Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (32 page)

Her shuddering breath tickled over the back of his hand, and she closed her eyes. Tiny leaps inside her danced over his shaft as she came for him, his beauty, his woman. His for the moment, a moment he’d cherish for eternity. He echoed her release with his own, exploding, buried to the hilt in her warmth, wishing he could bury his heart inside her as well.
 

Without breaking their intimate connection, she rose. “Brock….” She reached out for him. He pulled her close, lifting her from the hammock. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He never wanted to let her go. Ever.
 

He carried her inside, upstairs, and to their bed. She lowered her head to his shoulder, and her tears streamed down his chest, but she remained quiet, her body trembling in his arms.

Tears formed in his own eyes, but he didn’t want her to know. He eased her down onto the bed and immediately slipped in behind her, pulling her back to his chest.

He wished he had the perfect thing to say, but the words crowding his throat were, “Don’t go. I love you.” Those were selfish words. He couldn’t use his love for her as a tool to entice her to give up her dream.
 

SAM STARED AT the digital clock on the nightstand. 5:15 a.m. She hadn’t slept more than fifteen minutes all night.
 

She’d be boarding the bus at 8:00 a.m. The thought of saying goodbye to Brock was tearing her apart.
 

He stirred, and nuzzled his face into her neck. “Try to sleep, darling.”

She swallowed down her fear and blurted, “I love you, Brock. I love you so much.”

Silence filled the room. He didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.

She turned over and faced him.
 

His jaw tensed as he turned his face away and said, “I’ll miss you more than you know.”
 

He stood, his back to her. “I can’t say goodbye to you. I can’t. Please call one of your friends to take you to the bus. I can’t do it. Forgive me, love.”
 

With his jeans in his hands, he walked out of the room and left her there, alone in bed, naked, with her “I love you” unreturned.
 

The tour bus, reminiscent of a metal whale with wheels, sat on the asphalt with its side-mouth opened wide. Diesel fumes clung to the dense fog. The cloying scent prickled Sam’s nose. Glued to the tie-dyed seat covers in Mazy’s hearse, she struggled to breathe.

The spunky redhead yanked the passenger door open with a creaking pop. “Come on, Sam. You gonna help me get this stuff out of the back or not?”

Besides the bus driver, she and Mazy were the only people in the gravel parking lot of Provisions.
 

Sam ran a finger across the sharp, folded edge of the contract in her pocket and swallowed a painful lump in her throat. “Let me go check everything out on the bus. We can get the guys to help us unload in a little bit. Chill out.”

Mazy stuffed her hands in her pockets and backed up. “You okay?”

Sam couldn’t lie. Mazy knew her too well. “I’m just nervous. That bus is looking more and more like the chamber of death every second.”

Mazy glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. “When you put it like that, it even creeps me out. Hope you took your meds this morning.”

“Nope. Tox promised I’d get a window seat. As long as I can crack a window and catch some air, I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m going to pop pills every day for months. I need to be able to do this
without
the help of Xanax.”

“I get that, but day one is stressful. It might help to settle your nerves. Take half a pill, at least.” The worry in Mazy’s voice touched Sam. Here was this rough and tough, grease-monkey being all maternal about Sam who was eight years her senior. Mazy wasn’t the mushy kind, but she had a tender side to her. When that tender underbelly exposed itself, the girl could melt an iceberg-heart.

Mazy walked over to the bus driver, a burly man standing off to the side smoking a cigarette.

Sam climbed into the bus. Gray upholstered seats lined the aisle. Matching gray-tweed curtains hid the bunks. She worked her way to the sleeping area and pulled back the heavy drape with her name pinned to it. A single mattress covered in white linen, two down pillows, a wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed, and a reading lamp mounted to the wall by the window—that’s all there was. At least she had the bottom bunk and wouldn’t have to crawl up and down the ladder to go to the potty—a mere five feet away from where she’d lay her head each night.
Gross
.
 

