Chapter 5 Wyatt
WYATT
THE BOWRIDER TEARS ACROSS THE lake, its hull slapping against the water. Blake gives it more gas, and the roar of the engine echoes off the tree-lined shoreline, white sheets of spray exploding on either side of the boat.
Normally, I would love it. The fine mist soaking my face, the blue sky above us and blue water below us. Unfortunately, the person driving the boat is a lunatic.
“Slow down,” I shout at Blake.
She looks over at me, her ponytail whipping in the wind, blue eyes gleaming with excitement.
“No,” she shouts back.
Oh my God. Maybe her father was right to recruit me. Why didn’t I know that Blake Logan was a daredevil? This is the kind of irresponsible shit my buddies and I would pull. And I don’t like being made to be the adult in the equation.
I clutch the side rail as the bow bounces from each hard slice through the choppy water.
“Goddamn it, Logan!”
She laughs harder as Lake Tahoe unfurls in a wild blur around us.
Just as I’m about to go over there and forcibly yank her out of the pilot seat, she eases up on the throttle, and we begin to slow.
The wind dies and I can hear my own thoughts again.
Then she cuts the throttle entirely and shifts into neutral. Fucking finally.
“Pleased with yourself?” I ask.
She turns to grin at me. Her hair is a tangled mess, and I watch with fascination I hate feeling as she releases it from the ponytail and finger combs it until it’s cascading over one shoulder.
With a happy sigh, she says, “It’s so nice driving the boat without my father watching from the dock with a pair of binoculars.”
I snicker. Of all my dad’s friends, John Logan is the most entertaining, I’ll give him that. Tucker is too nice, all sugary sweet. And Dean has that confidence that gets exhausting sometimes. Like, dude, can you stop being so charming? He’s not even trying; it’s just his personality.
Logan is the hilarious one. A solid, laid-back presence, always there when you need him.
If he loves you, he’s quick to show it. He wears his heart on his sleeve, unlike his daughter, this wild-haired brunette with the cautious eyes.
Growing up, I always wondered what Blake was hiding behind that unreadable gaze. It intrigued me, even as a kid.
As an adult, it’s a much headier thought, because not only do I want to know all her secrets, but I also want to make those eyes gleam. I want them raw and unguarded. I want to see how dark and heavy-lidded they get when she’s having an orgasm.
Fuck. I bet her eyes look so pretty when she’s coming.
“You want to anchor here?” She’s already kicking off her sandals.
I cough, snapping out of my inappropriate thoughts. “Sure.”
I grab the rope coil and move to the bow to drop the anchor.
It hits the water with a satisfying splash, the line hissing through my fingers until finally tugging tight.
A sense of peace washes over me as the boat bobs in place while the sun high above us ripples over the water.
It’s creating a mesmerizing effect. Like gold coins scattered across the lake.
I tuck the image away. It’s a nice one. Maybe it belongs in a song.
With the sun beating down on my head, I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. Blake unzips her cropped hoodie, leaving her in a pink bikini top and tiny denim shorts that barely cover her ass.
“I’m gonna sunbathe for a while,” she says, popping open the button of her shorts while I pretend not to notice.
I walk barefoot to the back of the boat, where I haphazardly dropped my guitar on the padded seat. Oh, Betty. My old girl. This guitar’s been through a lot. She’s no longer glossy but a dull brown now. A couple of the tuning pegs are bent, and there’s a deep scratch on the side of her neck.
“You sure your precious guitar should be on board?” Blake mocks. “Aren’t you worried? You know, when the rogue wave hits.”
“Nah. Betty’s the boat guitar. She knows the risks.”
“Your boat guitar is named Betty? Also, what is a boat guitar?”
“It’s a guitar I’m okay losing. If she falls overboard, I’ll survive. I got her for twenty bucks at a secondhand shop. What, you think I’d bring one of my real guitars out here?”
“I’m not versed in your guitar transporting habits, Wyatt.”
She’s wiggling out of her shorts now. I avert my eyes. Then I unavert them, because I’m a man and I have no willpower when it comes to this girl. Her body is so fucking tight. Perky ass, long legs, cute tits. And those freckles. They’re everywhere. I want to map them out with my tongue.
I shove my sunglasses off my forehead and onto the bridge of my nose.
It’s my only defense against the feral look I’m sure I’m sporting.
It also lets me watch her apply sunscreen without coming off like I’m openly ogling her as she rubs the cream all over her arms, her collarbone, her stomach, between her tits—
Stop looking.
