2. Luca
Leucate, France
Five years ago…
"Here. Have some weed."
"No, thanks."
I wave away the joint that American kitesurfer Jake Grundy shoves in my face and back out of the packed kitchen. Reggae music blasts from the speakers, plumes of marijuana smoke hang in the air, and people are talking and laughing and dancing around a giant beer keg resting on the island.
Why am I here?
I blame jet lag and not wanting to draw attention to myself.
I'm a rookie. This is my first year competing in the major league after four seasons in the juniors.
I need to prove myself.
And stay under the radar.
No one can know my secret. That's in the past now, and that's where it has to stay.
My first heat is tomorrow morning. I should be asleep in my hotel room, but instead, here I am at Travis King's opening round party.
The mere mention of that guy's name makes my stomach clench.
I slip out of the kitchen and eye off the just-as-busy living room. Looks like everyone from the tour is here, as well as all the usual people who hang around pro athletes—pretty girls and drug dealers, mainly.
The only empty spot is on the arm of a sofa currently occupied by a couple who look like they're five seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off and getting into it right here and now.
I carefully perch myself on the edge and bring the red Solo cup to my lips. It's lemonade, but no one here needs to know that.
Suddenly, a deep roar cuts through the music and chatter. The sound of a revving engine and screeching tires draws everyone out to the front of the house like drunken moths to a flame. Not wanting to be the only one left inside, I follow the crowd.
"Holy shit. It's Travis King!" someone shouts excitedly.
My stomach flips involuntarily, and I frown, taking in the spectacle unfolding on the street in front of the house.
A camera crew is filming a red convertible madly spinning in place—doing donuts, I think is the phrase in English—and the person hanging out the passenger side with his bare ass exposed?
Why, that's none other than Travis fucking King.
I shake my head and go inside, refusing to give the guy what he wants.
Attention.
Ever since his sex tape leaked last year, he's started filming a reality TV show. I've heard the plan is for all three King brothers to star in it. For now, it's just him and the middle brother, Troy. The youngest is finishing school in Australia, I believe.
Not that I pay that much attention to Travis or his family. This is pretty much just general knowledge…and okay, obtaining it may have involved some clandestine social media stalking.
I need a refill. Something stronger this time.
I stride through the now empty house and pour myself some beer from the keg. As I take a sip, the exhaust pops.
Then someone—points for guessing who—yells, "Who's ready to fucking party?"
A cheer erupts, the donuts stop, music comes blaring back to life, and the kitchen once again gets invaded by drunk kitesurfers who want to party.
"Great," I mutter to myself. So much for the peace and quiet.
I spend the next half an hour or so flitting around from place to place, making small talk with a few of the people I know from competing in the juniors. I'm not super close with anyone, but I'm not a loner, either.
I catch glimpses of Travis out of the corner of my eye from time to time. Two cameras follow him around, recording his every move, his every interaction.
Doesn't he ever get tired of that?
His pursuit of fame and attention is shameless. Worse than his father's, and I didn't think that was possible.
Every once in a while, his unmissable "Maaaate" filters into the air. He says that word a lot.
It's an Australian word, and it means friend or pal, right? Not sure why he says it so often or why he stretches it out for so long the way he does.
And I don't care.
Because I am not interested in Travis King in the slightest.
He is the exact opposite of what I want my first season to be about, which is doing well, finishing the year ranked inside the top fifty, and staying well and truly away from the limelight.
And unlike all the desperados clamoring for a spot in Travis's show—or his pants—I can't think of anything worse than being on reality TV.
I weave my way through the crowded living room, refusing a joint on the way, and head down the hallway to where I'm assuming one of the closed doors is a bathroom.
I try the first one. Nope. It's a bedroom.
The door opposite is the laundry room, so I go to open the lucky last door.
Except it's locked. I knock.
"Hang on a sec."
"Okay," I call back and pull out my phone to check my messages while I wait.
Nothing new. I've already texted Dad that I've arrived safely. I don't really have any close friends back home in S?o Miguel do Gostoso. Most of the people I hang out with are from the junior tour, so they're here.
That's good. Clean. I like that delineation between my life back home and my kitesurfing world.
This season is a fresh start. A chance for me to begin again. Leave all that shit behind. I'm going to do it this time. I'm going to stay away from?—
The bathroom door swings open and a messy-haired, shirtless, and annoyingly sexy Travis King bustles out.
"Oh, hey, Luca."
I push off the wall. "How do you know my name?"
"I'm great. Thanks for asking. How are you?"
Unimpressed, I fold my arms in front of my chest.
