Summer Sky

Copyright © 2014 Lisa Swallow

Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

Photo by Lindee Robinson Photography

Models: Madison Wayne & Chad Feyrer

Editing by Hot Tree Editing

Formatting by Willow’s Formatting Services

For Louise - thank you for your feedback, encouragement and friendship.

Chapter One

You know that moment when you meet someone, only to discover they're the most arrogant, self-important asshole who you've had the displeasure of colliding fates with? Somewhere, on the edge of my normal life, this just happened to me.

Three hours driving non-stop from Bristol to Broadbeach, and I’m in a crappy mood. This trip would take three hours if every traffic cone in England wasn’t blocking the motorway, therefore forcing all the cars into a ‘traditional English traffic jam’. Or if I didn't get stuck behind the slowest tractor in the world, after I had the bright idea of leaving the motorway for country roads to speed things up.

I whined when I was dragged to Broadbeach on summer holidays with my parents as a teenager, every time. At that age, the quiet seaside town was the armpit of the universe and no longer the sandy playground by the beach I loved as a little kid. There's no place I'd rather be now, than the small house on the edge of the dunes. When I finally bloody get there.

Frustration mounts as the afternoon grows late, and skipping lunch to get away from Bristol as quickly as possible hasn’t helped. I took a wrong turn thanks to my stupid decision to take a short cut, and I’m lost on a narrow country lane looking for a road sign. So when a fricking dog runs across the road in front of me, I'm not exactly calm about the car behind rear-ending mine when I hit the brakes. There is one screech of tyres, one exchange of alarmed looks between the black and white dog and me, and one loud metal crunch.

I glance in the rear-view mirror. Some guy in sunglasses hastily puts down his mobile phone and starts gesticulating in a way that demonstrates he's as happy about the collision as I am. Like this, is my fault? I throw open the door and slam it closed. Heading to the back of my small, silver car, I'm aware of his scrutiny as I inspect the damage. Great. There’s a broken light and a bloody huge dent.

I turn to his. I know nothing about cars but I'm sure this is going to cost him more than me. Sleek, black some-kind-of-penis-extension prestige vehicles like this costs more to fix than my I-have-no-money-and-a-crap-job ten-year-old hatchback.

The guy remains in the car, so I stomp over and indicate he should lower his window. The tinted windows seem a bit excessive in the English climate, but I guess this adds to the image of the car. All I can see of the man is dark sunglasses and spiked brown hair, with his hand waving at me to stand back. I huff and back away.

Out of the car steps a guy with an attitude as big as the dent in my bumper. He doesn’t speak, but his body language indicates an apology isn’t coming anytime soon. Six feet of tightly drawn muscles and a hard set mouth. I'm immediately drawn to the sleeve of colourful tattoos disappearing under his greying black t-shirt. Why do people get so many tattoos? They're plain ugly when there's so many they merge into one canvas of colour.

I shift my gaze to his face. His sunglasses remain in place, and I can't see much beyond his sharp jawline and the fact he really needs a shave. My first impression is he's trying to cultivate some sexy, edgy image to match his sexy, edgy car. The guy whips off his sunglasses revealing bright blue eyes circled by tired black marks. The looking rough is more than an image then. I figure he's in his twenties like me, but his exact age is difficult to tell beneath the exhausted face.

Without a word, he stalks to the front of his car and rubs the dented paintwork, sucking air through his teeth. Flakes of silver paint from my car drop to the road. I take the opportunity to size him up. He's grungy in an attractive way; or the way attractive people can be as scruffy as hell and still look okay. He looks more than okay. I'm momentarily distracted by how his dirty jeans hug his backside but blink the image away.

"It's your fault if you ran up the back of me," I inform him.

"You stopped without any indication!" he retorts, straightening and turning back to me. His accent is odd – English but as if he’s lived overseas too long and lost part of it.

"A dog ran out in front of me."

He looks into the road. "What dog?"

"The dog’s not here now. I don't think the dog realised it needed to be a material witness and ran off!" I narrow my eyes at him and he deliberately looks me up and down. I’m wearing a short floral summer dress. Hardly sexy, but his scrutiny makes me feel exposed. I cross my arms over my chest.

He hesitates, tapping his fingers against his teeth. "I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm in a hurry. Forget the insurance, I'll give you the money. How much do you think it'll cost to fix your car?"

Do what?
"I don't know."

Cocking his head, he studies the car. "Not much, I think. It’s an old model. Was the paintwork that bad before I hit you?"

Cheeky bastard.
"I'm not taking your money. Repairs might cost more than you have! If you give me your name and number, we can sort the insurance out the proper way."

He laughs. "Very fucking clever. Do you think I would?"

I'm taken aback at his attitude and language. "Swapping details is a strange and ancient custom which occurs when dickheads on mobile phones rear-end the car in front."

For a moment, he looks as if I slapped him across the face, and he’s rendered speechless. I mentally clap myself on the back. If he can afford a car like this, I bet people in his life rarely call him a dickhead. At least not to his face anyway.

"I don't give people my personal details." As he speaks, he scrutinises my face and something in his ocean blue eyes prickles the back of my neck.

