Hot Water (4 page)

I paddle to the side, and that’s when I see it. A swell on the horizon, and it’s shaping up to be a fairly decent wave. I take a deep breath and watch it as it comes closer. Yep. This could do it.

I paddle, slowly at first, then more furiously, feeling the water rise at my feet. Then, I raise my upper half by my arms, and when I know I’ve got it, I pop up into standing position as quickly as I can, digging my feet into the deck as the crest of the wave begins to feather. And then, I drop in, and I’m riding the wave.

There is no feeling like that in the world. Like a bird, flying above the ocean. I keep my balance and cut back to change direction. The trick is to coast until the wave pitters out, then kick out gracefully. But right now, I’m just enjoying the ride. I scan the horizon, wondering if there are any other surfers around to witness the beauty of this epic ride I’m catching, but the beach is fairly bare, except for a few families with young toddlers. And Bow, but she’s too busy lying on her stomach, getting a tan.

I kick out and land in the water, then dip my head back underwater to get my spider web of hair under control. Stuffing my board under my arm, I run up the beach to Bow. Just as I near her, I hear my phone ringing. I check it, but it’s a number I don’t recognize, from a 212 area code. I answer with a “Hello.”

“Hey,” a male voice says, and the second he speaks, I remember.
Is he really, actually calling me back
? “Do you know who this is?”

“Are you selling something?” I guess.

“That depends. Would you buy it?”

“That depends. Is it any good?”

“Limo girl,” he says. “Do you remember me?”

I cluck my tongue. “Angry Guy. I am not such a bimbo that I do not recall something that happened four hours ago,” I tell him.

“Impressive,” he says. “What are you doing now?”

Besides talking to him, I’m standing in my bikini, getting goosebumps in the mid-June ocean breeze. “I’m dripping wet.”

There’s silence on the end of the phone. I realize it’s because he’s laughing. “You’re . . .
what
?”

“I just got out of the ocean. I was surfing.”

“Oh. Well that’s a disappointment. But . . . you can redeem yourself if you’re wearing a bikini.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I say.

He groans. “A little one? Let me guess . . . pink?”

“Black. With pink flowers.”

“Wow. That’s . . . hot. Can you send me a pic?”

“Yeah. One sec,” I say. I collapse on my towel, hand Bow the phone and make her take one of me, lying back on my elbows. It takes a few tries to get exactly the right look. I mean, I have to look good. Finally, Bow gets a good one, with my sunglasses on, wet blonde hair in strings on my face, and my body doesn’t look half-bad, either. I feel a little dirty sending it to him, but I guess my hangover is making me a little crazy. I’d already made it up in my mind that I’ll never see him again. He’s just . . . not my type. That’s probably why it’s so easy to flirt with him. It doesn’t mean anything.

I send him the pic. Two seconds later, he’s back. His voice is husky. “I need to see you.”

“
What
?” I ask. “You do realize I’m in Albright. The shore. Where are you?”

“The city. Albright’s by Spring Lake, right? I can be there in two hours.” He says this like it’s nothing.

“Wait. I have to get back to Metuchen. I have . . . my first day of work is tomorrow, and I’m, um . . .” I mumble. I’d already determined I would not see him again. And suddenly, knowing he wants to meet me, my tongue thickens and I start tripping over my words.

“Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

But what is he expecting in return
? I turn to Bow, who’s looking at me expectantly, like she’s been following the entire conversation.
Do it
! she mouths over her Cosmo.

“Okay,” I mumble.

The rest of our conversation, we work out just where and when he’s going to pick me up. When I hang up, I look at Bow, feeling like I’m attending my own funeral. “I thought you said that guy’s got the whole ‘one night of fun’ concept.”

She shrugs. “Well, so what? He wants to extend it with you.”

 “He wants to do me,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. “Last night, I thought, it’s okay if he thinks I’m a slut, because I’ll never see him again. But now . . . now
I’m going to see him again
. And oh God! I told him I was twenty-five!”

She grins. “He bought that?”

