Undertow: A compilation of short beach stories Read online

  What was she doing? She slammed back another shot. Come on, tequila, do your thing. Make me forget about work and men and, well, everything.

  Marguerite’s Island God sold at $550 to another woman, earning a deflated huff from Marguerite. They’d put up a good bidding war.

  “Don’t you worry, Marguerite. Ava will share Brett with you.” Shel had breathed his name in an exaggerated way.

  Drunken Barbie smacked Ava on the shoulder. “Bret Wright is not your type. He wants fun.”

  Ava felt a scowl cross her face. She swung her head back to face the six men left on the stage. Fun? I’m fun, dammit.

  Finally, Bret stepped forward and his face stretched into a lazy, comfortable grin. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Because he probably has. Ava adjusted on her stool. Whoopsie! Nearly fell off.

  “You okay?” Marguerite asked.

  “I’m fine.” I’m drunk—finally.

  Bret threw Ava a wicked smile. Daring me? Perhaps she could use a weekend with someone who held no potential for a future or for breaking anything but the monotony her life had begun to epitomize. Break her losing streak, but not her heart?

  Out of her periphery she watched Drunken Barbie hold up her paddle and leave it there. “I’ll outbid anyone in this room,” she said. “Especially her.” She tipped her paddle toward Ava.

  What the hell? “Oh, really little girl?”

  Shel arched her eyebrow at Ava and lifted her martini glass. “Now are you ready?”

  Ava brought her final tequila shot to meet Shel’s toast and clinked. “Game on.” Ava threw back the liquid courage and stood. She lifted her paddle. “One thousand dollars.”

  Who cared if she was about to blow a week’s salary on a guy she’d never see again? Andrew’s guilt had provided her a fantastic severance package. It was time she lived a little. Ava threw Credit Card Barbie a saccharine smile. “It’s for the children.”

  Chapter Two

  Bret had to get Ava outside, pronto. He never should have given her that tequila. One thousand dollars? Jesus. He hated the thought he’d led to anyone’s financial demise by pushing liquor on them.

  But, damn, he was glad Ava won him. Even though she swayed a little on those long, tanned legs, her grace stood out in the mass of women who’d streamed into his place tonight. He’d seen her by the pool earlier in the day, her brown eyes never leaving the pages of the book she clutched. Her legs crossed and uncrossed in the sun so many times he’d been driven to distraction watching her instead of monitoring his staff. Then when she’d stepped into the bar? He caught himself gawking.

  Bret jumped down from the stage and headed toward Ava. He grabbed her arm before her misguided aim landed her on the floor instead of her bar stool.

  “Ladies.” Her two friend’s mouths hung open in surprise. “I’ve got her. We’re getting some air. We’ll be back.” He led Ava toward the door leading to the beach. Nothing reversed tequila’s effects like ocean air.

  Sounds of the bidding filled the space behind them as they stepped outside.

  She shook herself free as soon as the salty air hit their faces. “I’m fine. Wait, where are we going? My purse. I haven’t paid—”

  “Will be there when we get back. You need a walk.” Bret leaned down and grabbed her leg. He could wrap his entire hand around her calf. “Lift.”

  He slipped off her sandals, toed off his own shoes and left them to the side. His staff would secure them.

  Bret had to grasp her more firmly when she missed the one step down to the sand.

  “Maybe a walk would be good,” she said.

  “Come.” He pulled her toward the surf they could hear but not yet see in the murky dark. The cooler sand felt good after sweating it out among the rowdy women who’d crowded into the small bar. He kept a firm hold on Ava’s arm, as she stumbled a little in the deep sand. Falling on the beach isn’t as soft as most people believed. Her skin appeared so untouched, he’d hate for her to get abrasions. At least not the sand kind.

  “You’re not really a serial killer who’s going to feed me to the fishes, are you?” she slurred.

  He snorted. “Nah, it’s my night off.”

  She stopped short and jerked her arm loose.

