Impact Zone (Lifeguards of Barking Beach #3)

Chapter One

Even after fifteen years, Lachlan Yang knew his best friend’s father in a heartbeat.

At the end of the bar in Bali was the last place he expected to see Mr. Bullock, yet it was undeniably him standing in thongs with a foot on the rail, tapping at his phone. He wasn’t wearing a wet suit or board shorts, yet there was no doubt about it.

Had Lachlan ever seen him dressed up? A white linen shirt stretched over broad shoulders, gray trousers fit snugly on lean hips, and he had an arse that still made Lachlan’s mouth go dry.

In his late forties—possibly fifty by now?

—Mr. Bullock’s stomach might have been a bit softer, but that only made him sexier.

His brown hair, which had always had a touch of deep red in the sunlight, was going a bit gray at the temples, and hints of silver threaded through his trimmed beard. The lines around his steely blue eyes and his mouth were etched deeper, and as Lachlan neared—

Shit! Stop moving!

Mr. Bullock’s laser gaze made his face go hot. Heart tripping, Lachlan nodded to the bartender and managed to ask for a Bintang. His feet had moved of their own accord, but at least he’d stopped a few meters away before he made a complete dickhead of himself.

They were the only two patrons standing at the ornate St. Regis bar. A few more people sat on the terrace beyond glass doors, the chairs already wiped dry by the diligent staff after the late-afternoon shower. The sun dipped behind banks of clouds, and insects would be singing soon.

“I’ll have another, mate,” Mr. Bullock said to the bartender in his gruff baritone.

Jesus, it was really him.

That voice had featured in many teenage daydreams, and even though Lachlan was almost thirty now, he felt all knees and elbows. Flattening a hand on the smooth, polished wooden bar, he inhaled slowly through the unexpected wave of desire.

He hadn’t come to the St. Regis to pick up a bloke—only to treat himself to some peace and quiet. Sometimes the partying with his old mates was just boring. He’d never imagined for a second he’d encounter anyone he was interested in.

Not that he’d be picking up his best mate’s straight father. He hadn’t picked up anyone in ages. Why was he even thinking about that?

A slightly manic laugh bubbled up at the idea, and he tried covering it with a cough. The bartender immediately passed him a chilled glass of water. He gulped it.

“You right?” Mr. Bullock asked.

For a second, Lachlan was thrilled to be noticed.

Then he reminded himself it was hard not to notice him acting like a complete knob.

He nodded, and for some reason—temporary insanity?

—said, “I came down for that sabering ceremony they do. Figured it was a good way to score a free glass of champers.” He regretted the childish words immediately, but Ryan’s dad nodded.

“The alcohol import tax in Indonesia’s a killer.” He held up his Bintang. “Local brew’s the only way to go unless you’re loaded.”

Lachlan thought of his next student loan payment. “Definitely not loaded.” He cleared his throat and waited for Mr. Bullock to recognize him as they looked at each other.

And waited.

Just as Lachlan was about to mention Ryan, Mr. Bullock stuck out his hand and said, “Tim.”

“Right. I’m—you’re…” Untying his tongue, Lachlan grasped the warm, callused hand. “Tim.” The name felt ridiculously forbidden.

Mr. Bullock’s strong left eyebrow rose. “You’re a Tim too?”

Lachlan could have written poems about that eyebrow. He probably had in year nine. He laughed. “No! Sorry. Lachlan.”

The metal of Mr. Bullock’s silver signet ring was smooth against Lachlan’s finger as he let go.

Even after fifteen years, Lachlan knew the ring depicted a simple half-circle sun with rays etched into the metal.

Mr. Bullock had always worn it on his right hand, with his gold wedding band on his left.

Looking down to sign the tab that had been discreetly placed on the bar in a slim leather folder, Lachlan glanced at Tim’s left hand where it rested on the polished wood.

He half expected a slim circle of ghostly white skin to stand out starkly on the ring finger given Tim’s perpetual tan, but in the years since the Bullocks’ split, any mark had of course disappeared.

Lachlan gulped a mouthful of beer, waiting again for Mr. Bullock to recognize him now that he’d said his name, although it was very common. If you called out, “Lachie!” on Kuta Beach in Bali with the hordes of Aussies there, dozens of heads would swivel.

He couldn’t decide if not being remembered stung or was…what? Maybe a bit fun?

After all, the Bullocks had moved away to Queensland on the other side of the country when Lachlan and Ryan were in year ten and Lachlan was still scrawny with spots and a cracking voice.