She meandered back down the aisle, past the ridiculously small kitchenette, and sat in one of the reclining seats. It was comfortable, had plenty of leg room, and a fold out tray attached to the back of the seat in front of her. She slid the tinted window open and looked out at Mazy’s hearse. The view from the bus window would never compare to the view from the beach house.

Was this what she wanted? Was this really
her
dream? What was it about going on tour that appealed to her? A chance to make her father’s dream a reality? A chance to do the very thing he’d wanted to do, thinking it would make him proud to see her achieve that level of success in the very field he pursued? This was her father’s dream. This wasn’t her dream at all.

Being cooped up with a bunch of guys for months did
not
appeal to her. Being on the road so long the idea of home was a distant memory did
not
sound fun. Playing the same music every night—rock music, no jazz whatsoever—that wasn’t her idea of fun either.
 

Money. So what. She’d never fantasized about being wealthy. She fantasized about having a family, a home, being surrounded by people she loved who loved her in return.
 

She didn’t give a flip about fame. She was already famous in her own little world. If famous meant—known, respected, adored. She had fans. Myrtle, Louise, Carl, and the whole gang from Reel to Real Good, those were her fans. True-blue, die-hard fans. What more could a girl ask for?

She was abandoning her dream of home and a sense of community and family. Instead she was chasing her father’s dream. For what? Was that what her father would have wanted for her? It certainly wasn’t what her mother would have wanted. Her mother always told her to find what made her happy and throw her heart into it. Her mother hadn’t cared if Sam played bass or became a hop-scotch champion. As long as Sam was happy, her mom rejoiced. And wasn’t that how it should be?
 

A minivan Sam didn’t recognize pulled into the parking lot. Brandon got out on the driver’s side. He walked toward the bus. He was moving pretty darn well, barely limping. His injuries weren’t even visible from where she sat.

She climbed out of the bus and walked over to him. He gave her a weak smile. His wiry frame hunched with his hands tugging a red, lightweight jacket down across his bony shoulders. Dishwater blonde hair fell to his chin, long bangs were swept to the side in a layered, emo-hairdo. He was pushing thirty but looked like he could still be in high school.

She said, “Haven’t seen you in a while. How you feeling?”

“Just finished with the physical therapist a few days ago. Doctor took me off pain medicine. Looks like I might pull through this after all.” His shy gray eyes scanned the bus then cut to the deserted road.

“That’s good to hear. You been playing your bass?”

He looked at her, hurt in his eyes. “Yeah, but you know.” He shrugged.

“Brandon, between you and me, tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“If I decided to
not
go on tour, could you step in? Could you do this thing?”

“Listen, don’t feel bad about the tour. I get it. You don’t need to relieve your conscience about that, Sam.”

“I’m not. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not that if you say no you couldn’t do it, I’d feel better about going instead of you. It’s that I don’t want to go, and I’d feel better about bailing out at the last minute if I knew I wasn’t leaving the guys hanging.”

“You don’t want to go?”

She laughed. “I sat on that bus just now and it dawned on me—I don’t want to be cooped up on a bus with these guys for months. I don’t. I’m not a rocker. I’d rather be playing jazz with my girlfriends and hanging out at the beach.”

“Seriously? You don’t even want this?” A smile brightened his previously glum face.

“Seriously. I don’t want this. And I haven’t signed the contract.”

“I thought Tox turned those in last week.”

“Not mine.”

“Okay, so you’re saying...you’re not going. This is definite?”

“Can you go, Brandon? Are you able to play? Shoot straight with me here.”

“Hell yeah. There’s no reason why I can’t play or go on tour. Do you think the guys in the band would go for it?”

Tox pulled up in his jeep and Sam said, “We’re about to find out.”

SAM’S STOMACH WAS like a jar of fireflies—bright zings flitting inside at the thought of rushing into Brock’s arms. But would he be happy to see her? She prayed her instincts were right—that he did love her, even though he didn’t say it. He’d demonstrated it in so many ways. It couldn’t be all in her head.

Mazy helped load her luggage into the elevator and said, “You got it from here?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks so much, Mazy. I’ll call you later.”

