Chapter 1 #2
Flirting at the country club never required effort. Everyone already knew everyone else’s financial status, and you just drifted toward the ones closest to your income bracket. So much could be overlooked, including attraction, when money was the primary aphrodisiac.
“Why would your parents force you to date a dweeb?” he asked.
“Because Donald is the heir to an ice cream fortune.”
His brows lifted. “Your mom and dad must really love Rocky Road.”
I made a face. “Is that another joke?”
“Not if you have to ask,” he said, the hint of a smile.
I let my gaze linger on him a second too long. He caught it, but didn’t cash in. I wasn’t used to boys like him, ones whose self-worth wasn’t tied to the size of their trust fund.
“It’s the money my parents like about him,” I admitted, “not the ice cream.”
“Hmm. Sounds like your future husband can have his pick of mouthy debutantes. So, tell me, Gold Coast, what do you bring to the table?”
“Me?” I laughed, not accustomed to having to explain myself. In the circles I ran in, my last name said it all. “Are you questioning my worth?”
“He’s a prince. Unless you’re the queen…” He let the implication linger.
“My family owns a worldwide hotel chain and a hefty stake in an oil fortune. That’s what I bring to the table. Make no mistake—Prince needs me. Not the other way around,” I said, angling my chin to emphasize my importance even as I could hear with my own ears how pretentious that made me sound.
Iron Maiden nodded slowly while continuing to chew the licorice. It was then that I realized how out of my element I was. Wealth was a marker in my world, but it clearly afforded me no entitlements in this place where people pumped their own gas.
My bottom lip uncharacteristically wobbled. “Sorry, that was bitchy, wasn’t it?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t lead with that story in casual conversation.”
His amusement settled me. I caught his eye, drawn to him for some unfathomable reason. Suddenly, I was the one who felt unworthy.
“Right, casual,” I said, clearing my throat with unnecessary drama. “Anyway, I’ll be out of your way as soon as I get the gas from the pump into my car. You were about to tell me the trick.”
“The trick”—he leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper—“is to pay for it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You go into the store. Give them money. Then gas will come out of the pump.”
“Hold on. You pay before you get the gas? What kind of logic is that?”
“If I had to guess, it would be to keep people who look like me from stealing it.”
“Oh.” My eyes widened. “I…yes. I never thought of that.”
He pressed his lips together, unbothered.
“So, then, if I’m on empty now, but still need to flee Donald Lavelle the Third, how much money should I give the station?”
“How much do you have?”
I grabbed my purse, flipped open my wallet, and slid out a neat stack of bills. “Is that enough?”
He stiffened before hastily covering the wad with his hands.
“Jesus, put that away,” he said, his eyes darting around. “That’s mugging money right there. Here, give me a ten, and I’ll run it in.”
I handed over the money and watched as he jogged off, disappearing into the store. I returned the rest of the cash to my wallet, suddenly very aware of my ‘mugging money’ and the unsavories that might be lurking about.
Iron Maiden came out of the store a minute later, and I relaxed—right up until it occurred to me that I was putting a lot of trust into a guy who could very well be the mugger.
“Okay,” he said. “Start filling up.”
Pulling up on the trigger, I waited. Still nothing.
“My god. What do they teach you rich kids in boarding school?” He flipped the lever on the pump. “Now try.”
Gas started flowing.
“Oh, magic,” I whispered in wonder.
His eyes lit with amusement, and I found myself sneaking glances at him while adding those ten dollars of gas into my tank. After returning the nozzle to the pump, I turned back to find him holding a squeegee tool dripping with soapy suds.
“For your windshield,” he said.
“That’s okay. I don’t need it washed that bad.”
“Sure, you do.” He thrust the wand at me. “Remember what a rad idea it was when you thought I was doing it for you?”
I couldn’t help but smile. This guy flirted without an ounce of fear.
Even guys in my own socio-economic bracket didn’t possess his level of fortitude.
It was clear he was used to getting the girl.
I imagined them falling at his feet with just the flirty rise of an eyebrow.
Honestly, if I hung around too long, he might snare me too.
Wait. No. He wouldn’t get me. My life had been pre-ordained since birth.
Taking the wand from the metalhead’s hand, I slopped it onto my windshield, giving it a few good smacks on the glass.
“Am I good?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not even close.”
He reached over, covered my hand with his, and guided it in a slow glide along the glass. The scent of saltwater and sun clung to his skin. “Top to bottom,” he instructed, his chest flat against my back, “so it doesn’t drip over what you’ve already washed.”
I nodded, though nothing he said stuck, not with the heat of his thigh pressed to mine and his breath warm against my neck.
My pulse thudded in my ears. It wasn’t mere attraction—it was magnetic, like my body had recognized him before my brain had caught up.
He radiated something raw and uncontained, making me wonder what life might be like without the pressures of perfection.
When he dropped the wand back into the bucket, the spell loosened, but only slightly.
“Easy, right?” He dried his hands on his ripped jeans.
“Yes. Easy,” I echoed, shaking off the excess water.
“Feel free,” he said, and offered up his jeans.
No amount of high-society training had prepared me for what I did next. I bent at the waist and wiped my soapy palms down the rough denim of his thighs.
