Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (15 page)

He didn’t know exactly when he’d grabbed her and pulled her close, but he felt the silk of her skin beneath his fingers that roved up and down her supple back, gliding over every exposed inch of her arching spine, all the way down to the satin of her garment. The slick, smoothness of the fabric, the curve of her hip. He squeezed a handful of her pliable round bottom, and she moaned again.
 

He wanted to bury himself deep inside her. He’d kissed women before, but none had ever made him feel like this, like his head was spinning and floating simultaneously.

He pressed her against the wall, and she lifted her leg. Grabbing her behind the knee, he ground his pelvis against her soft mound.

She pushed him back, her eyes wild. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

He staggered backward, and she ran past him. He heard stomping up the stairs followed by a slamming door that reverberated through the house.

There was no fricking way she was a lesbian.
 

Had he pushed things too far? Apparently so. He placed his forearm against the wall and lowered his head to his fist, panting, desire pulsating down his hardened length. Bloody Hell. Had he ruined his chances with her?

Everything in his body said he’d not gone far enough. She’d given him the look. The “kiss me” look. Had she not wanted it?

Her moans replayed in his mind. The way she’d lifted her leg and invited him into that sacred space between her thighs. She’d wanted it.

He let out a shuddering breath, her scent lingering, tormenting him. He had the urge to climb those stairs and take her, long and hard, devouring every speck of her mouth-watering body, but she’d run away from him. That was a no. He listened to no.

He shuffled into the kitchen and got a beer. All he had been able to find on the island was far from what
he’d
call beer. It was more like piss in a bottle. He longed for an extra special bitter, maybe a good ole lager or cider. This pale yellow excuse for ale would have to do. He downed it in one long chug, trying to absorb the alcohol and ignore the taste, or lack there of. He tossed the empty bottle into the trash and retrieved another, then stalked out to the sea. A cold shower wouldn’t be enough tonight. He needed a mighty ocean to slap some sense into his head.

Peeling away clothes and staring at the moonlight playing peek-a-boo in the water, he ached for Sam. He plowed his way past the breakers. Frigid waves crashed around his thighs. The majestic beach house seemed to be looking down its pier like a disapproving father looking down his nose at a son who’d behaved inappropriately.
 

Sam’s bedroom light came on, but no silhouette appeared in her window. Moments later, the light went out.
 

He faced the darkness of the undulating Atlantic and dove beneath its inky surface, praying the healing waters of the sea would alleviate his longing.

Dizzy from the kiss, Sam sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. She’d done the very thing she told herself she wouldn’t. Why had she been so weak? Gazing into his eyes, feeling his look of desire washing over her, standing so close to him. She was a goner. Yes, damn it. She’d wanted Brock to kiss her. She’d wanted it bad. But she hadn’t expected to feel such overwhelming emotion from that one kiss. She was a grown woman and should know a kiss wasn’t a huge deal. But this felt like a huge deal. Humongous.
 

He was such a nice guy. She’d never been with a really nice guy before.

For him, that kiss might be nothing more than lust put into action. They’d only known each other for two days. What else could it mean for him? She’d told him she was gay, and like most men, he probably had fantasies about being with two women.
 

Lust was temporary. If she cooled things off and kept her distance, she could accept that he was a temporary presence in her life without being devastated. If she kissed him again, or slept with him, devastation was inevitable. She had the history to prove it.

Besides, he’d most likely assume her cowardly avoidance was due to an internal struggle she had concerning her relationship with Mazy or her sexuality in general. That’s how she’d play it anyway.
 

Her biggest challenge was going to be avoiding him while sleeping in a room directly across the hall from his. Odds were not in her favor.

SAM AND MAZY were breaking down the sound equipment at the Hungry Possum, a nearby restaurant just over the drawbridge, when Colleen, the makeup artist, approached them. “Hey, dollar drafts at Provisions tonight, fundraiser for the animal shelter. Come on out, if you feel like partying.”

Mazy said, “Sounds good to me. How about you, Sam?”

“I’d love to. After the week I’ve had, I could use a drink.”
 