Oh, I see, turn the smouldering on and get me eating out of your hand. Forget that, buddy; men aren’t my favourite species currently.

"What makes you so special?" I snap.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Nothing, what makes you so special?"

He traps me in a well-practiced seductive gaze, accompanied by the grin sharpening his stubbled features.

Not going to work…
"Do I have to call the police?"

His brow tugs together and he responds with a sharp. "No. Wait. Okay."

As he turns and goes back to his car, my heart rate picks up. Shit. Maybe he's a drug dealer. Or has a body in the car. And he's got a gun. And he's going to shoot me. Or maybe I watch too much CSI. Time to leave.

I attempt to memorise his number plate as I jump back into the driver's seat. Jamming the car into gear, I take off as fast as my not very fast car will take me. Through my mirror, I see six feet of muscled, tattooed, blue-eyed hotness (possibly with a gun) watching me drive away.
 

*****

The house by the sea never changes, inside or out. Or in my mind it doesn't. The whitewashed building belongs to my grandmother, and has been in the family for years. The house nestles between the sand dunes and the town, isolated from the neighbours but close to the track running up the hill to Broadbeach.

My heart rate won’t slow following my accident and encounter with the other driver. Why is my day going from bad to worse? I push the incident out of my mind; I'm here now, things will change.

I park my poor, mistreated car on the side of the track and climb out, inhaling until my lungs are full of the sea air. Odd how somewhere I resented so much is now a symbol of sanctuary. The sandy front garden is overgrown, weeds now resident in the huge terracotta plant pots full of geraniums. I tip the largest to one side and pull out the spare key. Gran needs to learn spare keys under plant pots don't equal good security, but I suppose security isn't as big a concern in Broadbeach as in Bristol.

A musty, familiar smell greets me as I push open the front door. Old books, lavender perfume and the seaweed smell of the sea. The mix of scents transports me back to summer days playing in the sand dunes and getting into trouble for sneaking off to the nearby shop for ice creams. The house is a few hundred metres from the beach. A small path and the dunes I rolled down until my knickers were full of sand, lies between the house and the shore.

Nobody has rented recently, and the house is cold and clean. I’m lucky to be able to stay here, especially as I phoned and asked to stay at short notice. Early June and heading into summer holiday season, Broadbeach is quiet. A week’s solace should help with the break-up from Grant.

Grant who took me for granted; who I changed for, morphing into someone I didn't recognise. I came home one day last week and found him with someone else. Such a fucking cliché, Grant knew I was due home, so he either decided to live dangerously or didn't give a shit. Personally, I think being told the relationship is over beats coming home to find a girl wrapped around your boyfriend of five years.

I left him (and attached girl), and slept at my best friend Tara’s for a couple of nights. But this wasn't far enough away from Grant. So I walked away from my job at his parents' finance company and headed to Broadbeach for some 'me' time. Some 'find me' again time. I've left behind the consequences of losing my boyfriend and probably my source of income.

I head upstairs with my stuffed blue rucksack and dump the bag on the bed. The duvet cover is seashell patterned, and the curtains match, the same bedding has been used for years. A local painting of the coast hangs on the cornflower blue wall. In a fit of glee, I tip the contents of my rucksack on the bed. Clothes go everywhere. I giggle. Grant hated my mess. Picking up underwear, I drop items around the room, and then scrunch back the bed covers. Now, the place is lived in. Imperfect. A little voice in my head whispers: "Fuck you, Grant."

The view from the window is what I dreamt of in the traffic jams on the way down. Unspoilt after all these years, the sandy beach stretches to the sea. Closing my eyes, I imagine I can hear the waves but I'm too far. The absence of sound is somehow louder than the traffic noise from my house back in Bristol. My ex-house.

One disadvantage of being the first guest of the season is there's nothing in the fridge or freezer. Zilch. Nada. I once came at the end of the season and the assortment of items in the cupboards and fridge kept me going for days. Unopened packets of cold meats, frozen bread and UHT milk conveniently located next to the teabags in the cupboard. One year someone left frozen pizza and two bottles of expensive wine. Win. This time? Big lose.

Pouting, I open the plastic bag I packed my lunch in. Pulling out the banana peel left from my emergency refuelling as I was driving, I discover the bottle of juice I packed has leaked all over my cheese sandwiches.

I don't want to drive anywhere again in a hurry, but a trip to the new out of town supermarket is needed. I need supplies. Lots of unhealthy, relationship break-up goodies. Guilt follows me out of the seaside town, away from the local shops in need of my money. However, I’m too tired to face twenty questions from Mrs Hughes or see the weird guy at the newsagents who never speaks. I'll spend money there too, of course; I’m here for a week. But tonight, I need bulk amounts of chocolate, crisps, ice cream and wine. So Asda is the place to go. Sorry, Mrs Hughes.

Chapter Two

Evening encroaches as I return to the house; I spent more time and money than I expected at Asda because choosing the right wine for wallowing is important. And don’t get me started on the number of ice cream flavours to choose from. I bought the hottest pre-packaged curry I could find because I couldn't eat curry around Grant. He didn't like the smell. Add wine and a juicy new book for an awesome evening ahead.