“That’s it,” he teased, voice low and encouraging. “Get ’em nice and dry.”
I laughed, and it was loud and unfiltered, the kind of amusement my mother would’ve side-eyed over the rim of her wineglass. It felt good. Dangerous. A reprieve from the anxiety that had gripped me since returning home after my freshman year in college with news that would surely rile my parents.
“You’re so good at gas station stuff,” I complimented this uncomplicated guy. “You sure you don’t work here?”
“I actually applied last year, but my hair was four inches too long to sell Bubble Yum to stoners.”
“Why didn’t you cut it?”
His expression soured as he leaned against the pump, arms crossed. “For a shitty job? Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“What is your job now, then?”
“Which one? I have several.”
“Whatever one makes you smell like the ocean.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, horrified.
I did not just say that. My mother’s words skipped through my head: Thoughts to yourself, dear.
Why had I given this boy’s scent any more thought than it deserved?
Worse, why had I articulated it? I glanced up, expecting ridicule, but Iron Maiden didn’t even blink as he went on to explain.
“That would be my main gig as a surf instructor. But a few days a week, I take the morning shift as a busboy at a diner down the street. Work as a valet occasionally, too. And during the off season, as a lifeguard at an indoor pool.”
“Wow, ambitious.”
“Nah. I need the money. Plus, I tend to get fired fairly regularly, so I gotta have back-up jobs just in case.”
“Back-up jobs? Is that a thing?”
“It is where I come from.”
“Why do you get fired?”
“Why do you care?” he asked, feeding another strand of licorice into his mouth.
Good question. Why did I care? I was never going to see this guy again so understanding his motivations seemed pointless. Yet… “I’m curious.”
“Oh, well, in that case, let me open up my life to you. I get fired because I have shitty jobs.”
“And you have shitty jobs because you won’t cut your hair?”
“Exactly. It’s a vicious circle, see?”
I nodded, but I didn’t see. I’d never worked and had no concept of what it took to get hired or fired, much less in rapid succession as this guy seemed to experience.
“I’m Scott,” he said, out of the blue, not extending a hand in greeting as I was accustomed to. A mischievous smile followed. “You wanna get outta here?”
His question was as unexpected as it was stunning.
I couldn’t just ‘get outta here.’ There were protocols for these things.
Arrangements needed to be worked out. A dowry of sorts agreed upon.
But Scott’s offer was so spontaneous. So straightforward.
I knew what he wanted, and it shocked me that I was even entertaining the idea of ditching Prince for Scott and his nefarious Friday night plans.
And if I was being honest with myself, I did want to get outta here with him.
But mother’s disapproving face kept flashing before my eyes as I imagined what an evening spent with a metalhead who got fired regularly would unleash.
“I can’t,” I said, reaching for my car door. “But have fun getting stoned tonight.”
“I will. And you have fun marrying Donny,” he said, sidestepping to allow me access. “Oh, and don’t forget the Kleenex. You’re gonna need it.”
I laughed, sliding into the front seat.
He stood there, staring down at me. “You’re not even going to tell me your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
His sincerity struck a chord in me. I liked that he cared.
“Michelle.”
“Michelle,” he echoed with a nod, then his eyes lit up. “Michelle Lavelle. It rhymes.”
“What?”
“Your name, when you marry Donald Lavelle the Third.”
The rhyming moniker had never crossed my mind before. Then again, neither had marrying Prince. “Oh, my god. That’s hideous.”
Scott’s eyes comically widened, sharing in my horror. “I know. Good luck with that.”
As he walked backwards toward his truck, he offered a peace-sign salute. “Later, Babe.”
It had to be the flirtiest move any man had ever made. And I loved it.
“I’m not marrying him,” I called out.
“In that case…” He pointed south. “Mexico is about two hours that way.”
His smile never faded as he climbed into his truck.
Nor did mine. And I really didn’t like that he was leaving.
I wanted more, but of course, I couldn’t have it.
Scott’s truck roared to life, but instead of driving forward, he backed up until his cab was level with my car.
He stuck his head out the window. “Hey, you like music, Gold Coast?”
“Yes. Why?”
Scott disappeared inside his truck for a moment before reemerging in the window with a paper in his outstretched arm. “Here.”
I leaned over the passenger seat to take the flyer, and then, righting myself, I read it out loud. “Rabid Jackal.”
“It’s my band. We’re playing tonight at nine. You should come.”
He was a musician. A thrill raced through me. Music was my passion. Sure, Rabid Jackal was doubtless a heavy metal band, but as far as I was concerned, talent was talent. And having been born with perfect pitch, I was entirely qualified to identify it.
My excitement waned when I saw the address. Me. Alone in Venice Beach. At night. With all the eccentrics and druggies.
“I wish I could, but my mother is hosting a fundraiser tonight.”
“Come after. I’ll put you on the guest list. Michelle Lavelle.” Scott’s truck rolled forward. “Oh, and Michelle? Prince Donny is not invited.”
“Why? Are you going to blow me a kiss from the stage?”
“Better,” he tossed the words out the window as he drove away. “I’m going to blow your mind.”