  “I’m kidding. I’m Bret Wright. Perfect gentleman.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to the water’s edge.

  “I’m Ava Hollins. Imperfect tequila drinker.”

  He held her arm as the warm water lapped against their ankles. The bottom of his jeans were soaked in minutes.

  Ava swayed a little and put her hand on her belly.

  “Here.” He handed her a stick of gum retrieved from his shirt pocket. “Old bartender trick. Stops the nausea.”

  “Thanks. I know.” She popped it in her mouth and tentatively took another step into the water.

  “Oh, right, you’re in the biz, too.”

  “Well, I was. Event planning.” She stabbed between her breasts with her finger.

  “Ah, that makes sense.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “You had your eyes on my staff all night.”

  “Old habit.” She lifted a foot and kicked at the small waves rolling in. She nearly tumbled backward. “Oops.”

  It gave him a great excuse to grasp her around her tiny waist. Good thing he was with her. She was really drunk.

  “Where are my shoes?” She craned her neck around as if she couldn’t remember him wresting her feet free.

  He smiled inwardly at the thought of how much women loved their footwear. An image of her in sky-high stilettos and seamed stockings would not leave his brain. Not exactly beach wear, but his favorite look for a woman graced with such perfect legs. “My staff will get your sandals. They saw us leave.”

  “Wow, those are some dedicated colleagues. But since I won your service, I suppose it’s fitting,” she said.

  She didn’t protest his firm hold on her hand. But he worried about crushing the small bones in her fingers. Though tall, she had a delicate frame.

  She remained quiet as he pulled her from the water and started leading her down the beach. Warm breezes ruffled her tiny skirt as if daring him to shift his gaze back to her legs.

  “Thinking of ways to torture your love slave?” he finally asked after long moments of silence.

  “You overheard Shel. My friend.” She held up her hands. “Just a joke.”

  “I hope not.” He kind of meant it. Any red-blooded male would appreciate this woman. Her long wavy brunette hair resembled silk. And those legs? He imagined how easily they’d wrap around his waist.

  “Go detail my car then.” She snickered, the sound blending with the low roar of the small waves that met their ankles every other step.

  “Sure thing, my lady. Anything else I can detail?” Oh, Jesus, what a ridiculous line. He had more finesse than that. Totally inappropriate words spoken to one of his guests who’d likely given her life savings for charity.

  Before he could broach the subject of his banal pick-up line, and the fact he would cover the charitable contribution she pledged, she stopped short.

  “Let’s establish the ground rules. First—”

  “I can guess,” he laughed. “No sex.” Of course, she’d be worried he would take advantage after his stupid innuendo. Years of listening to women at his bars had taught him much. Their need to state they controlled their bodies ran deep and was not misplaced given what he’d overheard about their romantic lives.

  “Right.” She nodded her head emphatically. “Not unless I want to. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You’ll have to earn such favors from me.”

  She mock punched him in the arm. “What? You’re my love slave. Don’t tell me. You’re into men.”

  He laughed. “Not in that way.” Her innocent flirting was cute . . . and encouraging. He already liked this woman.

  “Then why don’t you want me. In-in that way?”

  Ah, yes, the old game o
f catch-me-don’t-catch-me was alive and well in the twenty-first century. He would have chuckled at her sudden turn if it weren’t for her serious face.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want you.” Was she single? No wedding ring.

  “Well, I want to have fun.” She raised her finger. “And only fun. Because I’m fun.”

  “Yes, you are. So, consider it done.”

  They had grown close to the dock where one of his small wooden boats lay on its side in the sand. She perched herself on the edge, immediately swaying.

  “Let’s sit on the sand.” He helped her down. After settling their backs against the hull, he pulled her hand to his leg to keep her steady. He was surprised she still sat given how much alcohol she’d consumed. My fault.

  “So you’re not an event planner anymore. What do you do now?”

  “I drink tequila. Got laid off two weeks ago. Financial crisis and all that. The people in our nation’s capital will have to plan their own ridic-u-los-ly expensive, black tie abuses of tax payer’s money on their own from now on.” She swung her fingers in the air like an orchestra conductor.