Ryan had returned to Barking as soon as possible at the end of high school after a big blow-up with his father. As far as Lachlan knew, Ryan had barely spoken to him since, and Mr. Bullock still lived out on the Gold Coast.

Some years ago, Mrs. Bullock had moved back west too, settling in Wembley, one of Perth’s suburbs, with her new partner. Mr. Bullock had apparently been the one to leave her, which had only cemented Ryan’s resentment.

Not that Lachlan blamed him for being angry—his father had been completely wrong to dip into the savings account set aside for Ryan’s future.

Lachlan had been so disappointed when Ryan had bitten out the words about what his dad had done.

It’d been a shock to learn his childhood hero was a dickhead.

He should leave now without another word. Yet he watched Mr. Bullock, tapping at his phone as he sipped his beer. It was really him. What would he say if Lachlan brought up Ryan? Would he be ashamed? Or eager to chat?

After a few years—and Mr. Bullock’s repeatedly rebuffed attempts at paying back the money—Lachlan had truthfully felt like Ryan was so stuck in his resentment he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give his dad a fair shake. And plenty of marriages failed. Surely it wasn’t solely Mr. Bullock’s fault?

Lachlan would’ve given anything for his parents to be alive to make mistakes, though he knew it wasn’t a fair comparison.

He should finish his beer, nod a polite farewell, and never see Mr. Bullock again.

His feet didn’t move. Instead, he reached back to fiddle with the tag of the new black, designer T-shirt he wore over tan linen pants with leather sandals.

Technically, the shirt was a knock-off he’d picked up in a shop in Nusa Dua, but it was perfectly form-fitting, if he did say so himself, and well-made aside from the scratchy tag.

After a long weekend in shorts and singlets partying with the boys, at least he felt more like an adult.

An adult Mr. Bullock was staring at, the force of his gaze undeniable.

Lachlan straightened his spine, trying to calm his racing heart as he swallowed another mouthful of cold, crisp beer. Any second, Ryan’s dad would place who he was and ask after his sister. They’d smile and nod and have an awkward catchup before going their separate ways.

Memories flicked through his mind—Mr. Bullock patiently teaching him how to surf and cheering him on when he caught his first small wave.

Saying in that direct, no-nonsense way that Lachlan’s father could “get stuffed” after Dad had lectured him about not getting top marks when Lachlan only received a B in maths.

He hadn’t thought about any of it in ages. Glancing over at Mr. Bullock, Lachlan glowed with warm nostalgia, thinking back to those innocent days despite what had come after.

Learning to surf, playing video games with Ry after school, and his biggest worry being his dad’s disappointment in his maths grade.

Another memory surfaced—Dad spending two evenings a week for the rest of the school year tutoring him instead of working late like usual. Being surprisingly patient. Calling Mum to come help when a problem stumped both of them.

Lachlan had been tempted to get an even lower grade the following term just to spend more time with him, but Dad had been so proud of his A. So had Mr. Bullock when he’d told him.

It hit him that aside from knowing Tim as Mr. Bullock, he wasn’t sure he’d even known his actual name. He’d only ever heard him called “Bull” by everyone—including Ryan’s mum.

Tim.

He rolled it around in his mind with a shiver as his phone buzzed. He glanced at the text from Daz:

Hope U R scoring some rich dick! Better be worth missing our last night!

Silencing his phone, Lachlan gulped his beer. It was easier to let Daz and the boys believe he’d wanted to get away on his own because he was too shy to pick up a bloke around them, even though they were encouraging.

The truth was, hooking up with men he didn’t know had always left him strangely cold even when the sex was objectively good.

But it had clearly been far too long without getting laid given the lust that had roared to life the moment he saw Mr. Bullock. His innocent teenage crush had instantly transformed into very adult attraction, and combined with the flood of memories, his head spun in a confusing tumble.

“Business or pleasure?” Mr. Bullock asked, those steely eyes pinning Lachlan in place.

The word “pleasure” echoed in Lachlan’s brain on a megaphone. He glanced around the empty bar to confirm that Mr. Bullock was indeed talking to him, seeing only a uniformed staff member carrying a long sword that had to be for the “sabering” ritual that was a St. Regis specialty.

Answer the question!

“It’s the last night of my holiday. Just spent three days sweating my balls off at the party resort in Kuta my mates picked for a bucks’ weekend. Wedding’s next month.”