No Tan Lines (15 page)

“Laughter isn’t ‘noise’—it’s happiness,” she said. “The turn of the carousel tells me someone has bought a ticket and is enjoying a ride. When was the last time you felt like a kid and raced a purple horse with jeweled amber eyes and a gold saddle?”

Ages ago,
he realized. “It’s been a while,” he told her.

She drew a compact navy backpack from beneath her sand chair. She popped a side snap and pulled out a pair of gray athletic shorts. She then stood, stepped into them, and drew them up her legs. She tied the drawstring at her waist.

He stared way too long. She had slender inner thighs and a sweet ass. He enjoyed the view.

She shouldered her backpack and said, “Back to business. I owe you twenty dollars for umpiring our game last night.”

“I’m not about to take your money.”

“It’s money owed,” she insisted. “We Cateses don’t shirk on our debts.” She extracted a twenty from a coin pocket in the backpack and passed it to him.

Still he refused. “Keep it.”

She pursed her lips. “I have an idea.”

He couldn’t wait to hear it.

“Let’s take your cash and spend it on my boardwalk.”

“I’ll be feeding your economy?”

“We like to eat.” Her next words came with a challenge. “We’ll ride the carousel, and whoever catches the brass ring decides the remainder of the day. Work or play.”

That interested him greatly. “If I grab the ring first, you come to my office at Saunders Square?”

She nodded. “If I win, I return to the beach.”

“You’re a procrastinator.” He hefted her sand chair.

“Yeah, and I’m good at it.” She grabbed her laptop.

He sensed that she’d conducted her daily quota of business early and now wanted to play. Trace would play, too. Once he won the brass ring, he’d steer her down the boardwalk, back to Saunders Square.

How hard could it be to grab the ring?

Pretty damn hard, he was soon to discover. She stored her beach chair, laptop, and backpack at the ticket booth, then asked the operator to keep an eye on her items.

Shaye was barefoot, but he preferred shoes. He slipped on his Top-Siders.

He went on to buy two tickets, then checked out the horses. Shaye chose a lavender horse ahead of his dark purple steed, which meant she had first crack at the prize. Lady was both smart and sneaky. Calliope music played as the horses went up, down, and around.

Trace got distracted by Shaye’s every attempt. She pushed up in the stirrups, all tanned and toned and driving him crazy. She leaned toward the ring stand yet missed each time. Her laughter mixed with the music.

The lady was competitive. She looked over her shoulder with each pass to be sure he hadn’t captured the prize. He hadn’t come close. Snagging the ring was harder than it looked.

After a dozen passes, he swore the carousel was rigged. With each circle, Shaye’s horse rode high as it neared the ring stand, while his dipped low. He had to reach twice as far to connect with the brass ring. He refused to lose his balance and topple off his horse.

Shaye’s enthusiasm was contagious. He found himself grinning. She was a woman who threw her head back and let the sunshine play over her face. She looked happy and free. She’d never grow old, he thought. She always allowed her inner child out to play. The boardwalk was the perfect place to be twelve.

She wanted the ring, and eventually she captured it. His heart kicked when she stood in the stirrups, hung on to the pole with one hand, and stretched precariously, appearing suspended by air. Her daring earned her the brass ring.

She whooped and held the ring high. She was the winner, which meant she got to choose how they spent the rest of the day. So much for getting her to Saunders Square.

The carousel slowed, stopped, and they dismounted. He moved to the entrance, waiting while Shaye reset the ring. Her eyes were bright, her smile broad, when she crossed to him. “Back to the beach for me,” she said.

“Two out of three,” he surprised himself by saying.

“You like getting beat?” she challenged.

“I lose only once.”

Her expression told him that he would go down a second time. “Bumper cars and baseball caps. Whoever bumps off the other person’s hat wins.”

He’d never played, but it sounded easy enough. They walked a block down the boardwalk. Summer tourists invaded the hula hoop kiosk, and several tried on sunglasses at The Rising Sun. The boomerang seagulls proved a popular novelty. Trace watched two young boys toss the curved plastic out and over the Gulf. The seagulls’ airfoil wings took an elliptical path and returned. They were well-built toys.

