Page 14 of Sunburned

“Careful,” I said as he tottered near the edge of the pool.

“Audrey,” he crowed, collapsing to the concrete next to me and plunging his feet into the pool. “It’s good to have you home.” His words were slurring, and when he threw an arm around my shoulders, his body odor was so pungent that it was all I could do not to recoil.“Everybody else was dicks to me in high school, but you—you! You were always nice.”

“Thank you.” I patted his hand and removed his arm from my shoulders as I stood, going to the table to retrieve my wine as an excuse to escape the acrid scent of him.

Cody eyed Ian. “Ian, what’s going on?”

“Oh you know,” he said. “Ran outta beer. Tyson thought I shouldn’t drive to the store, so he was kind enough to offer me some of yours.”

Tyson approached him with a half-full case. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, man, I’ll pay you,” Ian said, fumbling in his pocket, producing some change, a receipt, and a baggie of white powder. “Oh shit, here, take this,” he said, tossing the bag of powder at Tyson. “It’s good coke.”

Tyson shrugged and pocketed it while Ian pulled out his other pocket, producing a wadded-up bunch of ones and a set of tiny keys. “Oh damn,” Ian said, dangling the keys from his finger. “Don’t want to lose these.”

None of us said anything, not wanting to give him reason to stay, but he wasn’t discouraged. “Got a lockbox,” he went on. “A security…Secure…”

“A safety deposit box?” I asked.

He pointed at me. “Where I can lock up my secrets safe.”

A receipt fluttered to the pavement, and I picked it up and handed it to him, noticing that it was a teller’s receipt from Bank of the South, but curious as I was, I stopped myself from checking the balance.

“I can walk you back,” Tyson said, helping Ian to his feet.

Ian reached for the case. “I’ll stay and have a beer.”

Tyson jerked it away and Ian again teetered dangerously at the edge of the pool. “We’re going to bed.”

“What, we’re not friends anymore?” Ian whined.

Tyson clenched his jaw, taking Ian by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t wanna cross me,” Ian snapped, wrenching his arm from Tyson’s grasp to grab the box of beer. But he didn’t protest further asTyson ushered him roughly to the gate.

“Thank God,” Cody muttered as it clanged shut behind them.

But I felt no sense of relief as they disappeared into the night. Maybe I should have been worried about the felony I planned to commit to get the money for my mom’s treatment, but the bad feeling tugging at my gut had nothing to do with that.

Trouble breeds trouble, and as bad as I may have felt for him, Ian Kelley was trouble.

Chapter 4

By early evening, I was revitalized by a power nap followed by a shower and an espresso—thanks to Laurent, who’d had the wherewithal to inquire whether I’d like one when I came out of my room wrapped in the white waffle robe I’d found hanging in my bathroom, unable to shut off the shower. He gamely followed me into the bathroom and cut the water with a pressing rather than a pulling motion, impervious to the spray that soaked through his white button-down, leaving it stuck to his toned chest.

He ran his hand through his wet curls as he stepped out of the shower and for a moment when our eyes met, I felt almost as though he’d reached out and touched me. I turned away quickly, wondering as I led him to the door just how many women had asked him to fix their showers when they weren’t broken, and of those women, how many might not have kept their robes on.

I’d just finished dressing in a strapless black jumpsuit when there was a light tap on my door and I opened it to find Mr. Sexy Butler there with a freshly brewed espresso in hand. He’d changed into a fitted black T-shirt that somehow looked even better on him than thebutton-down, the tail of a tattoo peeking out beneath his sleeve. “Tyson wants you,” he said.

It was fifteen minutes before the time Tyson had specified, but I was ready. I downed the espresso, then grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder as Laurent reached for it. “I can take that,” he said.

“I’ve got it,” I assured him.

I followed him into the onion-and-butter-scented kitchen where two white-uniformed chefs were preparing our meal, while on the deck, one of the staff lit candles in hurricane lamps as the light bled from the evening sky.

My heart rate increased steadily as Laurent led me down the stairwell to Tyson’s private terrace, where he rapped gently on the wide wooden door. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, the door swung open, revealing the man I’d once been in love with.

He was barefoot, dressed in loose natural linen pants and a matching collarless button-front shirt, a mixture of leather and silver jewelry around his neck and wrists, his dark hair Jesus-long. He was gaunt, his formerly tawny skin sallow, the hollows beneath his eyes giving him a haunted appearance. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

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