Into the Blue (Saltwater Secrets #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jade

Bright sunlight streams into the room, glinting from two golden trophies on a nearby glass table, one tipped over, a dribble of champagne spilling onto the plush carpet.

I wince, shifting on the massive bed, my eyes sticky from sleep and the excesses of the night before.

A hand slides up my body, warm and tanned, practised fingers squeezing my nipple, twirling it as though they’re trying to tune an old radio.

“Stop,” I mumble, pushing the hand away.

A muscular body presses against me, the hand moving lower. I grab it, groaning. “I said stop!”

Ocean eyes stare into mine, though they’re more red than blue at the moment. “C’mon, Jade,” a voice says, with a strong South African accent. “You know you want to.”

Zach Van Veldt. One of the world’s top surfers, a master in the waves and, let’s be honest, a demon in the sack.

A social media star with millions of devoted followers, and like me, a face of Ocean’s Curl, one of the top surf clothing brands.

He’s also my on-again/off-again boyfriend, but probably more off than on lately, despite what the media says.

And whenever we do meet up it seems to be more about partying and threesomes than spending any real time together.

Zach rolls on top of me, his cock nudging between my legs.

I’m way too hungover for this. Placing both hands on his muscular chest I push, more gently than I’d like to.

But he resists, darting his head down for a kiss, his tongue flickering between my lips tasting like last night’s cocktails and a hint of coconut sunscreen.

Christ, my head hurts. I push him again, and hear a feminine sigh from the other side of the bed.

Shit. A vague memory comes back to me of stumbling into the hotel lift last night, the girl kissing my neck while Zach, that filthy bastard, had a hand between both our legs, his erection pressing against his low-slung cargo pants.

Not really how I wanted to celebrate, but Zach’s tough to resist.

Not this morning, though. I roll away from him as he falls back onto the bed, all tanned skin and rippling abs.

I sit up, taking in the wreckage of the room, the discarded clothing and champagne bottles, the haze of white powder on the coffee table, the half-smoked joints in the ashtray, and wonder what his adoring fans would think if I took a photograph of him now and shared it on my socials.

I pick up my phone and, as though he can read my mind, Zach grins, putting his hand on his dick.

“Something to remember me by, babe?” he drawls.

No, asshole, I want to say. I have enough nudes of him.

More than enough. “Actually, I’m checking my flight times.

” I get up, evading his reaching hands, shrugging an oversized Ocean’s Curl T-shirt over my nakedness.

The girl on the other side of Zach, her hair cascading down her back in dark waves, starts giving him head, her fingers sliding around his balls as he groans.

I glimpse the AAA stamp on the inside of her wrist as she plays with him.

Girls love getting that stamp, absolutely cream their panties over it, thinking it means they get the full VIP experience on Zach’s dime.

But the joke is that it actually means Zach gets to access all their areas; as though he’s putting his mark on them.

I roll my eyes and head into the palatial bathroom.

“Only the best for my surfing stars,” said our manager, Sol, as he booked us into the ultra-modern hotel suite overlooking the curving blue bay.

Easy for him to say, when he’s not the one paying for it.

Oh, don’t get me wrong: Zach and I make plenty of money but, as Sol says, our value lies in us being a couple.

Another reason it’s so hard to let go of Zach.

I need the money, but it also doesn’t help that I keep getting roped into doing sexy photoshoots with him for Ocean’s Curl.

Nor do the headlines, screaming about surfing’s hottest couple, each competition we win fuelling the fire, more smiling photographs of us garlanded with flowers, spraying champagne on each other.

I snort as I step under the rain shower head and lather up a sponge, scrubbing at my body as though I can erase the drunken memories of the night before.

The sex was fun; it always is, especially after a few drinks.

But now I have to pay, in more ways than one.

My mind drifts, the scrape of the sponge against my skin becoming more rhythmic.

I lean against the wall of the tiled shower, my hand between my legs, my head going back as I stroke myself to ecstasy.

Strange that I would need to, after the night I’ve just had.

But while Zach, and the various girls he brings into our bed, give me plenty of orgasms, something about them feels performative, as though I’m playing a part for someone else.

