Game of Love (17 page)

“Tight!” Andre yelled down. “Talk to me. You okay?”

“Frightened out of my fuckin’ mind. I want to go back down.”

He moved in close and touched the small of her back. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’m freaking out.”

“If you want to go down, we’ll go down, but before we go, look toward the ocean. Take it in. It’ll be yours to keep forever.”

Gemma’s face was plastered against the rock, her hair clung to her sweaty face, her helmet askew. He brushed her hair out of her face.

Summoning courage, she turned toward the ocean. Her breathing labored, but one look, and she discovered an overwhelming surplus of untapped oxygen. The ocean was an infinite pool of melted silver. For the first time, she appreciated the insignificance of man in the hands of nature. She was on the cover of every magazine, but she was nothing compared to what she was witnessing. The wind picked up, pulling her body away from the rock. She tightened her grip, allowing the breeze to swirl around her, dissipating her sweat and anxiety.

She faced Andre. “Let’s keep climbing.”

He smiled his lovely, encouraging smile. “Climbing!” he yelled down.

His instructions came as if from a conductor leading instruments into a crescendo, but she was getting the feel of it now. They were in perfect harmony with each other, and within moments, reached the summit and burst out laughing.

The gang below cheered, though Gemma could barely hear them over the sound of surf and wind.

“I can’t believe it. I actually climbed this monster!” She threw her arms up in victory. “Not in my wildest dreams. This is awesome!” Unadulterated joy took over mind and body.

She turned to Andre and without thought or consideration, pulled his face to hers.

Their lips melted in the midmorning sun. Their bodies clung against each other as Gemma’s body hummed. For a moment, they were alone in the world, their lips unwilling to part. Then her eyes popped open and she pulled away slowly until their lips separated. “I’m… I didn’t mean to…” She took a step back, but he held her hand.

His eyes were alert. “If we climb again, will I get another?”

His smile melted her. She wanted nothing more than to give him another. And another.

Gemma sat on the sand, thinking of that kiss. As wonderful as it had been, she had made a grave mistake. What part of kissing him on a public beach had sounded like a good idea? Thankfully, no one had been up there, and it was still early. At least that’s what she hoped.

A week ago she was in Paris playing for her life. Now, she was in Los Angeles, living for once. Life took such quick and drastic turns sometimes.

Under the canopy, Andre talked to Linda, who nodded and went to a large beach bag. From there she pulled out a blue jacket, then jogged over to Gemma.

“In case you’re cold,” Linda said, the smile on her face making it clear there was more to the offering.

“But I’m not cold.”

Linda leaned down. “He’s worried someone will notice you or your tattoo, then ruin your day. He’s being a protective ape-man.”

Gemma grinned. “I’ve always had a thing for primates.”

Linda, looking content, practically skipped away. Gemma slid on the hoodie then glanced at Andre as he jogged over.

“You look good in blue,” Andre said.

“Is that your new pickup line?”

“Yes. I hope it worked. Let’s take a walk.”

She scanned the coast, then rose. 8:30 a.m. was too early for most. Only surfers graced the beaches. She considered holding his hand, but thought better of it. One snap of the camera and that picture would go viral.

“Remember, we’re in public,” she said.

“Right. Public. Got it.”

Andre moved increasingly closer. She eyed him. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Good,” she said, then trained her eyes on the distance.

He bumped her elbow with his.

“What was that?”

“I tripped.”

They walked a few more steps. He shouldered her, knocking her off her path.

She spun to him. “Seriously? You’ll regret this when we’re alone.”

He took a step closer. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

Uncontrollably, she grinned.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching the ocean. “I love watching surfers,” he said.

She studied them, noting the few who tried to catch every wave, invariably failing more often than not.

Andre planted himself on the sand. “Look at that one.” He pointed to one surfer who floated, waiting. “He gets it. He understands.”

She sat next to him, watching the same surfer. “I think he’s lounging.”

“He’s patient, waiting for the right one. Not like the others, who’ll try everything that comes their way. But not that guy. He’s not a wave slut.”

“A what?”

He grinned then scooted closer, his legs nearly touching hers. “A wave slut. Not any wave will do. But look at him now. He waited for the right one.”

She watched as the surfer paddled effortlessly. In one swift move, he was up on his board.

“He’s commanding the board, not the wave, following the wave’s lead. He’s in the moment. Some try to force the wave to be something it’s not. The real surfer knows the wave will do whatever the hell the wave wants to do.”

“I like that,” she said.

“When I was a kid, my grandfather took me to a bullfight in Spain. Before you get offended, it’s a cultural thing.”

“I’m not offended.” How could she be? Spain was her paternal land.

“My grandfather explained the graceful dance of the matador. The successful matador has tremendous presence on the field, but must exert the least amount of effort. He stands, gracefully awaiting the charging bull. He keeps himself planted like a statue until the last instance, where with the slightest movement on his part, nearly imperceptible, the bull runs past him. They are close enough to smell each other, but far enough that the bull never touches the matador. It requires the greatest amount of concentration, focus, and presence. You have to be comfortable with yourself, and know yourself so well that a charging bull, ten times your weight, won’t even get spit on your shoes. That’s the graceful dance of the matador.”

