, much more my type—suit, tie, square jaw, and good hair.

  The tan line of his wedding finger is not telling of his marital status, but again, I’m not interested in him enough to even find out. Before he has a chance to make small talk, I turn a little in my seat and start to eavesdrop on the couple beside me. I try not to laugh out loud at the line this guy is feeding the girl.

  Here’s a little secret—girls say they hate pickup lines, but privately most girls love them. Me included. Of course there is a fine line between a good conversation starter and comically bad introductions.

  Tonight Keen’s pickup line rated between a nine and a ten, and I don’t think I’ve ever given a guy a score over a five.

  This guy next to me just used one of the worst lines ever on the poor girl beside him. It went something like this: “Hey, excuse me but do you know this fabric?” He grabs his own shirt. She shakes her head. “It’s boyfriend material,” he says.

  No wonder she’s walking away.

  Speaking of which, I’d better hurry away too before he uses that line on me. I finish my drink and conveniently decide to make my way around the bar. Yes, perhaps to look for Keen, but also because parties for one aren’t much fun.

  In a matter of moments, purple lights turn to white, but all I can see is green.

  There he is, leaning against the railing with a drink in one hand, his attention on the redhead with the flapper haircut in front of him that was in Brooklyn’s pack of women earlier. She’s fit and pretty, if you’re into vintage whores with red lips, I guess.

  In slow motion, I push through the crowd.

  Like a voyeur, I watch as he leans closer to say something in her ear that makes her tip her head back in laughter. He lingers that close for a little too long for my liking, especially since her trampy hair hides his face. Then he touches her bare shoulder, and I want to scream.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  I hate him.

  I want him.

  Just then he looks up and spots me. The fire is there, but something else too—I’m not sure what. He blinks rapidly and licks his bottom lip.

  I draw in a breath, mind racing as my heart thumps faster.

  Keen doesn’t smile or beckon me closer, though. Instead, he averts his gaze and lets his fingertips graze the pinup girl’s naked skin from the curve of her neck all the way down to her wrist. If he takes hold of her hand, I am so going to stomp over there and slap him at my own reaction to him.

  Alarm bells go off.

  Walk away.

  Right now.

  He is nothing but trouble.

  But I like trouble, so I don’t move.

  People come between us, blocking my view. Still, I stay right where I am. To be honest, I’m not sure I can move my feet away from him, but I can’t stay here all night, either.

  The cold splash and tangy scent of someone’s beer drips down my back. I jerk around to see a hulk of a man with sweat on his brow staring down at me. Now, I’m tall, but he is way taller. Six foot six, seven, I’d say. Basketball player
material for certain. And not half bad-looking. In fact, I’m going to hazard a guess that he’s a Knicks player, and that could be kind of hot. Right?

  Gleaming at him, I wait for the spark to strike.

  “Sorry, hot legs,” he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my bare back.

  He smells of stale beer and sex, and I’m instantly repulsed.

  Ummm...no thank you. “No problem,” I reply politely.

  And then needing to get his hands off me, I wheel around to find Keen staring at me, nothing faltering in his gaze this time.

  “Maggie!” he shouts as if he is surprised to see me.

  Two can play at that game, buddy.

  “Keen,” I answer in a high-pitched voice meant to show equal surprise.

  Setting his drink down, he moves fast, but the girl is on his heels, and the two of them are close to me in no time.

  I look from him to his trampy whore, who clears her throat when all he does is stare at me for countless moments.

  He blinks at the sound, and then quickly regains his composure. “Francesca, this is Maggie,” he says all rough-voiced, bad-boy style.

  Francesca. Please. I’m so not impressed.

  Okay, so her name is much sexier than mine, and I am a little jealous. There, I said it. Now let’s drop it.

  Francesca tilts her head to look at me, and her smile is wide and warm and inviting. She doesn’t shake my hand, but she does lean a little closer. “Hi!”

  This time I look from her to Keen, and then back. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  Like three idiots, we stand here making stupid small talk. I consider leaving them to do whatever it is they are going to do, but something won’t let me walk away.

  Pride?

  No.

  Lust?

  Yes.

  When a tattooed girl taps trampy flapper chick on the shoulder and she eagerly engages in another conversation, Keen slips his arm around my waist and draws me close. Hip to hip. It’s electric. And then he hisses in my ear, “Why didn’t you tell me you were my brother’s date?”

  Oh, shit!

  Now, I could come clean and explain the date is anything but real, but why would I do that when this is going to be so much more fun? “It never came up in conversation.”