I stare at her. “That’s what our fake IDs say! That’s what you said to everyone last night!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think anyone would believe us.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Twenty-five year olds do not act all shy and timid and tell guys to slow down because they have virtually no experience. They’re all ‘here I am, ready to go!’”

She rubs my shoulder. “I’m sure not all twenty-five year olds are like that.”

“The one I pretended to be last night was total Whore Central. That’s what he’s expecting. He’s not driving two hours down the shore to meet with Shirley Freaking Temple. And he’s not even my type.”

Bow laughs. You realize you say that about every guy you meet, right?”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. And the reason? Because you don’t have a type.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that until you’ve tasted all the flavors, you don’t really know which one’s your favorite.
You need to taste them first
.”

“I don’t want to taste him! I’m not hungry!” I groan and throw myself on my back. “But he really
can’t
be my type. He’s like . . . a
Wall Street Journal
-reading, executive-type. He’s everything that annoys me about my mother. ”

“Well, then, why did you tell him to come?”

I shake my head. “Because he makes me feel . . . he makes me feel . . .”

“Like a natural woman?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

I lean in to smack her on the leg, but stop halfway when I see that horrible shiner I’ve already given her, glowing in the sunlight. “No. Yes, actually. I always felt inferior with Trevor. He never complimented me once. But Angry Guy . . . he said I was scorching hot. And coming from a guy who’s probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen . . . that means something.”

She grins. “Angry Guy?”

“I don’t know his name,” I whisper, coming to the full realization that I am a complete moron for getting myself into this. Completely over my head.

“Trevor was an ass who liked to make everyone feel inferior. You are scorching hot,” she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “And remember what you said about the Brazilian wax last year?”

I nod. Something about how I’d never, ever subject myself to the torture of having my pubes ripped out.

“And was it totally worth it, like I said?”

Sheepishly, I agree. Yes, it had hurt like a mother, and it was weird as hell being naked and having hot wax slathered everywhere, but the results had been beautiful.

“It just shows you that this can still be your summer for new experiences. Ones you might like. Don’t be afraid. You don’t owe this dude anything. If you don’t want to fuck him, then, fuck him. You know?”

“That’s why I keep you around,” I say, giving her a smile. “You are always the wise Buddha.”

“And you can always tell him how old you really are. That’ll probably end things pretty quick.”

Right
, I think. I can do that. Easy. This situation is not beyond my control. Not yet, anyway.

Chapter Five

Caden

So now I have not one, but two fucking women eating my brain.

I thought I’d gone beyond this. I thought I’d given up all this shit for good.

Andrea isn’t at the penthouse, so I don’t have to tell her what I’m up to when I get myself showered up and ready to go out, instead of crashing.

Funny, though I haven’t slept in over thirty-six hours, I’m raring to go. I haven’t felt this way, this sense of anticipation, since college. I think it’s the sense of excitement that comes with just doing what feels right, instead of always doing what is right.

I take the elevator to the parking garage and slide into my car. It’ll take two hours, but it will be worth it.

All I need to do is get it done. Fuck her, ditch her, and get it over with.

And then things will be better.

Then, all my emotions will be positive ones.

Then, when my bride comes down the aisle three weeks from now, I won’t want to rip her fucking head off.

Cicily

Two hours later, after I’ve sufficiently worked my stomach into knots, a bright red BMW convertible cruises down Seventh Avenue, headed directly for me. I know it’s his car before it even stops. It’s so him.

He looks perfect behind the wheel. His hair is all wind-blown, and his tanned forearms peek perfectly out of the blindingly white linen shirt he has, rolled up to the elbows. He pulls himself out of his seat, and peeks at me over a pair of aviator sunglasses. “Limo girl.”

“Angry guy,” I say, trying to match his disinterested tone, to channel the me who’d impressed him so much the night before.

He reaches over and pushes open the door. “Get in.”

I can tell he’s used to people doing what he says. It’s the way he says things—he must be good at getting results in everything he does. I scurry over and climb into the passenger seat. His car is spotless and smells like the creamy leather seats, which are without flaw. I’ve never been in a real BMW before. I remove my flip flops and let my toes comb through the plush floor mat. It’s almost like my backside is the first to grace the passenger seat. But that’s not possible—I’m sure he has this seat filled often, by girls who are a lot older and more mature than I am.