“I suppose a good surfer knows how to dance with the wave. While the others are trying to wrestle the bull.”

“Exactly. They’re fighting the wave, not riding it.”

A few moments passed. She shifted toward him, eliminating the space between them. His warm legs leaned against hers.

“By the way,” she said, “just wanted to take back an earlier apology.”

Andre faced her. “You can’t take back apologies.”

“I understand the outrage, but if you really aren’t sorry, you can’t just pretend like you are, can you?”

He seemed to consider the explanation, then peered up at her. “Which apology are you taking back? Not the scorching business I hope.”

“Oh no, I do feel sorry about that bit. It was when I kissed you at the top of the rock.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “That one.”

“The thing is, I’m actually quite proud of that one.”

He leaned into her ear. “I think that’s some of your best work.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling heat across her entire body.

“I am hoping for an encore performance, though.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “The day is fairly young. So if you behave yourself–”

“I don’t think you really want me to behave, do you?”

She pulled back, studying his eyes. “No, I really don’t.”

By mid-morning, crowds had filled the beach. Gemma huddled with the ladies under the canopy. Andre talked to Dina and the guys. Just like Linda had a while back, Chris and Dan nodded, then ran off to a truck parked in the lot. A minute later they ran back with some material in hand and started making modifications to the canopy.

Dina dropped on the towel next to Gemma.

“What are they doing?” Gemma asked.

“Creating privacy, to keep the gawkers at bay.”

In her other world, she had to pay people large sums of money to think ahead. With this group, they thought ahead for her. Andre was doing everything he could to protect her.

Sandwiches, salads, and drinks occupied the center of their world. Gemma watched this group in wonder. They were completely free and always in action. There was no waiting for something to happen, they just made it happen. In this circle, she felt as unchained as the rest.

“Who plays the guitar?” Gemma asked, pointing to the guitar case.

“You’ll have to be loose with your definition of
play
,” Dina said.

“Thank you, honey. That’s my wife,” Dan said, reaching for his shoulder blade. “Excuse me while I remove the knife from my back.”

“Can you play for us?” Gemma asked.

“I want to state for the record the lady asked me to play.”

Dan grabbed his guitar then tuned it for a few seconds. She now understood why he was partial to southpaws–he was one himself. “Okay. What do you guys want to hear?”

“
Hotel California
.”

“Something by Chris Isaak.”

“Anything by the Beatles.”

“Something from this century, for cryin’ out loud.”

“If he plays Justin Bieber again, I swear I’ll leave.”

“Can you play
Black Bird
by my countrymen?” Gemma asked. “Do you know that one?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dan strummed a chord for emphasis. “One of my all-time favorites. By the way, when someone requests a song, they have to sing backing vocals. Come over here.” He tapped the blanket next to him.

“But there are no backing vocals to that song.”

“Details. Details. Come over here m’lady. You can’t hide in this group.”

Gemma scooted over, and when the team cheered, she nearly giggled.

Dan’s fingers maneuvered the fret board with ease and precision while his voice mimicked Paul McCartney’s. Behind the shelter of her sunglasses, Gemma closed her eyes. Memories of the past, the pain, and the threat of tears returned. She sang along, her voice swimming in the canopy. On the last verse, she opened her eyes and eyed Andre. He was in an unblinking daze.

When the song ended, there was a momentary silence. Then they all erupted, leaping toward her and high-fiving.

“That was perfect,” Dan said to her.

Gemma leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He blushed. “That happens to me all the time,” he said.

Immediately the gang jeered and threw carrots at him.

Gemma was beside herself. She could not believe what she had just done. The adrenaline rush was fantastic, but… what had she been thinking? If anyone had recorded her, it would be all over the telly, day and night. People analyzing her voice, making fun of her.

But when she studied each of them, it was clear they had moved on. What she had done was merely a contribution to the day. She wasn’t the main attraction. The group, the circle, the memories were the main story, not Gemma. She allowed herself to relax as more songs came from Dan’s guitar. A sense of melancholy had joined the tent, though. Maybe it was the selection of songs. She doubted it.

She leaned over to Andre. “This isn’t just a regular day at the beach, is it?”

He shook his head. “We’re here to remember a friend who passed away just over a year ago. He was Linda’s fiancé.”

Gemma’s face froze, and a combination of grief and shame overwhelmed her. She did not belong here. She needed to say something to Linda, to apologize. Instead Andre spoke.

“Dan, play
Empty Space.
”

Silence draped the canopy. Andre held Gemma’s hand. They focused on Dan, who, after a moment’s hesitation, played an airy guitar intro, transporting her somewhere in the heavens. Then he sang:

Can we walk away, pretending not to see the empty space?

We don’t give reasons why, the gleaming tears flow gently from our eyes.

Miss you so, dear friend
–
fly, to your cloud, dear friend.

Lamenting what’s too late, we never talk about the tears we cried.

It comes to us all, we’re bound by the time that keeps us here for a while.

And I miss you so, dear friend
–
fly, to your cloud, dear friend.