Chapter 4
Ishould head home. I couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I drove to the secluded inlet I found a few years ago.
It’s probably private property, but no one’s ever bothered to tell me so.
Then I went to the field, threw until my shoulder was screaming.
By the time I collapsed into bed, it was well after three a.m. Tomorrow, the Fourth of July, will be an early morning and a busy day at work.
Yet I don’t move from my truck’s hood. I continue to stare up at the clear, dark sky, scattered with stars, wishing I hadn’t bothered to show up.
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known she had too.
Wouldn’t have been stuck with this awareness, left wondering what she’s doing inside.
Wondering who she’s talking to. Wondering why she bothered to come.
It wasn’t for Wade; she didn’t even remember his name.
With a frustrated exhale, I slide off the hood and trek toward the house.
Tonight was supposed to be simple—a cold beer and fooling around with Macie, a new waitress at the yacht club’s restaurant.
Instead, I’m sober, and I’ve been too busy avoiding looking at Wren to notice if Macie is here or not.
Wade is leaning against the railing, smoking a joint, a melting bag of ice propped against the post to his left. “Thanks,” he says as I approach.
“Don’t mention it.”
I mean that literally. The last thing I want is misplaced gratitude from Wade. I didn’t lie to spare him Cammie’s wrath. I lied because I had seen how all the guys were looking at Wren, and I knew they’d be less obvious about checking her out if they thought I was interested in her.
I leave Wade smoking on the deck and head inside.
The air-conditioning has never worked well in this house, and having a few dozen people crammed inside isn’t helping, but at least the living room is less humid than outside.
The kitchen is my current destination, but I only make it a few steps before I hear my name called.
Gus beckons me over when I glance his way, shouting, “Cap!” again.
I wish I could discreetly inquire what the hell he’s thinking. Wren is standing next to him, and I have no clue why Gus is calling me over to join them.
You got the girl, idiot. Fucking hoard her. Make a damn move. Don’t create competition.
Not that I’m competing.
“Oh, look. It’s my personal lifeguard,” Wren drawls as I approach.
“Thought you didn’t need one,” I say, stopping a few feet away.
She acts like I said nothing, glancing at Gus. “Sawyer invited me,” she informs him.
My molars grind. I should have anticipated Wren would make a bigger deal about my kitchen comment than Cammie or Wade.
“He did, huh?”
My best friend sounds surprised, but it’s not because of the invitation. It’s because very few people know my first name. Even fewer use it.
“You remembered my name?” I gasp in mock shock.
Wren rolls her eyes. I doubt Wade even noticed her memory lapse; he was too busy ogling her.
“How long have you guys worked at the marina?” she asks.
Gus answers for us both. “Since the start of high school.”
“Which was … when?”
“Three years ago.”
“You’re my age, then.” She looks at me, not Gus, as she says it.
So, I say, “I prefer older women.”
“Like Cammie?” Wren’s tone makes it clear the dislike is two-sided.
I know what Cammie’s issue with Wren is.
Wren is a member—an esteemed member—of the group of entitled, privileged people who consider summer a verb, not a season.
Snobs who descend on our hometown like locusts for three months, acting like we’re the interlopers, expecting to be catered to and accommodated and prioritized.
But I don’t know what Wren’s issue with Cammie is. Yeah, Cammie wasn’t welcoming, but Wren doesn’t seem that thin-skinned.
I shrug rather than answer her question. I regret what happened with Cammie, and I have no interest in explaining it.
Wren flicks her hair over one shoulder. “What about you, Gus?” she asks, glancing at him. “You prefer older women too?”
He chuckles nervously, swiping some hair out of his eyes. “Eh, I’m not too picky.” His eyes widen. “Not like—I mean, I’m open to anyone. In-in a, uh, inclusive way. Not like I think girls—women—are easy.”
“I can be easy,” Wren says, then winks.
Gus’s ears go red. “Oh. I, uh … cool.” He takes a long swig from his beer.
I don’t laugh because Gus is uncomfortable. But I want to. I would have if she’d said that to me.
I can’t picture her and Gus together. Wren pushes because she wants to be challenged back, and Gus is too polite. Too worried about offending.
But he needs to recognize that incompatibility for himself. Maybe he has, and that’s why I was called over.
“Gotta take a piss,” I say. “See you later, man.”
I glance at Wren rather than including her in the goodbye, and it’s a mistake. Far less of a dismissal than I meant it to be.
I walk away as fast as I can in the crowded living room.