“Girl, you’re going to be too busy with Brock to even think about me. Who are you kidding?”

Sounded about right. Sam couldn’t help but smile.
 

“I’ll see ya later, Sam. I still think you’re crazy for giving up that tour, but I ain’t gonna lie—I’m glad you stayed. I’m real glad.” The unspoken emotion pouring from Mazy washed over Sam as they hugged.

Mazy drove away. Sam hit the up button on the elevator. She rehearsed what she’d say to Brock. “Hi, handsome. I changed my mind about the tour. Can I stay here with you a little longer?” No that wasn’t quite right. “I couldn’t bear to leave you. I backed out of the tour. Do you still want me?” Hell no. That wasn’t right at all. “Hi, honey. I’m home.” Ha. She wished. “Before you say anything, I changed my mind about the tour. It isn’t what I want, whether you and I make a go of it or not. Being on that bus with those guys and leaving the place I’ve come to call home and all the people I care about felt wrong. Way wrong. I decided to stay where I belong.” Maybe that would work. It was the truth.
 

The lemony scent of the cleaner Brock preferred filled the air as she stepped into the spotless kitchen. He’d been hard at work this morning. The empty fruit bowl struck her as odd. When she’d left, there had been a fresh bunch of bananas and four oranges in that bowl. The flowers Brock had given her on her Birthday were missing from the dining table.
 

An uneasiness stirred.
 

She looked out onto the deck. All the furniture, plants, and the hammocks were gone.
 

Why’d he move the furniture off the deck?
 

“Brock?” No answer. “Brock.” She ran upstairs. His room was empty. The upstairs balcony was also devoid of furniture. The doors and windows were closed and locked.
 

She ran all the way back down to the carport. She walked past the elevator and opened the door to the guest quarters. So that’s where he’d stored the patio furniture. Was he leaving the island? His Hummer sat in the carport. He couldn’t have gone far.
 

She went back inside to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Not even a bottle of ketchup? She staggered to the bar. A manila envelope and Brock’s keys to the Hummer were on the granite countertop. The envelope had her name on it. She ripped it open.

My Dearest Sam,

Meeting you has been the highlight of my life. I’ve adored every moment we’ve shared this summer. The joy you’ve brought me will last a lifetime. Here I am, a man who cherishes the written word, and I’m finding it next to impossible to pen this letter to you.
 

When I saw your face alight from the offer of a chance to pursue your dream and go on tour, I knew it was your destiny. I also knew, I’d have to let you go, let you become who you were meant to be. Seeing your future on the horizon and knowing I would not, could not be a part of that future was a very difficult fact to accept.

This house is yours. It’s always been yours. From the first day I met you, I’ve viewed this house as your home. I cannot live here without you. I want you to know that no matter where the road takes you, you will always have a home here at 19 Lunar Avenue, Pleasure Island, North Carolina. I’ve enclosed the paperwork necessary to legally transfer the home into your name. Leah can walk you through all the details.
 

You’ll see that the Hummer keys are on the counter. I’ve put the title in your name. It is a gift. I bought the vehicle for you. It’s big enough to haul your bass wherever you need without being exposed to the elements and if you should decide to drive across the beach, like we enjoyed doing so many times together, you will have a proper vehicle to do so.
 

Knowing you’ll have reliable transportation means a great deal to me. Pushing your old, beat up truck over the bridge, and you in a panic about your beloved bass being drenched by the rain has left a lasting impression. I never want you to be caught in such a position again. That memory on the drawbridge is our song, love. No one else gets to sing it.
 

I may not be the man to spend the rest of my days at your side, but I desperately want to be the man who provides you with what you need. Selfishly, I know you’ll think of me as long as you keep this house and vehicle. This is my way of staying in your life. Forgive me for this selfish gesture. Please understand, if you refuse my gifts I’ll be crushed. I want to do this, Sam. I need to do this.
 

You told me you loved me. I wanted to profess my love for you in return, but the impending doom of goodbye kept me from saying what my heart felt. You needed to go. Now I must also go.