Fuck.
Repeat.
That’s life. My glorious fucking life. At least, it is during snowboarding season. In the summer, I trade my snowboard for a skateboard. It helps retain that muscle memory and core strength while improving my skills that carry over onto the mountain. I may have started off as a skater, but my drug of choice will always be that snow-white powder. And not the kind that goes up your nose.
I’m still high on the perfect fucking season, even though it’s August. I spent the entire winter touring and snagged myself another gold medal in the X Games for landing a quadruple underflip. The very first person in history to pull off that type of trick, making it my third medal total. I’ve been back home in River’s Edge for the past three months, living it up, taking advantage of my celebrity status with the local females, until the season starts again.
“So,” I drawl, taking a swig of my beer in the crowded waterfront bar. “When’s that pretty redhead coming back to visit?”
“She’s off-limits,” Briar reminds me. Again. Briar is my friend, Asher Kelley’s girl. I don’t know exactly what went down, except that Asher left for a while, and when he came back, he had acquired a girlfriend. It was about damn time. He was a grumpy fucker without her. Well, he’s still a grumpy fuck, but he smiles now. Sometimes.
I don’t even want her friend. I mean, I wouldn’t throw her out of bed, but truthfully, I just like to tease Briar. Especially about that time she got it on with Kelley in the Jacuzzi when she thought none of us noticed. Spoiler alert: we did.
“That’s a shame. I bet she likes hot tubs just as much as—”
“Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a palm. I can’t blame her for not wanting me anywhere near her friend. She knows how I am with women. It’s not that I’m a bad guy. I love women. I love the way they smell. I love the way they sound when they’re writhing beneath me. Love how they feel pressed against me. I respect them. I’ve never been anything but honest when it comes to my intentions. We have our fun, and then go our separate ways. No strings. No attachments. At twenty-six, I’m too young, and this world is too big to be settling down this soon. I’m in my prime, professionally speaking, and I want to milk it to the very last drop.
My brother, Cordell, laughs, and even our broody friend Dare cracks a smile, probably remembering that night. I can tell that I’m testing Asher’s patience by the way he works his jaw, not to mention the death glare he’s sending my way. He knows I’d never break the bro code, but it doesn’t mean he likes to hear other guys joke about seeing his girl get fucked.
I avert my gaze and take another drink to hide my amusement just as the door to the bar opens and in walks a gorgeous brunette. She hesitates in the doorway for a minute, and I can’t look away. Tiny waist, toned, tan legs. Perky tits. Long, dark hair falling in waves to her waist. Her black and white striped dress—that looks more like a slightly oversized T-shirt—hangs off one sun-kissed shoulder. As if she can sense me watching her, our eyes lock for a long moment before she breaks the connection. She adjusts her dress where it slipped down her shoulder and heads toward the bar.
I slam my empty bottle onto the table and stand, zeroed in on the way her ass seems to stretch the stripes in her dress as she makes her way toward the bar.
“Here we fucking go,” Dare says, recognizing the determined look on my face.
“Don’t wait up,” I say, flashing them a grin before making my way to the bar. Shoving my way through the masses, I manage to squeeze in next to her. I look down at her—she’s shorter than I thought, maybe five feet four—and wait for her to acknowledge me. She doesn’t.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I finally ask, and I almost roll my eyes at myself. I couldn’t come up with anything better than that?
“A little cliché, don’t you think?” she deadpans, still not looking my way.
“I prefer straightforward. You look like a girl who can appreciate that.”
She finally looks up at me, her big, brown, doe eyes glossy and red, like she’s been crying. I instantly feel like a dick for hitting on a crying chick. But, she doesn’t seem sad. She seems irritated, maybe even angry. She bites down on her lower lip, assessing, before she seemingly comes to a conclusion.
“I’ll have a Blue Moon. With an orange,” she adds.
I give her a nod and flag down the bartender, my friend Ephraim, telling him I want two Blue Moons, with oranges, and return my attention back to the girl next to me.
“Camden Hess. You can call me Cam,” I say, holding out a hand. She ignores it. She doesn’t seem to recognize my name. Maybe she’s not from around here.
“Mollie Mabey,” she offers after a beat. Mollie Mabey. I like it. It suits her.
“Where are you from?”
“San Fran. You?”
“Here.”
She nods, not knowing what else to say, and looks down at the bar top.
“You okay?” I ask, unsure of what to make of this quiet little thing next to me. Usually, I don’t have to work so hard for a girl’s attention. She looks back up at me with a tiny twitch of her berry-colored lips. Our beers arrive, and she takes the orange, sucking it between those lips, before squeezing it into her glass and dropping it inside. Juice from the orange trails down her chin, and I use my thumb to swipe it away, before sucking it off. She tries to hide it, but I hear the small hitch in her breath. The slight widening of her dark-amber eyes.
“Can I kiss you, Mollie Mabey?”
I’ve caught her off guard, like I knew I would. Her eyes dart to mine, and at first, I think she’s going to turn me down and maybe knee me in the balls for good measure. Instead, she licks her bottom lip, and her gaze drops down to my mouth.
Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner.