Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (16 page)

"I see what you're doing, and it's wrong."

"But it's okay for you to tell hot men I'm taken?"

"I didn't know you were interested in Brock."

Mazy glowered. "Would it matter to you if I were?”

Sam scooted another brew toward Mazy and said nothing. They both took a big swallow of their watered down, cheap drafts. A mustache of foam coated Mazy’s upper lip.
 

Myrtle removed her hat and pulled herself onto the barstool beside Sam. “Seems you gave our newcomer the impression you muff-dive.”
 

Sam spewed her beer.

Myrtle removed her hat. “You know. A man can tell if a woman is interested in him or not.” Myrtle winked at Carl, and he made a kissy face at her.

Sam wiped her mouth and caught her breath then faced her nemesis. “Myrtle, why’d you start that voting thing? You took things too far.”

“Oh honey, I meant no harm. I just thought it’d be fun. You and Brock make such a handsome couple. Don’t you want to find someone, even if it’s short-term?” Myrtle’s flattened, blue, frizzy hair hid her brows, but her wide-eyed Bambi expression said it all, she’d definitely put her money on Sam and Brock getting together.

Sam motioned the bartender over and ordered another round. “Don’t think you’re going to use that psychology on me and get me to hook up with that man.”
 

“I’m not using psychology on you, honey. When you get my age, you’ll understand. You don’t want to pass up a chance to be with a man like Brock. Do you want to sit in your rocker when you’re an old lady and talk about the man who once made you drool just from looking at him, or do you want to talk about the man who gave you the best orgasm of your life? Personally, I think an orgasm is better than drool.”

“Myrtle! My sex life isn’t any of your business.”

“What sex life, honey? Make believe lesbian sex doesn’t count.” Myrtle shimmied off her barstool and followed Carl onto the dance floor.

Mazy whispered, “After the news you gave me, I feel like getting ripped. Can you drive us home?”

“Hell no. I can’t drive a freaking motorcycle. We’ll split a cab. I’m in the mood to get ripped too.” Sam turned her mug up to her mouth and let the liquid elixir pour down her throat.

A couple hours later, after she and Mazy had drank and danced and danced and drank, Sam felt around in her pocket for her phone. Damn. It wasn’t there. Where did she leave it? “Mazy, you seen my phone?”

“I think you left it on the end of the bar.”

Sam held onto the edge of the pool table to steady herself and looked to where they had been sitting earlier. The floor beneath her rocked as if they were on a ship at sea.

Myrtle came up and said, “What are you looking for, honey?”

“My phone. I’m calling a cab for me and Mazy.” Sam’s mouth didn’t want to cooperate, and her teeth were soft.

“Don’t be silly. Carl can drive you girls home. He hasn’t had a thing to drink other than Sun Drop. Let Sadie the bartender know you can’t find your phone. She’ll keep a lookout for it.”

Sam was woozy, and the visage of the gnome she called Myrtle wavered, as if the poor, blue-haired creature was trapped inside a crystal ball, a vision from an alternate universe. Sam’s eyelids seemed to be caked with glue. She scanned the dark, crowded bar, until she spotted Mazy, staggering toward her. Sam licked her dry lips with a fat, semi-numb tongue and slurred, “All right. Sounds good to me.”
Oops
. A little spit trickled down her chin. She pulled her shirt up to wipe it off.

Myrtle shoved Sam’s hand back down. “You probably don’t want to flash the hound dogs sniffing about your hindquarters, honey. Here. Use this napkin.”

THERE WASN’T ENOUGH room for all four of them in the front seat of Carl’s truck. Sam volunteered to ride in the back with the ostrich.

She climbed into the livestock trailer and onto a bed of straw as Carl locked the tailgate. The ostrich turned its back to her, raised its tail feathers, and expelled gloopy, white poop.
 

Sam covered her nose. ”Gross. God. What do they feed you?"
 

The ostrich faced her with one of its eyes half closed. "Cluck."

"Proud of yourself, aren't you?"

Wings rustled, and the ostrich nodded then lowered its long neck so its face was eye level with Sam's. Its big, black, shiny eyeballs took her in. Sam struggled to focus on her reflection in the marble-like, bulging globes. She resembled a watermelon on toothpicks. How bizarre.
 

The truck pulled out of the parking lot, and she stumbled backward. When she put her hand down to brace her fall, something slimy squished between her fingers. She’d palmed that fresh pile of bird crap. “Gross.” She searched for something to wipe her hand on, but there was nothing.
 

The ostrich inched closer. She petted it, wiping her hand on the bird's feathers. "Good bird. That's a good birdie. Stay right there, Robirrrda. May I call you, Robirrrda? It’s a good birdie name. Wait. Are you a boy?” Sam searched for genitals, but saw nothing but feathers. “Nope. You have no balls. Don’t feel bad, neither do I.”

The bird craned its neck downward and sniffed at Sam's petting hand then pecked at it.

"Ouch.” Sam drew her hand back quickly. "Sorry. I didn't know where else to wipe it. Jeez. It was yours anyway."

The ostrich stamped about and scratched at the straw.

"I'm sorry." Moving to the far corner of the trailer, Sam glared at the bird. "I know what it's like to be cooped up with someone against your will and being unable to leave."

The ostrich let out a little cluck and sat in the straw, then gazed at Sam, seemingly giving her its undivided attention.

"It sucks. I know it does. Especially when you feel you can't move around as you please."

For the remainder of the ride home, Sam poured her heart out to the attentive bird. Wiping her running nose on her sleeve, she whispered, "Thanks for listening." Sam wrapped an arm around the bird’s long neck and mumbled, "I love you..."
 

They were good friends now. They shared that bond that only beer could provide. Well, at least from Sam's perspective. The ostrich may have viewed things differently, but Sam chose to ignore that fact.

BROCK WAS WATCHING television when he heard a knock at the door. Peering out the window, he saw an older gentleman he’d met at the restaurant.
What’s his name? Carl. Carl, that’s it.
Brock opened the door. "Hello, Carl. May I help you?"

"I sure hope so. I got three drunk women in my truck and two of’em requested to be dropped off here."

"Drunk women?"

"Yep. Sam and Mazy."

Brock stepped out onto the porch and saw Sam hugging an ostrich in the trailer towed by the truck. Mazy was in the front seat, leaning on Myrtle, the charming older woman from the bridge.
 

"You certainly have your hands full." Brock went down stairs, and the farmer opened the gate to the trailer. The ostrich squawked, and Sam lifted her head slowly and squinted out of one eye at Brock.
 

Wagging a smelly finger with some sort of chalky substance on it toward him, she said, "You...I...wish you weren't hot." Then her head slumped back down.

He climbed into the trailer and pulled her out. She stunk and it wasn't just the alcohol. He was scared to toss her over his shoulder for fear she'd get sick so he cradled her in his arms and went up the stairs. Halfway up, she looked at him and smiled. "Am I dreaming?"

He forced himself to keep a straight face. "Yes."

"Good dream." She nestled her head against him.

His lips brushed her forehead, by accident. He’d secretly wanted to kiss her forehead, but he didn’t. No. It was just a brush of lips on skin, due to proximity. That’s all. It was not a kiss. He took her to the bathroom and washed her hands then carried her to the living room and placed her on the couch. He spread a blanket over her and said, “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned to the truck, Mazy and Carl were missing. Myrtle pointed toward the ocean. "She wanted to go skinny dipping."

“Blow me.”
 

Myrtle snickered. “Carl would get jealous, but thanks for the offer.”

“What?” Brock shook his head unable to understand what this woman was on about. He turned and saw a redhead with a white bum in some very skimpy black panties run around the corner of the house. Carl gaped breathlessly, shaking his head with Mazy’s shirt in his hand.

Brock approached the older gentleman. “Couldn't talk her out of it?"

"Crazy kids.” Carl panted. “I wouldn’t...mind...if she...” He paused to take a few big breaths. ”Wasn't so damn drunk.” He gulped and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Swimming in the ocean... at night after drinking... is a recipe for disaster."

"I got it." Brock kicked off his shoes and ran after Mazy. She was a few feet from the breakers and yelling up at the house. "Sam. Sam. Get your sorry ass out here.”

Sam came to the porch railing and waved. "Be right there.”

Christ. One drunk at a time, thank you.

Carl came around the corner as Mazy splashed through the water and fell. "Mazy, you ain't got no business in that water right now. Get yourself out of there, or I'll call your brother Earl."

Mazy glared at him. Her pink body shivered in the moonlight. In different circumstances Brock may have found the sight of an attractive young woman in nothing but her bra and panties to be arousing, but right now it pissed him off. He didn't sign up for this.
 

While he was wading through the water toward Mazy, Sam ran up behind him. Long blonde hair. Bra and panties. Sheer white lace. Rebel stood at attention. She dove into the breakers and soon came up sputtering, flailing about. She acted like she couldn't get up.
 

Carl helped Mazy out of the water while Brock rushed to Sam’s aid. She was tangled in seaweed.

After freeing her from the seaweed, she flung her arms around him and cried.

Reflexes took over, and he pulled her trembling wet body to him. “Hey, hey. It's okay. I got you."

Carl escorted Mazy up the stairs and into the house. Brock picked Sam up and carried her back inside.
 

Mazy was curled up in a big chair with a blanket when Brock lowered Sam onto the couch.

Carl looked at the two women and smiled. “Lovely sight, these two beauties.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and gave Brock a satisfied nod. “Welp, I should get Myrtle home. You got it from here?"

Mazy started snoring.

"Yeah, I got it." He walked Carl back to the door and said goodnight. When he returned to the living room, Sam was gone.
 

Sam wasn’t in her room. She wasn't in the bathroom. Where the hell was she?
 

He went upstairs. A grating sound came from the master bedroom. Brock was rendered paralyzed when he peeked inside the room.
 

Sam stood naked in front of the opened sliding glass door that led to the balcony. Sheer white curtains billowed behind her. Her long blonde tresses resembled macrame. A sodden bra and panties formed a mound of wadded lace on the floor in front of the dresser.
 

The reflection in the mirror above the dresser revealed a view of her backside. She had the most enticing tan lines that made him want to run his tongue along the boundaries where honey skin and sugar flesh collided. He envisioned her writhing beneath him, crying out his name, wanton and begging.
 

He closed his eyes and desperately attempted to fight the urge to toss her onto the bed and ravenously feast upon her delectable buffet of womanly morsels, starting at her feet and working his way up those long toned legs, and further up to the treasure cradled between her thighs.
 

She bent forward and stomped about as she tugged the handle of a hairbrush embedded in her hair. The brush didn’t budge.

He stepped into the room. “Sam." He called to her in a quiet voice as not to startle her.

Remaining bent at the waist, she whirled toward him and nearly tripped on the ends of her hair. "I need scissors so I can cut this hairbrush out.”

She'd lost her mind. There was no way he was letting her cut her hair right now. "Here."

He led her to the edge of the bed and sat her down. Then he carefully untangled the brush from her tortured locks.

Gathering her wet and knotted golden strands, he smoothed her hair into a ponytail. Gently, he began working the brush through the ends, making sure to hold her ponytail firmly in his fist to keep from pulling her hair too hard and hurting her. Little by little, he loosened the knots until he reached her scalp. She sat up straight and lifted her chin. He flipped her mane away from her face, shuddering at the sensual slapping sound it made as it hit her back like the gentle spank from the leather tassel of a cat o’nine tails. As lightly as he could, he used the pads of his fingers to push her hair out of her eyes. Her lashes fluttered and tickled his skin.
 

She sighed again and lolled her head to the side until her silky cheek rested against his palm. With long, slow strokes, he brushed her hair from scalp to ends. Her delicate skin shimmered in the magnolia moonlight streaming from the window and sliding door.
 

Her bounty of supple curves tempted his fingertips, especially those puffy, pink nipples he longed to suckle. She turned and stretched her lean body face down across the mattress. Her tresses cascaded over her back. She murmured, "Don't stop."
 

Seated on the edge of the bed, he pulled the brush through her hair, letting the bristles gently rake over her scalp, neck, and shoulders. As his overlapping strokes neared her ribcage, she moaned and arched, lifting her hips, pushing her bare bottom toward his face.
 

He wanted to sink his teeth into that plump pillow of sensuality rising to meet his hungry mouth, but he forced himself to pull the sheet over that nude piece of heaven before he took things too far. Seeing her like this—vulnerable and spread naked before him—was lightyears beyond any fantasy he'd had of her, or any woman.