Sam had being working studio gigs around her private lesson schedule and picking up freelancing jobs with a few other area bands in addition to playing with Bikini Quartet. A couple more weeks like this and she’d have enough money to move.
 

That night, she and Mazy had been hired to fill in for the bass and drummer with Inked Religion, an alternative rock band.

BROCK SET HIS alarm for one A.M.
 
So he’d be sure to be awake when Sam came home. She’d been avoiding him since their kiss. He was determined to confront her once and for all. Giving her space wasn’t working. Either she was really gay and wasn’t into him, or she was bi and conflicted because she was already in a relationship. Mazy seemed like a nice enough girl, but damn, if Sam and Mazy were really “together” wouldn’t they be spending the night with one another?

Adult relationships usually included sleep-overs on a regular basis. He wasn’t well versed in lesbian relationships, but he had all ideas the same held true. The thing that really seemed odd was the fact Sam and Mazy didn’t even kiss in front of him. He’d never seen them so much as hold hands. And Sam talked on the phone to Leah far more than she talked to Mazy.
 

The whole thing confused the hell out of him, and he was tired of it. He’d force himself to stay up ’til sunrise if he needed to, but he was going to leave Sam no choice but to face him. For now, he’d grab and drink and go work in the yard, plant the roses he’d purchased. He needed to do something physical or he’d turn to mush

He opened the fridge. A twelve pack of Red Dragon Bitter from the Beckonshire Brewery sat on the top shelf with a note attached. He’d never been so happy to see beer in his life.
 

The note read:

Brock,
 

I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I don’t want you to think I don’t like you. I do. Very much. You’re a fantastic guy. I’m just really mixed up right now.

You mentioned you hate American beer, so I did some searching on Crystal Cove and found a place that specializes in imports. I hope this beer is the kind you like. The guy who sold it to me said it’d bring a smile to your face. I hope he was right. I wish I could do more to show you how grateful I am that you’re letting me stay here.
 

You’ve been so nice. I’m not used to men being so nice. That’s no excuse for the way I’ve pulled away, but consider this beer a peace offering. If you like it, I’ll keep it stocked in the fridge for you.
 

Sincerely,

Sam

He couldn’t stop smiling. Red Dragon was one of his favorites. It wasn’t cheap either. That’s Sam, full of surprises. And this time, he was thrilled. He opened a beer and savored it with his eyes closed.
 

MAZY SLID HER cymbals in the back of her purple hearse. “That’s the last of it. Let’s go back to my place and lock our stuff up in the garage then take my motorcycle to Provisions.”

Sam liked the idea of securing the equipment. “Sounds good to me. I don’t really want to pull up to the bar in a hearse anyway.”

“Watch your mouth. This is the coolest ride ever. Who else has a pimped out hearse with tie-dyed seat covers? Come on. It’s rockin’.” Mazy patted the hood of her hearse like she was patting the head of a good ole dog.

“It’s weird. I know you like weird, but let’s face it—a pimped out hearse with morbid bumper stickers is kind of twisted.” Sam laughed. “But it suits you.”

“Thanks. I think.” Mazy slid into the driver’s seat. “Hop in.”

When they got back to Crazy Mazy’s rusty mobile home, the one she shared with her brother, Earl the Squirrel, they pulled the hearse into an enormous detached garage that was bigger than the trailer.
 

“Hot damn. Earl left me the Harley.”

A big, red motorcycle was parked in the garage. The chrome sparkled. Two helmets were on a nearby shelf.
 

Mazy hung the helmets on the bike’s handlebar and pushed the bike out of the garage, locked the garage door, and straddled the massive machine as she put on a helmet. Sam climbed on the back, placing her legs on either side of Mazy’s thighs. Mazy passed Sam the other helmet. She strapped it on.

They rode down Lunar Avenue with Sam’s arms around Mazy’s waist. The sun sat low on the waterway, casting an orange glow, making the water appear to be on fire.
 