  “You’re from Washington? Which firm?” Unless grossly mismanaged, firms that planned events in D.C. rolled in cash. People there would starve without restaurants and catered events.

  “Celebration.”

  “Good outfit.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “My brother is in D.C.” His older brother, Derek, owned as many entertainment-related businesses as he could snatch up. Bret knew the environment well. Celebration Catering and Events was the largest and most profitable firm in that area. There had to be more to the story.

  “Yeah, well . . . ya know. I didn’t exactly believe my boss when he told me about their financial issues.” She drew quote marks in the air. “Fucking Andrew. And I shouldn’t have . . . fucked him, I mean.” She raised her hand to her mouth. “Jesus, tequila’s like truth serum.” Her hand flopped to the sand.

  Ah, a man was involved. He never got involved with people he employed, even though these days, the people he saw the most were his staff. When such relationships went south, so did the work. Such is the life of someone in travel and leisure. Not so much travel, and not so much leisure.

  Bret vowed to have his brother, Derek, look up this Andrew person. For now, no way was she handing over one thousand dollars for their date.

  “I could make some calls—see what openings are available.”

  “No, no!” She pushed his shoulder. “I can’t bartend. Clearly I suck at cutting people off from their liquor, starting with myself.” She drew lines in the sand with a finger. “I’ll be fine, really.”

  She believed he was a bartender? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a date with a woman who hadn’t looked up his dossier online in advance. Her misunderstanding of his position was damned refreshing.

  Bret stared at her small wrist. Yes, so delicate. He leaned over and grabbed the boat’s lead line. He needed something else to do with his hands before they, like his imagination, wandered further.

  “Going to tie me up?” She hiccupped.

  “Now how would that look to the other slaves? Me tying you up?” He pulled the rope through his hand. Not too harsh, though not the brand of rope for what he’d love to do to Ava. Yes, tying her up would be nice. More than nice.

  She grabbed the rope from his hands. “Okay. I’ll do you.”

  “Not my usual position.” He winked.

  “You’re my slave. You have to. Then if you get all serial killer-y, I can run away.” She huffed as she yanked on the rope and it stopped short, secured to the boat. The length was still long enough to restrain someone—if they knew what they were doing. She grasped his forearms and settled his wrists in across on his lap. Was she into rope bondage? He couldn’t be that lucky.

  He hadn’t been lucky in a long time. Fortunate in business, yes. But romance? He discovered too early you had to choose: love or money. It was a grand truth no one wanted to admit.

  Ava fumbled with the rope. Adorable. Drunk, yet still graceful. What a fascinating combination.

  She knelt in front of him, and he instantly hardened. He also instantly worried if she’d have abrasion marks on her knees in the morning. Fine, if earned the right way . . . .

  Her fingers failed to secure a simple overhand knot. She dropped the rope and huffed. “Dammit. Fingers not working.”

  “Allow me.” He grasped her shoulders and sent her backward into the sand. She gasped when he made several wrapping turns with the rope around her wrists. He pulled the rope through the middle and jerked it into a perfect half-hitch. Simple, but effective.

  “There. All better.” He caged her body underneath his and gazed into her brown eyes.

  “Oh.” Her pink lips had parted in surprise, but she didn’t look too alarmed. In fact, her facial expression was a perfect blend of wonder and deference.

  Oh, man, he wanted to keep going. But what was he doing? He’d tied a drunk woman’s wrists together.

  He yanked on the rope, releasing her. Yes, Ava Hollins intrigued him all right—enough to slow down.

  ~ ~ ~

  The slither of the cord over her wrists sent a marked pang to her core. Oh no, she refused to be turned on. She sat up and spit hair from her face. She’d never done anything kinky, though she’d thought about it—often. But letting a guy tie her up—especially an unknown bartender in the Virgin Islands? Not the way to explore. Rather a way to end up a victim on a murder reality show.

