Page 9 of Wilder Love
He pushed his tongue through his teeth, contemplating how much he was willing to tell me. The fireworks had ended a long time ago, explosive finales up and down the beach, a backdrop for our kisses and conversation. Shane told me he was a surf bum. I told him I was an amateur photographer. Guys always thought I was older, and I knew he did too. He thought I was in college and I didn’t set him straight. A white lie that I’d worry about later. I told myself that I just wanted one night. One night of magic. Because that was what it felt like, being with Shane. Magic. He had this capacity for joy that I envied, and he made life sound like one big adventure. I wanted to go along for the ride.
When he learned the truth, I knew he would view me differently. I wasn’t ready for the night to end. I never would be. I loved his face and his tousled, messy hair, his easy smiles and the sound of his voice—low and husky and when he laughed, it came from somewhere deep inside him.
We were lying on our backs now, looking at the stars, my hand clasped in his. It was odd, this feeling that I’d known him forever, and I was somewhere I belonged.
“When I was nine, my mom was killed by a hit and run driver,” he said. I listened without interrupting because he was telling me something important. “We were cycling. On our way home from school. It was an ordinary October day. Blue skies. No forewarning that this was the day my life was about to change. A white van came out of nowhere. Ran the stop sign and didn’t slow down. It was all so surreal and at first, I didn’t even realize she’d been hit.”
“Even now, twelve years later, I’ll see a white van and get this sick feeling in my stomach. I try to get a visual of the driver… Are you the one? Are you the fucker who killed my mother and didn’t have the decency to stop and help? It kills me that somewhere out there, that driver is eating or sleeping or watching a movie… just going on with their lives.”
I squeezed his hand and rolled onto my side, propping my head on my hand. I traced the curves of his gorgeous face with my fingertip. So boldly. As if he was mine and I was free to do this. I wanted to find the right words to make him feel better, to make it okay, but for something like this there were no words. “People suck.”
“Not all people.” He turned his head to look at me. “Tell me something about you, Remy.”
I’d just been telling him all about me, but I’d left out most of the crappy stuff. There was so much shit in my crazy life. I flopped onto my back and stared at the dark sky, trying to think of what I could tell him. Something as big and important as what he’d shared with me.
“I…” I cleared my throat. I’ve never told this story to anyone. “When I was twelve, we lived in this shitty apartment in Detroit.” Oh God, I couldn’t believe I was telling him this. “My mom had a boyfriend. His name was Russell.” He was a drug dealer, but I didn’t mention that. Bad enough I was spilling my guts to Shane. “He used to call me pretty girl and he was always watching me, you know?” I shuddered at the memory. “One night… he came into my room and accused me of stealing his cash. He said I’d have to pay for that.”
“What happened?” he asked quietly. I could feel the tension in his body.
“He tried to… you know…”
“Rape you?”
“Yeah. But I screamed at the top of my lungs and I bit him.” I’d always been scrappy, a hood rat with self-defense my priority. Living with Mom was dangerous. Russell had backhanded me, and I flew against the wall and then he was all over me again, his sour breath on my face, his meaty palms on my skin.
“My brother heard us, and he came after Russell with a baseball bat. He just kept swinging and swinging, beating the shit out of Russell. We ran and hid behind the dumpsters. But the thing is that he was right. We had stolen his money. So yeah, I guess that’s, um…” I cleared my throat. “Not a very good first date story. Not that this is a date.” I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could reel back my words. Or better yet, change my entire history. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”
I side-eyed Shane who had been quiet for too long. “What are you thinking?” I asked, chipping at the dark polish on my nails.
“I’m coming up with creative ways to kill Russell.”
* * *
Our crazy nightof beautiful kisses and ugly stories, laughter and sweet moments, came to a screeching halt when Shane parked his bike in front of his place and helped me off the back, wrapping his arms around me. We kissed each other dizzy until our lips were raw and swollen. “Come home with me.”
I wanted to. More than anything. I was all set to say yes when he pulled back and brushed a piece of hair off my face. “How old are you, Remy?”
I’d already worked out that he was twenty-one. “I’m… older than the date on my birth certificate.”
His eyes narrowed, and he took a step back. “What does that mean?”
I couldn’t lie to him, not when he’d asked a direct question and not when he was waiting for an honest answer. “I’m sixteen but I feel so much older.”
“Sixteen?” He gripped the back of his neck and looked up at the sky. His laugh was harsh. “Fuck. You’re not even legal.”
3
Shane
It had been one week since I last saw Remy, and I’d like to say that I’d forgotten all about her, but that would be a lie. I’d been so pissed off at her for feeding me lies that I didn’t even know what to believe about the night we’d watched the fireworks. Was anything she had told me the truth? It didn’t matter. This was exactly why I steered clear of committed relationships. I never went around spilling my secrets or confiding my deepest thoughts to total strangers. No, I was the guy who hooked up, moved on, and avoided messy emotions. All my time and energy were devoted to my surfing career. So, I needed to forget about Remy, the lying temptress.
Anyway, I was sitting on my board—I’d brought The Stubby Bastard today—talking shit with Oz. He was a high school friend with zero ambition and no drive. Back in high school, he claimed he wanted to be a pro surfer. Not happening. For one, he was lazy as shit and spent his days playing video games and getting high. Occasionally, he made an appearance at his job. His parents owned an organic juice bar. Everything in SoCal was organic.
Now he had the brilliant idea of becoming a surf blogger. This was his half-assed attempt at an interview. I doubted he’d ever commit it to memory or type it up on his laptop, so I was just blowing hot air. Talking about a day in the life of a pro surfer.
Let’s face it, I was living the dream. How many other guys got to travel to the best beaches in the world, chasing after killer waves for a living? The only cloud in my silver lining, if you could call it that, was the pressure to win. Now that I had sponsorships, I couldn’t afford to slack off. My most lucrative deal was with HartCore, a local surfing apparel company that I signed a multi-year six-figure contract with. To them, I was a brand. It was all about the bottom line. Surfing had never been about the money for me. But dreams cost money, and I needed sponsorships to be able to live my dream. So, money was a necessary evil.
Other than the occasional stress, life was good. I had four weeks to train for Teahupo’o, considered to be the most dangerous break in the world. The waves were heavy and glassy, breaking over a sharp coral reef. To be honest, I was scared shitless. I’d be stupid not to be. The Tahitian wave was terrifying. A wave could kill you. The coral reef could rip your skin to shreds. The scar on my back was proof of that. Despite the fear, I was stoked. The fear factor amped up the adrenaline rush, and that was what I lived for.