There’s a line for the half bath off the kitchen, so I head upstairs.
Moans coming from Cammie’s bedroom suggest at least one couple has already headed to bed.
I haven’t seen her since she chewed me out earlier for inviting a “spoiled princess” to her home, so maybe it’s Cammie in there.
I hope it is. Our friendship would be less tense if she met a new guy.
I pee, wash my hands, and then rake a wet hand through my hair, trying to come up with a game plan for downstairs. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to not be here either. If I head home, I’ll lie awake and stare at the ceiling.
Maybe I’ll walk to the beach. Being near the water always clears my head.
I open the door, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the dimmer light in the hallway. They still locate her immediately.
Wren’s leaning a shoulder against the wall across from the bathroom, inspecting her nails. Her cup is gone. Her chin lifts to meet my gaze as I enter the hallway.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, the babble of overlapping voices downstairs suddenly muted.
“All yours,” I state, stepping toward the stairs.
“I didn’t come up here to ‘take a piss.’ ” Her imitation of my voice isn’t very accurate. At least, I hope it’s not. Or else I sound like a douche.
I glance back. She’s given me the perfect opening to ask, “Why did you come, then?”
I’m no longer talking about upstairs. I’m wondering why she’s here, period.
Wren doesn’t reply. She closes the distance between us in a couple of rapid strides, colliding our mouths together.
Kissing me—again.
Catching me off guard—again.
She doesn’t taste like alcohol. She tastes like mint and watermelon. Her lips are soft and warm, moving against mine in a demanding rhythm that’s impossible to ignore.
I get caught up in matching it for longer than I’d like to admit. Lack of oxygen is the main reason I step back, sucking in a hasty breath. “Stop kissing me.”
“Because you hate it?” Wren’s smirk is knowing as she glances at my crotch.
I exhale heavily, fists clenched, urging my dick to deflate. Her staring isn’t helping. I’ve been less turned on during blow jobs than I am by her gaze lingering on the bulge of my erection.
Wren has this infuriating talent for teasing. A skill of manipulating people exactly where she wants them. I know it, I’ve seen it, and yet I’m still susceptible.
She doesn’t need to know that though.
“You’re not my type,” I tell her, which is absolutely true.
“You know I can see you’re hard, right?”
I scowl. “I get hard watching porn too. Don’t take it personally.”
She scoffs. “You have a high opinion of your hand, if you think jerking off is the same as sex with me.”
I grudgingly admire her confidence. Wren isn’t the only one who enjoys a challenge, and there aren’t many people who push back at me.
“You want to fuck?” I ask bluntly.
I’m expecting her to laugh. Or act offended. Or do anything really, other than reply, “Yes,” equally frank.
“It won’t be what you’re used to,” I warn. “I don’t do sweet or romantic. Just fast and hard.”
This time, I predict her reaction correctly.
Her chin juts defiantly. “I told you, you don’t know me. Or what I’m used to.”
“We can use Wade’s room.” I start that way, the opposite direction from the stairs.
Most—maybe all—of me isn’t expecting her to follow, but she does.
I’ve been propositioned at parties in the past, but hooking up at one has never unfolded like this before.
I’m sober since I never made it back to the kitchen for a beer, and I’m starting to suspect Wren is, too, which is also an anomaly.
That must be why this feels different, I decide, as I flick on a lamp to rummage through Wade’s bedside table for a condom.
Once I find one, I turn the lamp back off.
Enough moonlight is coming through the open window to illuminate shapes, and I want this to feel as impersonal as possible. Hard and fast, just like I told her.
I’m already wondering what she looks like naked, imagining what her tits look like bare, with no swimsuit in the way. Picturing how perfectly they’d fit in my hands. I kind of want to kiss her again. Getting a girl fully naked and making out are not things I normally think about.
I unzip my jeans before ripping the condom open with my teeth.
Releasing my throbbing cock from its denim prison is a temporary relief.
I pinch the tip of the condom and roll it on, glancing at Wren.
She’s watching me, her profile silhouetted by the mirror as she leans against the wall beside Wade’s dresser.
There’s something sexy about her stillness.
About how intentional this all feels, like she showed up tonight with the sole purpose of this happening and is waiting for me to follow through.
I walk over to her, battling an unexpected barrage of uncertainty, not stopping until our bodies are pressed together. I can hear her breathing. Feel her body heat. Smell her shampoo or perfume—some floral, expensive scent that doesn’t belong in Wade’s messy room.