  His hand cupped both her cheeks and held her gaze to his. “Sorry. Your love slave got a little out of hand.”

  “Uh, that’s okay. You were better than me, that’s for sure.”

  Brett took her wrists and rubbed the indentations. “You mark easily.”

  “I-I guess.” Her stomach rumbled.

  “Have you eaten dinner?”

  She sobered a little at his abrupt change in topic. “I drank my dinner.”

  “You like linguine and clams?”

  Who doesn’t? “Love it.”

  “Then come.” He pulled her up into a full-body hug. Oh, wow, she wasn’t the only one turned on. That was some package he sported. Her thin cotton skirt and his jeans did little to separate his hard-on from her low belly.

  As they walked back toward the resort, his large hand gripped hers possessively. She listened to him prattle on about linguine and clams and fresh-caught fish the whole way back. By the time they’d returned to the bar, her stomach was in full protest of her liquid dinner choice that evening.

  What time was it? When they stepped inside, Shel and Marguerite were gone. The bar seemed to be closing down with one couple left at the far end of the bar.

  A woman Ava recognized as one of the waitresses sidled up to them. She handed Ava her shoes and purse and smiled without a word. She also set Bret’s loafers at his feet. Yep, this man has a harem here. Anyone who looked like him, would.

  “Jasmine, we’ll be in the main dining room. Ask the chef to prepare two orders of the Linguine Con Le Vongole. Not too spicy. And the rosemary bread.”

  Prickles ran up her spine at his authoritative voice. She figured they’d grab whatever bar food they could scrounge.

  “Giving the chef free drinks?” How else could he request the most expensive restaurant in the resort serve them dinner at this hour?

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “I-I’m not exactly dressed for a four star—”

  “You’re perfect.” He clasped her hand, stilling her thumb rubbing her wrist. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” His touch sent more shivers up her back.

  She pulled herself free and sat on a bar stool. When she slipped on her sandals, grains of sand crunched under her soles. She’d have to deal with the uncomfortable feeling. He slipped on his shoes, never taking his eyes off her legs. She liked his attention. She liked being seen.

  When they stepped into the dining room, the staff were bring
ing the lights up. They’d been closed. Yep, Bret must give the chef a lot of free, top-shelf tequila to fix solo, late night dinners. Her stomach churned at the thought. No more tequila for her. Never, never, never.

  Bret pressed the small of her back and urged her forward to the best seat in the house, the corner table overlooking the ocean. A waitress in a starched white shirt and black apron lit their candles. “Mr. Wright.” When she threw him a flirty smile, it both irritated and intrigued Ava.

  “Mr. Wright, huh? You are so going to get reprimanded for this stunt.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Within minutes two steaming plates of linguine and clams were set before them. Ava had to admit the dish smelled heavenly. After three huge forkfuls of pasta in the cream sauce, she looked up at Bret. She’d dove in without a thought about good manners.

  He laughed heartily, “I’m glad my choice pleased you.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “It’s fantastic. We haven’t eaten in here yet.”

  “You should be in here every night. I’ll set it up.”

  “What? You will not. Bret—”

  “I’m your love slave. I’m paid to make things happen for you.”

  “Hey, you’re not getting the thousand dollars. You can’t—”

  “Leave it to me. Finish.” He lifted his fork and dove into his own plate.

  They ate in silence. Mostly because Ava kept her mouth stuffed with the best linguine and clams she’d ever eaten. She used two pieces of the warm rosemary bread to mop up the sauce.

  She didn’t care what she looked like. After this weekend, she would never see Bret again. No need to get all prissy. Save that for the Washington elite when she got home. Like Andrew. Funny how the differences between two men made her glad she sat in this restaurant, with this man, instead of the other man. Yes, she liked that thought. From now on, Andrew would be the other man.

  She sat back in her chair and held her glass of water. Fatigue fell across her body like a blanket. If she put her head on the table, she’d instantly fall asleep.