Right. Gulping, I unzip my backpack and rummage inside for my songbook until my fingers collide with the worn leather cover. I need to focus on something other than Blake’s tits. She’s too young for me.
She’s twenty, reminds a voice in my head.
True. And turning twenty-one soon—her birthday is in July. So no matter how much I want to keep viewing her that way, she really isn’t a kid anymore.
Neither am I for that matter. I’ll be twenty-five this fall.
Which raises the question: What the hell is up with time?
I feel like only yesterday, I was eighteen, telling my parents I didn’t want to go to college and that I was moving to Nashville to launch my music career.
Then I blinked and it’s six years later, with no career in sight.
Sure, I make a living gigging. I get a decent number of streams on the music platforms and tons of hits on my video channel.
But I’m not playing sold-out stadiums or winning Grammys, now am I?
My mom won her first Grammy when she was twenty-five.
I hate that my brain always harps on that fact.
I always have to remind myself that Mom’s musical journey isn’t the typical one.
Most people don’t land a job with a huge producer right out of college.
They don’t get the opportunity to work on an up-and-coming hip-hop artist’s album.
To write and produce the hit song that would go on to sweep every awards show that year.
My mother is talented beyond belief, but she also got lucky. Other songwriters don’t have such an easy time of it. Case in point—me.
The irony is I could have it easy. But the one thing I’ll never do is use my mother’s connections to advance my career, even as everyone around me insists I’m a fucking moron not to.
Our boat starts rocking a bit harder. I hear an engine, followed by a wolf whistle that skitters across the water toward us.
“Is that you, Wyatt?” chirps a female voice.
The sleek white speedboat gets closer, revealing three older women in big sunglasses and floppy hats. They’re all wearing skimpy bikinis and all displaying some impressive curves.
Squinting behind my Ray-Bans, I hide a grin when I recognize Liz Brown. She owns a house nearby.
“Hey, Mrs. Brown,” I call out.
“Honey, what did I tell you about calling me Mrs. Brown? It’s Liz.” She lifts her sunglasses to her forehead and peers into our boat. “That’s not Gigi, is it?”
“No, it’s me,” Blake tells our neighbor, waving awkwardly. “Blake. Hi, Mrs. Brown.”
“Blakey? Oh my God. Look how gorgeous you are.” Turning back to me, Liz offers an impish smile. “We’re up here for the week. Girls’ trip—”
“Girls’ trip!” her friends whoop, waving around their plastic wine goblets. It’s obvious they’ve been drinking for…a while.
“But you know you’re welcome anytime, Wyatt,” Liz finishes. “Stop by for a glass of wine.”
“Thanks,” I say noncommittally. “I might take you up on that.”
“You do that, honey.”
I’m grinning as they speed away, their wake sending a sheet of mist into our boat.
“You’re welcome anytime,” Blake mimics.
I glance over. “Jealous?”
“Yes, Graham, I’m jealous that you’re banging women twice your age in Tahoe.”
“Hey, I don’t think she’s even forty.”
“Didn’t deny the banging part…”
“One time. Ages ago.”
“But you never forget your first cougar, right?”
With a laugh, I pick up the tube of sunscreen she left on the chair and flip open the cap. I’m about to squeeze some into my palm when from the corner of my eye, I see her delicate fingers undoing the hot-pink strings at her back.
The two triangles slide loose and—
Plop.
“That’s a lot of sunscreen,” she remarks.
I stare down at my hand to find I’ve squirted nearly half the tube into it.
Jesus Christ.
Don’t fucking look, I tell myself.
Out loud, I direct a sharp order her way, keeping my gaze firmly at eye level. “Put your top back on.”
She eyes me like I’m the crazy one. “No. I told you I want to tan.”
“Do it in your bathing suit.”
“I don’t want tan lines.”
I have no idea how I’m managing to engage in conversation when her bare tits are in my face. Despite my valiant efforts, my gaze dips for a second.
I knew her nipples would be pink.
When I lift my head, she’s smirking like a brat.
“I’m not kidding,” I warn.
“Oh, I know. Neither am I. The top stays off,” Blake says airily. “Deal with it.”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, staring intently at my feet. I’m worried that if I let myself look one second longer, even just at her eyes, I’ll lose every ounce of restraint I’ve built over the years of pretending I don’t see her.
God, I should’ve just stayed on the dock. Though in my defense, when I insisted on coming along for this boat ride, I didn’t factor in that she might decide to take her goddamn top off.
Hearing my phone buzzing, I lunge for it, desperate for a distraction.
MIRA
Paula’s mom just saw you on the lake. You didn’t tell me you were in Tahoe.
Shit. Bad distraction.