“You know ebooks are going to replace these pretty soon.” The slow confident male drawl slows my movements, my mouth curving into a smile despite my best attempt to keep a cool exterior.
I squeeze the last book into place and stand, turning toward Paul. “Hey—words like that’ll get you killed around here.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms across a broad chest, covered in a sleeveless tank and a golden tan. “You don’t have a dangerous bone in your body.”
I walk around the half bookcase between us, ‘til I stand in front of him. “You’re right about that. I’m in sore need of a dangerous bone inside of me.”
He groans, his eyes turning from playful to feral in a moment, his hand reaching around me and pulling me tight to him. His other hand joins in, both of them gripping and pulling my ass, my pelvis, up into his body, tight enough that the ridge of his erection digs into me. He lets out a loud, shuddering breath as he lowers his mouth to mine. “You want me to fix that situation?”
“Oh yeah.” I grin, reaching up and tugging his head down, my tongue taking up the playful game, flicking into his open mouth, exploring the taste of him as his hands pull me tighter against his hard body.
“I want to fuck you right here,” he whispers against my mouth.
“So do it.” My hands slide under his shirt, traveling over the lines of abs, his mouth catching as I move my hands lower, under the hem of his board shorts, my fingers encountering the curly patch of hair there.
He chuckles, moving his mouth of mine and kissing the top of my head. “I’ll take care of you later. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”
I look up at him. “Fine. I’m closing up shop at four. Want me to find you on the water then?”
He cradles my head in his hands, his eyes trailing over the lines of my face, as if he is memorizing the features. “I’ll be there. Tonight is when you have that thing?”
I nod. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
He grins, my playful boy back. “Then I’ll be sure to take care of you this afternoon.”
I yank him forward, wanting to feel the brush of hardness before he leaves me alone. “You better.”
He gives me a final kiss before releasing my face, tossing out a carefree smile before ducking through the entrance and disappearing into the bright Californian sun.
I understand that you hate me. That you curse me for my greed. But if I am okay with it, and they are okay with it, how is it anyone else’s right to judge?
VENICE BEACH, CA
CAVEFISH: [noun] Pale Surfer
DANA
I stub my cigarette out and watch the bar, listening idly as Shannon Marks blabbed the explicit details of last night’s blind date. I tune in occasionally, nodding politely and cracking a smile when the occasion seems to call for it. But mainly, I just watch the bar. I had seen her. Stewart’s blonde princess. I was sitting here, minding my own business, sipping fresh coffee and munching on a biscotti when she had trotted by. Flashing a smile to a pothead who sat on the curb, she had entered the bar without a second glance around. That was forty-five minutes ago. I light another cigarette.
Venice beach. Not the location I would have expected her in. From my first impression, at Livello, she had seemed too upscale for this area—her glowing skin and sparkly white teeth speaking of good breeding, the dress one that appeared to be four-figure fabulous. I almost didn’t recognize her here, in cutoff shorts and a plaid, long-sleeved button-up, aviators perched on her head, long tanned legs ending in a pair of leather flip flops. But it’s hard to miss a girl like her. And I’ve thought about that night too much to be sane. Replayed it over and over again in my head. The glow on her face, the look in his eyes. Stewart, barely aged, 100% the man I knew—save the grin on his face. The grin, the glint, of a man in love. That, sadly, was unfamiliar to me. I take a sip of coffee. Venice Beach. Yep, not what I would have expected. Then again, who am I to talk? I’m sitting here in a wool suit, sweating my ass off, all in hopes that I might run into Paul.
Paul. The other man in my heart, also MIA in my life. His absence pulls at my heart. Paul, the lost lamb of our family. What happened to Jennifer wasn’t his fault. Things happen, regardless of all of our best intentions and precautions. Things happen, and when disaster struck, we lost him. He was always too sensitive, too caring, too loving. Quick to accept blame when it wasn’t cast on him, quick to perceive if someone was mad or if feelings were hurt. He carried the happiness of our family on his shoulders, as if his young frame could support so much pressure. And that summer, ten years ago, was a bomb to that structure, a heavy cannonball dropped onto a little boy’s house of sticks. We should have known he wouldn’t recover. We should have known that it would push him away. Now, he lives as if that event never happened. As if Jennifer, and the rest of us, never existed. I think the mere presence of us causes him pain. We are nothing but a walking billboard of what used to be. So he pretends we aren’t here. And he walks through life with a smile on his face.
I don’t know if that makes me happy or sad. I am relieved that he is happy, in press photos his grin stretches wide and easily, videos show that his step has a bounce in it. But I am sad for the brother I have lost. One who seems like he will never return home.
He lives around here somewhere. I don’t have his number, can’t find anything but a manager’s number on the promotional website bearing Paul’s pseudonym. The pseudonym irks me, a visible sign indicating his separation from our family. Linx. What a stupid last name, picked by a nineteen year old kid with more pussy and dreams than he knew what to do with.
I exhale a burst of dirty air and glance towards the waves. The videos on his website show him here—attacking waves with the same ferocity he exhibited as a kid. So when Shannon wanted some gossip time, I suggested Venice Beach, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.
I take a sip of coffee and glance at my watch, my mind bouncing off Paul and back to the surprise sighting of Stewart’s blonde. Fifty-two minutes. Who sits in a bar at two o’clock on a Monday afternoon for almost an hour? I push back from the chair; Shannon’s dialogue pauses, my eyes glancing down to see her looking up with a look of surprise. “Where’you going?”
‘Just a minute,” I mutter, throwing my bag over my shoulder and zig-zagging through the crowd. Then I pulled on the handle and stepped into the bar.
A woman should be dressed properly to go into battle. But I wasn’t expecting to confront Stewart’s Barbie Doll this morning. I was only hoping to see Paul. So I had worn an outfit Paul would recognize me in. I could envision the exact moment when he saw me. How his eyes would light up and he would toss an arm over my shoulder, a soft kiss snuck in and placed on my cheek. And, in that moment, everything would be perfect. He would understand that I still love him. That I will always love him—no matter what. And he will hug me and tell me that he loves me too. That he will allow me to be a part of his life once again.
So I wore a suit, my normal skin for work and my non-existent social life. Paul would recognize a suit. It would stand out on the boardwalk. Cause him to stare a little longer, long enough to see my face and know that it was me. But now, walking into the bar filled with flip flops and tan bodies, I wish that I had at least worn my good heels. Prada would help me have the confidence to approach this woman. Prada would hold my hand and whisper in my ear that I am cool enough, hip enough, to approach this woman who is probably ten years my junior.