He bought them each a baseball cap at Heads Up, where all manner of headgear, from straw hats to visors, decorated six outdoor hat stands. It was a small business with a big draw.

Shaye chose a mesh baseball cap with
Beach It
on the bill. She slipped it on backward, over her hair band. The cap was tight, and the rim pinched her forehead. “To hold down my curls,” she clarified.

She dipped her head, but not before he caught her smile. A sly smile, indicating she was about to pull one over on him. Son of a bitch. Not again.

He selected a cap with the
Tampa Bay Bucks
sports logo. It fit comfortably on his head. They donned their caps and proceeded to Water Wings.

The kiosk sold dozens of toys for the beach, from water guns and sand castle kits to Frisbees. Shaye pointed to two bright blue water noodles, explaining that they would need them for their next contest. The five-foot-long flotation devices were made of soft foam.

“Flexibility counts,” Shaye said once he’d purchased the blue noodles. She poked him once, right in the stomach, with one. The noodle bent easily; he barely felt her jab. He retaliated by bopping her on the shoulder with his.

A short distance farther, they reached the bumper cars. A big sign said NO HARD BUMPING at the entrance to the ride. “You planning to break the rules?” he asked.

She rubbed her hands together. “Oh, yeah. We’ll bump, sideswipe, and I’ll come at you head-on.”

He’d been warned. She was a tomboy at heart, and she was out to kick his butt. He paid for their tickets out of what remained of the twenty, then turned to her. “Is this a real game, or did you invent it?”

“My brothers created the game to let off steam when we were kids.”

Great. Her family. Her rules. His loss would be quick and, no doubt, painful.

The bumper cars were metallic black with white racing stripes down the middle and silver numbers on the back. Rubber bumpers surrounded the cars. Small electric cards drew power from the floor and ceiling. The metal floor gave a flat ride. Drivers could accelerate and steer. And vibrate.

“Is your baseball cap on tight?” she asked.

“It fits okay.”

She pulled her cap farther down her head, so the back rim reached nearly to her eyebrows. She tapped her foam noodle against her thigh, ready to rumble.

“Pick a car,” she said.

The ride had yet to open. Twenty cars banked one wall, in numerical order. Trace looked them over. He decided on lucky number seven. Shaye chose diabolical thirteen.

She then gave him the final instructions on the game. “We move around the floor and”—she pointed her water noodle at him—“the first person to knock the baseball cap off the other person’s head is the winner. You can’t reset your cap. If it starts to slip, it slips.”

No wonder she’d chosen a too-small hat. Hers fit snugly and would be difficult for him to tip off her head. Devious woman.

They settled into their cars and strapped on their seat belts. The bumper car was small, and he was a big man. His knees banged the steering wheel. His elbows poked out at his sides like an overgrown kid’s.

Shaye slid into her car as if it were made for her.

She nodded to the operator. “Start the engines.”

The cars vibrated, enough to make his cramped legs tingle. He couldn’t fully straighten out his foot to accelerate. The slight press of his toe was the extent of his power. Shaye appeared to go three times as fast. The lady was on a tear.

She charged him, head lowered, like a female knight with a foam lance. She was out for blood and good at playing chicken. He swerved first. The slap of her foam noodle caught his shoulder.

He heard her laugh above the noise of the cars. She’d released her responsibilities and was having fun. The amusement park allowed her to return to her childhood on a moment’s notice. She could shift from grown-up to kid in seconds. He suddenly felt ten, though quite big for his age.

Jab! Jab!
He’d foolishly let his mind wander, while Shaye was on full alert. She sideswiped him and poked the back of his neck. Her swipes were getting closer and closer to the bill on his baseball cap. He got down to business, serious now. No way would he let her win this contest.

If the lady wanted a joust, he’d give her one.

They were playing for office space.

If he lost, she would continue working from the beach.

If he won, she’d join him at Saunders Square.

He needed the win. She wasn’t big on sharing. He refused to track her down every damn day for an update on the volleyball tournament.

He drove his bumper car in a wide circle, letting her come to him. He wanted her to think he was in escape mode, until she was close enough for him to disarm her.

He maneuvered cautiously and managed to get behind her. He was now a water noodle’s length from her baseball cap, which faced backward.

