Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance)
Read Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) Online
Authors: Lyla Dune
Tags: #Contemporary Romance
Chapter Twenty-Two - Interview
Chapter Twenty-Three - Flowers
Chapter Twenty-Four - Hatchling
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Collide
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Rip Tide Bikini
ISBN-13: 978-1-940796-00-0
LOW TIDE BIKINI
Copyright 2013 by Lyla Dune
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or n any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Composesum Publishing LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013
Lyla Dune
All rights reserved.
Drawbridge
No one should have to endure a beginner playing “Three Blind Mice” on a double bass at the ass-crack of dawn.
That went triple for women who’d whooped it up the night before at a blues jam. Sam Carlisle vowed to never schedule an early morning private lesson again, no matter how much the student’s mother begged her.
A boat glided down the channel, its white sails tinted brown through the dirty windshield of Sam’s rusty Chevy pickup. “No you don’t.” She mashed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the truck barely increased speed.
Ding-ding-ding
the warning bell sounded and down came the traffic arm. That dang bridge caught her either coming or going every time she left the island.
She shoved the gearshift into park and gulped the last of her lukewarm coffee, shuddering as the bitterness slid down her throat. The dark liquid dribbled onto her white tank top, leaving a brown stain on her breast.
“Great. It looks like I’ve sprung a leak, and I produce chocolate milk,” she mumbled to herself.
Gray clouds loomed over the quaint coastal community of Pleasure Island. But somehow, the brightly colored houses on stilt-legs, standing shoulder to shoulder along the water's edge lifted her spirits.
Those cheerful homes reminded her of top-heavy pageant contestants in vibrant bathing suits lined across a stage, their smiles masking fears. The houses had a lot in common with the colorful locals—bravely smiling during their own personal storms and sticking together through it all.
With its gossiping huddle of cottages surrounding a farm that housed a dozen or so ostriches, the island was the epitome of quirky. A small amusement park brought in tourists during the summer, surfers claimed the area just south of the jetty, and the young and beautiful congregated by the pier. At the north end, a small stretch of beach called Bare Point was reserved for the Naughty Naked Seniors. She avoided that area but appreciated the playful freedom it represented.
Sam didn’t quite fit in at the popular hang outs, but she still felt she belonged on the island. Her house was smack-dab in the middle of the sea turtle sanctuary, the perfect spot for a turtle-watcher such as herself.
As she nibbled on the burnt toast she’d scraped and slathered with peanut butter, her cellphone chimed. Who was calling before noon? Her friends knew better. She sat the toast on the paper plate in her passenger seat and dug her phone out of the front pocket of her denim cutoffs. Her abs tightened when she read the display. Irene Marshall, her landlord. Uh oh, Irene only called when she was headed into town. Sam cringed at the thought of having to move out of the master suite and into the one-room efficiency on the ground floor.
A strand of her long blonde hair caught the breeze and stuck to her lip gloss. Yuck. She spat the hair out of her mouth and braced herself for bad news.
After a couple minutes of meaningless small talk with Irene, Sam said, “When are you guys coming down for a visit?”
“Actually Sam, we won’t be, ever, which brings me to why I called. I really hate to tell you this, but...Josh and I just traded the beach house for an apartment close to our daughter, Tara, who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The new owner should be arriving in a couple of weeks.”
Holy crap. Ostriches had the right idea. Some days it’s best to bury your head in the sand.
“How long before I need to move out?”
“Six weeks. That’s the best I could do for you.”
Six weeks? Irene was out of her mind. “Dang. That’s not much time.”
“Sorry for the short notice. I’m sure this ranks right up there with being dumped via Facebook.”
Only a spawn of Satan would mention being dumped by her ex on Facebook. Besides, it had been a Twitter breakup. You’d think three years deserved more than a 140 character farewell.
Thanks for the reminder, Irene.
Talk about kicking someone when they're down. Sam had worked hard to erase that fiasco from the blackboard of her mind.
She crumpled the empty coffee cup in her fist.
“It’s okay, Irene.” It wasn’t okay, but what choice did she have? “You’ve been very generous letting me house-sit for five years. All good things must come to an end.” Everything is temporary. Story of her life.
“Sam, I can’t tell you what a relief it has been having you keep an eye on the property. If you need any references, let me know.”
“Thanks.” She pounded the cup flat in the drink holder.
“I’ll shoot you an email so we can have this all in writing. You’ll need to confirm when you get that email.”
“No problem.”
I should take a selfie on the ledge, or better yet—mid-fall, and attach it to the confirmation.
“Gotta run. I’ll get that notification right off. I have to tell ya, I really dreaded making this call. Thanks for being so sweet about everything, Sam. You’re a doll. Bye for now.”