I enjoy the physical side of sex, but there’s always something missing, no matter how I feel about the person I’m sleeping with, a part of me that no one seems able to reach.

I loved Zach, a lot, when we first got together, and thought he might be the one for me.

But now I’m not sure how I feel. So instead, I think of pounding waves and of someone else between my thighs, someone I haven’t met yet who might complete me, as I shudder to climax, my hand braced against the tiles.

I rinse off, turning off the shower and stepping out to towel myself dry.

Rhythmic gasps come from the bedroom, a duet with Zach’s moans.

I hope they finish soon. I have a plane to catch, and Manny needs to sort out the girl, hand back her phone and pay her to sign the NDA before she leaves.

I make myself a coffee, trying to ignore the noises from the bedroom, shaking out my long damp hair as I get dressed.

My bodyguard is on the adjacent balcony when I step outside.

Dressed in his customary black T-shirt and jeans, huge muscled arms covered with traditional Pacific Islander tattoos straining against the sleeves of his shirt, he leans against the glass-panelled railing, his bald scalp gleaming in the sun.

“How’s the head?” He jerks his chin at me.

“It’s been better,” I say, grimacing. Even through sunglasses the sun is unbearably bright and clear.

“Big night?” One corner of his mouth twitches.

“You should know. You were there for part of it,” I snap, then relent. “Sorry.”

Manny inclines his head, still with that grin at the corner of his mouth. “You seemed in good hands when we got back here.”

“Don’t.” My stomach churns as I stare out at the ocean.

“You wanna talk about it?” Concern tinges Manny’s voice this time. “That boy is no good for you, you know.”

I shake my head, then wish I hadn’t. Manny is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father, and his bulk has absorbed more than one bout of my tears.

I know he’s right about Zach, but I can’t seem to stop going back to him.

I sit at the wooden table, shading my eyes against the glare and take a sip of coffee, wincing, hoping the painkillers will kick in soon.

My phone is buzzing with notifications and a message from Sol about a potential new sponsorship deal, then a second one asking why I haven’t posted anything yet this morning.

I wish I could ignore them all, but I can’t.

I reply to Sol, asking him to send details through about the new sponsor, then to his second message, telling him I had a big night and asking if he saw the stuff I already posted about that.

Then I sigh, because I know that won’t be enough for him or any of the companies who already sponsor me.

Waves hiss and crash on the nearby shore as I prop my manicured feet on the cushioned seat of the chair opposite, taking a short video of the coffee, my tanned legs and the spectacular ocean view.

“Morning coffee. Feeling #blessed” I tap into my phone, ,sharing the reel to my socials, tagging in the coffee supplier and anyone else I can think of.

All lies. I don’t feel blessed at all. I feel exhausted.

It’s hard work being one of the best female surfers in the world.

It comes with privileges, of course, but I worked damn hard to get here.

And the work doesn’t stop. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up, if I’m honest. Sure, I won the competition yesterday, as did Zach, but it was close.

I feel out of sorts, as though my body is protesting about something, but I’m not sure what.

Even surfing, the thing I love more than almost anything, doesn’t fulfil me the same way it used to.

I scroll through my socials, not really taking much of anything in.

Then an image catches my eye. It’s of a ruined temple deep in a jungle, ancient grey stones against verdant green leaves, like something from a fantasy movie.

I wish I could be somewhere like that, far from everyone and everything else.

The post is from the MZM Foundation, the copy saying it’s the latest site they’ve saved from development.

MZM was set up almost a year ago by Myles Brandon, the billionaire owner of Ocean’s Curl.

He’s a friend, as is his wife, Zara, and I think it’s a really cool idea of theirs, preserving significant places all over the planet.

There’s going to be a big fundraising event in a few months’ time in New York, to celebrate their first year.

I wish I could do something like that, something that makes a difference in the world.

Everything just feels so … empty at the moment.

I’m ashamed, when I think about it, of all of it; the drugs, the girls, Zach, the fact that I feel as though I’ve lost my way.

Maybe I should ask Myles if there’s some way I can help with the foundation.