"Maaate. Relax, would you?" He chuckles, then lets his eyes roam up and down my body. Twice. "I know your name because I hired a private investigator to look into all the rookies and report back to me. You know, scope out the new competition. See who's a threat. Who isn't." He licks his lips. "Who's fucking hot."
Un-fucking-believable.
I unfold my arms. "You'd better be kidding."
He hooks his thumbs through the belt loops on his board shorts that are slung way too low on his hips. "And if I'm not kidding? What are you going to do about it?"
"Travis, you ready to start shooting?" a crew member calls from the far end of the hallway.
"Just a sec, mate," he replies, not taking his emerald green eyes off me.
His lips are curled in a smile that's equal parts annoying, smug, and too damn sexy for his own good.
He's too damn good-looking for his own good, and he knows it, too. His body is sun-kissed perfection, muscled and toned, the product of a lifetime spent kitesurfing.
But it's his face that really captures my interest. Up close like this, it's even more magnetic than what I've seen in news articles or on his social media.
Eventually, he ends the stare down and looks at his watch. "I finish shooting in about forty-five minutes. Meet me on the beach at one?"
"Shit. I didn't realize it was that late."
His lips stretch. "I thought most Brazilians partied until dawn. Longer, even."
"I'm not most Brazilians."
"Duly noted."
"Travis, come on!" The crew member is growing impatient.
"I have to go. Beach at one. Just you and me, okay? No cameras."
"Don't hold your breath," I say as he walks away.
He spins around, puffs his cheeks out, and pinches his nose like he's…holding his breath.
It's not until he disappears back to the party that I realize I'm smiling.
Fifty-five minutes later…
I'm an idiot for coming, I think to myself as I stare out into the ocean.
If I were smart, I would've ordered a car back to the hotel after my run-in with Travis, and I'd be tucked away in bed right now, getting some much-needed rest.
Instead, it's ten past one, and I'm all alone on the beach while the guy blows me off. He's got a reputation for being a player, so I really shouldn't be surprised.
Nope, this one is all on me.
"Sorry I'm late," a voice from behind me calls out.
I glance over my shoulder. A silhouetted figure is jogging toward me. Travis reaches me a few moments later and drops down onto the sand close to me.
Very close to me.
Like he's never heard of the concept of personal space before. The tips of our elbows are almost touching.
"Got held up. The director was being a dick and insisted we do some re-shoots."
"That's…"—his elbow grazes mine as he gets comfortable—"…fine," I say.
He finally settles on the sand, resting his forearms over his knees. "To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd even show up."
Wait. He didn't think I would show up?
"Why is that?"
"Well, when we ran into each other before, you didn't immediately fall to your knees and beg me to do all sorts of filthy, debaucherous things to you."
"Happens a lot, does it?"
"Maaate. All the fucking time."
He gently nudges his elbow into mine.
He's smiling.
He's…joking?
"Why do you say that word all the time?" I ask.
"What, fuck?"
"No. Mate. Or, rather…maaaate."
His smile grows. "Awww. You're so cute when you try to sound Aussie. Do it again."
"No." I tuck my legs into my body. "And I wasn't being cute."
"I beg to differ. You were the cutest guy at that party, and even though I haven't personally seen and inspected the roughly thirty or so million Frenchmen that live here, I'm confident you're the hottest fucking guy in this country right now."
Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a masterclass in how to deliver a compliment.
I'm completely tongue-tied, unable to formulate any sort of response, so I cast my eyes back to the water.
"To answer your question, it's all in the tone."
"Excuse me?"
"When I say mate like this…" He furrows his brow and tightens his jaw. "Maaaate. That means I'm angry and asking, what the fuck are you doing? When I say mate like this…" He shakes his head and smiles. "Maaaate. That means you've said something you thought was funny but actually isn't."
"All in the tone. Got it."
"Is there a word for mate in Brazilian?"
I make no effort to hide my contempt. "Are you fucking serious?"
He bites back a grin. "What? You're from Brazil, aren't you? I'm just asking if you speak the language of your country."
He's been on the pro tour for two years and did a year of juniors before that. He's visited Brazil at least two or three times. He must know the actual language we speak. Surely.
I narrow my eyes. "Você é um idiota."
"Did you just call me sexy?"
I turn my head away, but it makes no difference. I can't hide my involuntary grin from him because he whips up off the sand and jumps in front of me.
"Ah ha." He points a finger in my face. "I knew you were smiling."
I grab his finger. "I was being polite. Didn't want to laugh in your face."
"Awww, you're so well-mannered. Have I told you that good manners are one of my biggest turn-ons?"