“Have a nice day.” When Sam clicked out and dropped her cell onto the passenger seat, the phone landed in peanut butter. Crap. She wiped it off with a spare napkin from the glove box and gritted her teeth, picturing a yellow smiley face with a bullet hole right between its eyes.
In addition to having an eviction bomb dropped on her head, her ex was now reeking havoc in the back of her mind and dredging up memories that were too painful to deal with.
Forget that Twitface ex. She needed to focus on the now, the now that gave her six weeks
to find a new place and move out of the best house she'd ever lived in. Oceanfront. Panoramic views. Rent free. Her responsibilities entailed paying utilities and calling Ted, the local handyman, whenever anything needed repair. The Marshalls picked up the tab for the rest, no questions asked.
Could she afford to move so soon? She’d cosigned numerous loans for a new car and a boatload of outrageously expensive recording equipment a few months before her ex ran off with another woman, the car, and all the new gear. Whining that she shouldn’t have to foot the bill for equipment she no longer had in her possession wouldn’t get her off the hook. She’d known the risks when she’d signed the loans, but love had made her a sucker.
Thanks to living rent free, she’d been able to throw most of her pay at her debt and was almost out of the red and in the black. But she had nothing socked away in her savings account. Zip. No emergency fund. Finagling a way to accumulate enough dough for utilities, security deposits, first month’s rent, and all the other hogwash that went along with moving in six weeks wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d find a way. She always did.
Lord help her, she might have to add a few morning students to her schedule. Patience in the morning? That’d require Prozac.
She strangled the steering wheel in a death-grip and thunked her head against her hands.
A car-horn blared. She jolted upright. The drawbridge had already lowered, and the traffic arm no longer blocked her path. She tilted the rearview mirror, dangling from her windshield by a piece of duct tape.
A shiny, red convertible, driven by a panty-melting muscle man, hugged her bumper. The guy’s hands flailed in a what-gives gesture.
Jerk.
He’s sexy. Of course he’s a jerk. The two went together like fried fish and hushpuppies.
She flipped him off and punched the gas.
The engine hissed and rattled to a stop. She gave the ignition key a hard twist. The starter ground
nee-nee-nee
and died, which wasn’t uncommon for her pickup, a rusty 1957 Chevy. The old man who sold her the clunker said the military used the vehicle years ago. She thought it was better suited for a farmer from the looks of it. She bought it because it was cheap, had been upgraded with an automatic transmission, and had an extended cab.
“You can’t die on me now, Ole Betsey. Not on the freaking bridge. Come on, girl.” She patted the dashboard. “Start for Mama,” she begged, attempting to revive Ole Betsey. No luck.
In the reflection of her side mirror, the dark-haired hunk wearing Ray Bans stepped out of the red convertible.
Craptastic. Just what she needed, a big oaf to inform her she was blocking the road. As if she didn’t know that already.
His bowling ball sized biceps protruded from yardstick-broad shoulders, and his barrel thighs flexed beneath snug jeans. Good grief, all he lacked was a cape and a superhero theme song composed by John Williams.
He stalked toward her and halted beside her driver’s door. What? No heel click?
Dang, he was one fine piece of man-candy, which was another way of saying he was poisonous. She had a knack for being attracted to prince on the outside, toad on the inside.
She mustered her best forgive-me smile.
His mouth remained flat-lined, unreadable.
Yep, she pegged him right. Jerk.
Forcing her lips to curl into a puny grin, she said, “I think I flooded her."
Why was she still stomping the gas pedal? Nerves. Being in the presence of a hot man always made her do stupid stuff.
The hottie lifted his stubbled chin and held up a hand.
What the heck was that supposed to mean? Talk to the hand? Who did he think he was dealing with?
At least that ticked her off enough, she took her foot off the gas pedal.
With his eyes hidden behind ridiculous sunglasses, she couldn't get a read on his facial expression. Why’d he need those darn shades anyway? It was overcast.
Ray Ban Man opened his mouth but snapped it shut before speaking. He tilted his head back. Fat raindrops fell in loud plops against his face. Within seconds, the angry clouds above unleashed their wrath in the form of a torrential downpour.
No!
Her stomach lurched. She’d stowed her double bass in the back of the truck. If that instrument got wet, it'd be ruined. There was no way she'd let that happen. That had been her Dad's prized possession. The only thing she had of his.
She flung her door open, hitting the handsome lug in the gut and knocking him on his ass. Blathering a weak apology, she ran to the back of her truck, flipped down the gate, and crawled across the gritty bed to rescue her bass. She tugged and wrestled it like a greased hog ‘til she got it to the edge of her tailgate.
When she jumped back out and reached for the handle, Ray Ban Man grabbed it, lifting the heavy instrument as easily as a loaf of bread.
In a melodious baritone voice, he said, "Allow me."