He stretched and was able to flick the bill, but it didn’t budge. He shifted on the seat and pressed the pedal flat with the side of his foot so he could get even closer. He was so damn near, he tasted victory.

He never expected her to stop short. But she did.

She let up on the accelerator, and he bumped her hard. The jolt had no effect on her, only on him. It loosened his baseball cap. The hat slipped off the back of his head and caught on his shirt collar. A slight saving grace, although he was afraid to move. He let his bumper car idle.

Shaye didn’t lose any time. She circled and came up alongside him. A one-handed, smart-ass flip of her blue noodle sent his baseball cap flying.

He couldn’t believe it. He watched as the vibration of the floor captured the fallen hat and carried it beneath Shaye’s car. Only the bill remained visible.

Her smile broke, and she had the balls to take a victory lap. She held her water noodle high. “Winner, winner, winner,” she chanted.

“You cheated.” He snatched up his cap.

“I was raised with four brothers. I learned to play dirty.” She went on to park her bumper car.

He trailed behind.

The operator shut off the power, and the cars stilled. They both unbuckled and climbed out, meeting near the entrance. A line had formed, and a group of teens watched them leave. No one would ever guess that the woman walking at his side ran Barefoot William Enterprises. She looked pretty and unpretentious, yet Trace knew her ploys. She was unpredictable at best, more often outright devious.

He soon discovered Shaye couldn’t even walk a straight line. She was constantly sidetracked. She stopped to talk to family and to strangers. She changed direction on him sixteen times.

After their endless walk, she finally paused in the cherry-colored doorway of The Dairy Godmother. “Do we have enough money left to buy ice cream cones?” she asked.

He jiggled the change in his pocket. “One scoop each, but I’d be willing to supplement if you want a banana split or sundae.”

The air-conditioning in the ice cream parlor was as cold as a freezer. The Dairy Godmother was decorated in red and white, cheerful and inviting. The scent of fresh cream welcomed customers.

Six stools lined the short counter. The same number of booths backed the far wall. The shop was basic but busy. The parlor offered three flavors of homemade ice cream and dozens of toppings.

As family, Shaye could have cut to the front, but she took her place in line and waited her turn. Trace slipped in behind her. They still held their water noodles.

Jenna Cates from the T-shirt shop stood two people ahead of them. Her smile tipped up. “It’s my sweet cousin and the sixty-dollar man.”

“Are you still Three Sheets, I mean Shirts, to the Wind?” he asked.

Jenna flashed her BlackBerry, all sarcastic and smug. “I’m standing, Sixty, but I’ve got you captured sitting in a bumper car getting your butt kicked.”

Text messaging and photographs
. Obviously the operators of each ride had tracked Shaye, and word had spread that he’d suffered defeat. Twice.

A few people turned, taking an interest in their conversation. Trace closed down. There was no point in sparring with Jenna. She had blackmail photos. He broke eye contact and looked around further.

He couldn’t help comparing The Dairy Godmother to Lavender’s, the gourmet ice cream parlor at Saunders Shores. The differences were glaring. Lavender’s catered to the discriminating palate. The specialty flavors included coconut-caramel and raspberry truffle. Those preferring sorbet selected from burnt-sugarplum, ginger-grape, and cranberry-pear.

Each dessert came in a cut crystal bowl. The portions were no bigger than a Parisian scoop, no more than two bites. Customers sat at linen-covered café tables. The lighting was soft, and French shutters were drawn against the harsh sun.

Oddly enough, Trace preferred The Dairy Godmother. He was there with Shaye, and that seemed to matter a lot. The line moved forward. He backed Shaye so closely, had they been horizontal, they would’ve been spooning. Her scent drifted to him, one of sunshine, Dove soap, and sexy female.

She exhaled slowly, a woman relaxed. She tugged off her baseball cap and shook out her curls. Her beaded hair band slipped, angling over her left ear.

He didn’t think, only reacted. He straightened it. Her hair was shiny, soft. Her ears were double-pierced. She wore a gold post and small hoop in each one. He curved his hands over her shoulders and nudged her forward when the line progressed.

It seemed natural to touch her. She didn’t turn on him, didn’t demand he let her go. She did, however, blush. He watched, fascinated, as heat crept up the back of her neck and colored her cheeks.