They neared Sam’s house. Brock stood in the front yard, planting roses along the property line. He was bare-chested and sweating. His skin glistened, and his five o’clock shadow made him all the more desirable. He looked up at the motorcycle headed toward him and picked up a bottle of the beer she’d bought for him. He lifted it into the air and smiled, as if to say thank you. She was glad he was drinking it and seemed to appreciate it. But something about the shadow under his eyes made her think he was sad in spite of her gift.
 

Her cowardly behavior of avoidance was unfair to him. She needed to talk to him about that kiss. A case of beer from his homeland couldn’t take the place of an explanation for why she’d pushed him away. He deserved an explanation, but she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth—“I shoved you away because I really like you, in fact, I think I’m falling for you.” That would freak him out for sure.
 

She waved back to him and swallowed down the lump in her throat. Just the sight of him turned her into a jellyfish.
 

The vibrations from the motorcycle hummed through her body. She tried to convince herself the flutter in her belly was a result of that buzz, but she knew better—it was Brock, all Brock, and not just because he was hot enough to be a bare-chested model on the cover of a romance novel, but because he was a real gentleman, a caring, perceptive, genuinely kind and considerate man, the type of man she’d always dreamed about, but never believed existed in the real world.

Mazy drove them across the drawbridge connecting Pleasure Island to Crystal Cove.
 

When they pulled into the gravel parking lot of Provisions, the sky had faded to a hazy gray, but it was still fairly light outside.
 

In front of the bar entrance, Myrtle sat atop an ostrich and was being interviewed by a local radio station. She wore a big straw hat, a pair of overalls, and a lime green t-shirt. She looked tiny on top of that giant bird. Carl had the ostrich on a leash and was feeding the bird something from his hand. He was dressed identical to Myrtle. They couldn’t have been a more adorable couple if they’d tried. Sam smiled then reminded herself she was mad at Myrtle and wiped the smile off her face.

The guy holding the microphone placed it in front of Myrtle, and she said, “Y’all come on out. There’s three hours left to help us raise money for the animal shelter. Have a drink and support a good cause. Yee Haw.”

PROVISIONS WAS CROWDED. Sam and Mazy went straight for the bar and took a seat near the pinball machines. They ordered a couple of beers.
 

Mazy turned to Sam and said, “Brock was looking mighty fine working in the yard. If I were you, I’d get me a piece of that.”

“He’s not the kind of guy you just get a piece of, Mazy.”

“What kind of guy is he?”

“The kind you fall for and end up crying in your beer a month later when he moves on, in search of his version of Princess Diana.” A woman actually worthy of him, unlike her, a jazz musician who’d aced the dream section of the life test but flunked the reality section.

“You don’t know that. Falling for someone might be exactly what you need.”

“I can't fall for him, Mazy."

“Why not?”

Sam took a huge swig of beer. “For starters, I told him I was gay."

"You what?"

"I told him I was gay."
 

Mazy’s lips curled into a pixie grin. "That explains a few things."

"Yeah. I know. I should have told you about it earlier, especially since he thinks
you're
my girlfriend."

Mazy slammed down her mug. “What? Why me?" Her eyes gleamed like unsheathed swords.

"You're a grease monkey, and when you stopped by the other day in your coveralls with a wrench in your pocket you looked the part."

"Stereotype much, Sam?"

"Sorry. Listen, I don't expect you to kiss me in front of him or anything."

"Good to know. For the record, I’m not kissing you behind his back either." Mazy chugged her beer then whacked the empty mug on the bar. "The next round is on you, Lover."

Sam dug in her pocket, where her tip money was stashed. "I figured as much."

In walked Myrtle and Carl. "Hello, ladies." Carl was always so polite.

Myrtle rubbed her miniature-raccoon-hands together. “You girls kicking up your heels tonight?" She winked as if she thought Mazy and Sam were on a date.
 

How’d she know Sam had said she was gay? Wait. We’re talking about Myrtle here. She has super powers. All Brock had to do was ask anyone on the island about Sam’s relationship with Mazy, and Myrtle would hear about it.

Mazy wrapped her arm around Sam and gave Myrtle a sickly-fake-ass smile. "We're on a date."

Sam shoved her away. "Stop."

"What's wrong, baby?" Mazy crooned.