Breathe, Cicily
, I tell myself. I know his eyes are running up and down the length of my body as he drives. I am sure he sees the goosebumps all over my thighs. He doesn’t have to say a thing; there’s this energy in the cabin, this friction, getting ready to explode. My whole body is quivering under the weight of his eyes on me. I want him to touch me. Just a little . . . just enough. And then I will tell him the truth, and this will stop. It’s better that way.

We drive up the coast, avoiding the rash of tourists who are strolling across Ocean Avenue with their lounge chairs and boards, trying to get in some afternoon sun on this perfect Sunday. The air is spiked with the sugary sweet smell of funnel cakes and tomato pie. A roller coaster car swishes by on a track, and one of the boardwalk wheels tick-tick-ticks in the distance; quickly at first, then slowing to a stop. Kids shriek in sun-drenched joy. I think that maybe he’ll stop at a place for lunch, but he keeps driving, right out of Albright, and my heart rate accelerates in tandem with the car. We end up at a very secluded section of the shore. This is the wealthy section. The houses are very far apart, and the beaches are private. We’re in a small cul-de-sac, backing up to the beach, and we’re surrounded by dunes. From here, there’s one house that’s directly over us, all glass and modern lines, and I’m afraid that whoever owns it will come running out, upset that we’re parking at his beach.

He turns to me. A cool breeze plays with his thick black hair, carrying the scent of the sea. It’s that salty-sweet smell, so full of life, that has always made me a little giddy, a little drunk . . . and a little more willing to live dangerously. I breathe it in, letting its confidence surge through me.

“What are we doing here, Angry Guy?” I try to keep my voice playful as he cuts the ignition, but I know it quivers like the rest of me.

“A wise person told me that I need to distance myself from the girl who screwed me over,” he says. “I need more distance.” Then, he snakes his hand behind my neck, weaving his fingers through my salty hair as he pulls my mouth to his. And I thought he was hungry before—this time, it’s even more intense, his mouth exploring mine, pushing into me so hard that I can’t even breathe. I gasp when I get free, feeling his tongue trailing down my jawline, down my neck. His tongue is like velvet against my skin.

I know what is going to happen. I’m going to surrender myself to him, to this blissful feeling. Just like I’d stupidly surrendered to Trevor. At least Trevor knew my name. How did I think I could control this situation?

“God, you taste so good,” he groans, and I know he’s tasting the salt on my skin. It’s the most intoxicating drug there is. He pulls me closer, but it isn’t close enough, because he releases the driver’s seat and pushes it back, then urges me onto his lap, so that I’m straddling him, with my chest at his eye level. I feel every perfect muscle of his straining against my body, the stubble on his face rubbing my lips raw. But it’s an exquisite pain, and I only want more.

He reaches up and tugs on the tie of my bikini around my neck. The string begins to loosen. The Warning! Danger! alarm that had been flashing in my mind earlier is now screaming in my ears. I’ll tell him . . . I will . . . after this kiss. No, after this one. I hold his hand, stopping him from loosening the strings further. I gently tease his lips with my tongue. “I can’t do that,” I murmur.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mumbles into my skin, his breath hot on my neck. He tries to free his hand and continues to pull on the string. He succeeds, and just as my bikini is about to fall free, I grab both ends of the string and push away from him.

He opens his eyes and they fasten on me. And then, suddenly, a very familiar expression floods back into his face. It’s like I’m back in that limo again, and he’s throwing my clothes back at me. It’s . . . disgust. He wears it so well, I can’t help but feel worthless. “What?” he asks, his voice positively venomous.

I open my mouth to explain, still bewildered by the power he wields. It’s frightening. How can he do that? Make me feel beautiful and sexy one minute, and worthless the next? And why would I want to be with someone like that? “I know what it might have seemed like, last night,” I say to my chest, since I can’t raise my head to look at him. “But like I said, I’m not that type of person. I don’t usually do things like I did last night. I was . . . being stupid. I’m sorry. But this isn’t me.”