Page 12 of Beach Reads
Jesse squeezes my elbow before he lets go. The parking lot concrete is burning hot, and we both drop our flip flops onto thegritty stone. We slide them on in silence, surrounded by the tiny ghost town of white trailers.
“I hope…”
A gentle breeze tugs at my hair while I wait. Jesse’s staring at me, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
And what a jaw it is. The jaw that graced my bedroom wall for so long; the jaw that probably has its own workout regime, so beautifully clad in a trimmed brown beard. I guarantee that someone has made a Twitter account for that jaw.
“You hope?”
A gust of breath. Jesse’s hands rise, then slap against his thighs. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable back there, Darla.”
Uncomfortable?
Right—with those heated stares. That tremble in his hands as he held me. The way he whipped his touch away whenever the take ended, like he didn’t trust himself for a single second more.
So maybe it’s not the same as with those other extras. Maybe I’m not like those creeps.
Maybe there’s something special between us. Something mutual.
And I’ve never been a coward—have never been burdened with impulse control, either—so I step close and pat Jesse Hendry right on his beautiful pec. It’s as hard as the sun-baked concrete beneath my flip flops.
Is it my imagination, or do I feel his heart leap beneath my fingertips?
“Oh, you did, Jesse. You definitely did.” His eyes shutter, but only until I add: “In thebestway.”
He blazes back to life, gaze scorching, muscled chest heaving, and I turn on my heel with as much dignity as I can muster in a green one-piece swimsuit.
Badass. Walk like a badass. Keep him staring.
“They’ll call you back in a few minutes,” I say over my shoulder, sashaying away.
The star watches every single step I take to Franklin’s trailer. A slow smile curves his mouth when I turn back and meet his eye.
And when the metal door bangs shut behind me, shutting me in blissfully cool shadows, I collapse against it like I’ve just run twenty miles.
Jesse
Three days later, I’m leaning against the scratched surface of a bar, watching Darla from across the room as I swig from a bottle of bubbly water. It’s fizzy and cool, refreshing and a little bitter. If I spooned in a big heaping of sugar, it’d be just like her.
Squeezed into a booth with her uncle and some of the crew, Darla tosses her head back and laughs. It’s booming and confident, the best sound I’ve ever heard, rising above the wailing of a young local guy into a microphone. A few patrons glance over at her, eyebrows raised, and I wish I could knock their heads together.
I don’t care whether they’re judging her or wanting her. Either way, I wish they were all gone. Wish it was just the two of us in this bar, and that she’d look at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes again. That she’d let me lift her onto the wooden booth table, push her legs apart, and bury my face against the seam of her purple leggings.
Damn. When did I turn into such a caveman?
It’s a Thursday, a.k.aRiptide’s weekly karaoke night. Normally, I’m happy enough to come along and blow off steam, to chat with the crew and wince dramatically when Franklin takes to the stage. Maybe to go all-out on a packet of roasted peanuts so long as I schedule extra time at the gym.
I never sing, because I suck at it. And for a normal person, that would mean mild embarrassment, but for me? A few cell phone recordings could damage my whole career.
Especially if I want to move along fromRiptideanytime soon.
I shift against the bar, my phone a lead weight in my jeans pocket. I got the email late this afternoon. A hotshot director in L.A wants to set up a meeting—wants to hear me read for a major role in a new pilot he’s filming. He came tome, reaching out via my wheezy agent.
This could be big. Really big.
If I land this part, it could makeRiptidelook like the kiddie pool.
“So serious these days.”