"I've heard that a person with a pulse is one of your biggest turn-ons."
To my surprise, he laughs. "So, you've heard about me, then, hey?"
"Your reputation precedes you. When you're the first-born son of Trenton 'King of the air' King, you're a little hard to miss."
He makes a dismissive noise. "Don't believe everything you hear about me… Or see about me." His gaze dips. "Can I have my finger back please?"
I shrug. "Haven't decided yet."
"Fine. Have it your way."
He goes from crouching in front of me to plonking down beside me, on my other side now.
"How do you say 'pull my finger' in Portuguese?"
"Huh?"
He chuckles to himself. "Never mind."
I may have missed his joke, but I’m relieved he at least knows we speak Portuguese in Brazil. He was just messing with me before.
But I'm still holding on to his finger.
Why am I still holding on to his finger?
I let it go. "Just so you know, I haven't watched it."
"The sex tape?"
I nod.
"Why not?"
"Heard a few rumors. One of them being that it might have been released without your permission."
By your dad.
I have the common sense not to say that to him.
"You heard right." He kicks the sand with his heels a few times, creating a sort of dugout for his feet. "And for what it's worth, thank you for not watching it."
"Do you really hire an investigator to spy on new competitors?"
He turns to me, grinning. "Maaate."
"Judging by your facial expression and the tone and inflection you used, I'd say that means…no fucking way?"
His grin grows into a smile. "Well done. You're a quick learner." He flicks some sand over my calves. "You can put your feet in here with mine."
"That means I'd have to move closer to you."
He gasps. "Oh, good heavens. Our legs might even touch. What, are you a priest or something?"
"No."
"Are you gay?"
I hesitate for half a second. "Yes."
"Are you…cool with being gay? Brazil's still a bit conservative on that front, isn't it?"
"It can be. But yes, I'm fine with it."
Inexperienced, sure, and confused about a whole bunch of shit, but that's a whole other story.
"Go on, then." He drags his heels against the sand to make the footrest a bit bigger.
It's a slightly weird, but also a slightly sweet gesture.
I'd be rude if I didn't take him up on it. So I inch closer to him and place my feet next to his in the makeshift sand box.
"I love your skin," he says, skimming his fingertips over my forearm.
"It's brown," I point out, in a moment of sheer stupidity.
"It's beautiful." He looks up, his eyes connecting with mine. "You're beautiful, Luca Silva."
A trickle of desire dances in my chest.
Everything I've read or seen or heard about the guy indicates he's arrogant, rude, entitled, and more than just a little sex-crazed.
But if I didn't know any of that, if I were judging him purely on the few minutes we've spent together on the beach tonight, I wouldn't use any one of those words to describe him.
I'd use words like thoughtful, humble, even a little self-deprecating.
"I'd really like to kiss you."
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles. But it's not like any of his other smiles tonight. It's not bold or confident.
It's bashful. Like he's nervous or worried I might say no.
I should say no.
Ten minutes with the guy isn't enough to erase what I know of the reputation he's spent years earning.
Possibly earning.
I'm not naive enough to believe all the rumors as fact, but what's that expression, where there's smoke, there's fire? There has to be some basis to them, doesn't there?
So why is my gut urging me to trust the man sitting next to me, our feet touching, on an empty beach in the middle of the night in France?
I hesitate, then say, "You can kiss me."
"Are you sure?" He moves even closer, his hand traveling down my thigh, stopping at my knee. "Because I should warn you, I might go all Pringles on you."
"What does that mean?"
"Once I start I might not be able to stop."
I grin. "Stop talking. Start kissing."
"Sim senhor."
My lips part in surprise at the Portuguese that comes out of his mouth.
He curls one hand around the back of my neck, the other pressing down on my knee, as he moves in to kiss me.
He's as bold and direct as I expected him to be, any trace of his prior uncertainty vanishing as his lips meet mine.
He flicks his tongue playfully against my mouth a few times then drags his fingers through my hair.
I groan with pleasure, and he takes advantage, surging into my mouth. I'm greeted with faint remnants of beer and a wet, delicious warmth that makes me want more.
We keep kissing.
I run my hand under his Marley shirt, brushing over his eight-pack a few times before ascending higher, finding his nipples, and giving them a little pinch, one at a time.
"That feels good," he murmurs without breaking the kiss.
His hand climbs back up my leg, under my board shorts. They're too tight for him to get any farther than my mid-thigh.
"Can I take these off?"
"Yes," I moan into his mouth.
He pulls his hand out of my shorts, kissing me hard as he undoes the drawstring. My hard cock spills out into the night air, and then I feel the warm press of his fingers on it.
He pulls away and looks down. "Holy shit. It's black."
I…don't know what to make of that.
Is he kidding around, or does he actually have a problem with the color of my dick? He seemed to like my skin earlier, so I'm hoping it's not a race thing because that sure would make things awkward as fuck.
He resumes kissing me, but no, I can't let it go.
I push him off. "Do you have a problem with my dick? Or the fact I'm Brazilian? Or brown?"
"Yeah. It's a huge problem for me. So big that I asked you to come out here so I could get you alone and tell you how beautiful you are then ask if I could kiss you just to prove that I'm a racist asshole who doesn't like brown skin or black cocks."
I…I honestly don't know what to make of him. I don't mean about the race thing—going by his sarcastic reply, I'd say he's fine on that front—but just him.
Who the fuck is this guy?
"Take your pants off," I say, partly to deflect from how stupid I'm feeling at misreading the situation.
He follows my instruction, unhooking his boardies and tugging them down his muscular thighs.
"Holy shit. It's huge."
He slips the boardies under his bare ass to avoid sand getting in places you never want sand to get into.
He puts on a stern tone. "Have you got a problem with my dick? Or the fact that I'm incredibly well hung?"
He's smiling, but I'm not, his joke making it even clearer to me that I was out of line before.
"Sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have implied what I did. That was wrong of me."
"It's fine." He studies me intently. "I'm assuming you've had to deal with shit like that from other people before?"
"A few times."
He shakes his head. "That fucking sucks, and I'm sorry the world is still populated by racist fuckwits. I may be a fuckwit by maaany other markers, but I can assure you, that's not one of them."
"Good to know."
We get back to kissing.
Travis lies on top of me, gently guiding my head down to the sand, our hard cocks pressing together.
He wedges his hand between our bodies and grabs both of them, jerking them together as we make out.
"I'm not looking for anything complicated."
"Maaate." Travis grins, bringing his forehead to meet mine. "Simple is my middle name."
"And I'm also not looking for anything long…" Right at that moment, his cock pulses against my cock. "Term. Long-term."
He brings his hand to rest at the nape of my neck. "Remember that reputation of mine? You've got nothing to worry about there, either."
"And I don't want to have anything to do with that TV show you're in."
"Why do you think I waited until after filming to see you?"
"Okay. Good. One final thing."
"Jesus. Would you like me to sign a waiver? Donate a kidney? What?"
"You're an idiot," I murmur before kissing him gently on the lips.
He preens like it's a compliment. "Name it."
My breath catches in the back of my throat. "Uh, this…this is as far as I go."
Travis looks to the left then to the right. "You mean on the beach?"
"No." I avert my gaze. "Sexually. This is as far as I go sexually. Kissing, and…you know."
He gives my dick a hearty pull. "This?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Probably should have let you know earlier."
"You've got nothing to apologize for. You like what you like. Thank you for telling me your boundaries."
I flinch in shock. "That wasn't what I was expecting you to say."
At. All.
I thought that kissing and mutual masturbation being my sexual limits would be a deal-breaker for Travis, that he'd make some excuse to leave, and that it would all be over.
Hey, it's happened with guys before. There's a reason why I have my expectation bar set to super low.
"I'm curious to know how you thought I'd respond…but I also think I'd rather not know. Most people tend to have a pretty low opinion of me."
"Fuck. Sorry." I clench my jaw, hating that, for not the first time tonight, I've jumped to an incorrect conclusion about him. "That's so not cool of me. I apologize. Again."
"Less talking. More kissing," he says with a grin, paraphrasing me from before.
We start kissing again.
And take turns jerking each other off until we both come.
By the time we get back to the house, the party has dwindled. Most people have left and those who have stayed are either high, passed out, or making out with someone.
"I need to go inside and say goodbye to some people."
"Oh. Of course." I pull my phone out and order a car. "My car will be here in three minutes. Go."
"I can wait three minutes."
So he does.
We don't talk much, just kiss occasionally. I try to avoid the way he looks at me, like maybe he wasn't feeding me some bullshit line before and he really does think I'm beautiful.
My car pulls up.
We kiss one final time, and then I hop in.
We're almost at the end of the street when I get the sudden urge to turn around.
And there he is, standing, waiting for the car to disappear from view.
That was…nice of him.
But I can't get carried away.
Tonight, on the beach, was most likely a one-time thing.
And I have to be okay with that because we're competing on the same world tour. And even though he's been runner-up twice, and this is only my debut year, our paths are bound to cross again.
I have to stay focused on the thing that matters most—winning.