to the Heart of Happiness
HUNTINGTON BEACH, CALIFORNIA
CHAPTER ONE
Cradling the camera in his right hand, Bernie unscrewed the wide-angle lens and replaced it with the telephoto. Aware of his father watching him, he smiled, waiting for the old man's ritual comment about left-handed men. "Artsy-fartsy" had lost its sting years ago.
Instead, Thomas Perkins growled, "Skinny fags, all of 'em. Dancing on their boards like ballet queens." He turned his back to the breaking waves and leaned against the pier railing. "Lazy bums, all of 'em. Good thing you gave up that nonsense."
The hot desert wind of late October plastered the old man's white hair across his forehead at an angle. At six-foot-six, he towered over his six-foot son now shooting pictures of surfers paddling through the sea foam.
"I still do that nonsense, Dad," Bernie replied, his voice muffled by the camera.
"What? Speak up, boy."
"I said I still go surfing," Bernie growled, tightening his grip on the camera, "when I have time."
The old man snorted. "Heh. Still? With that old board you painted to look like a French flag?" He shook his head. "Well, I'm going back to the office. Paper goes to bed tomorrow at ten sharp. Your stories finished?"
"Yep. These pics will work to announce the surfing contest." Bernie jumped when a Styrofoam cup hit his elbow, blown by a sudden gust.
The old man laughed and began lumbering toward town. "By the way, I killed your column on the women's shelter. City's getting too sophisticated for shit like that."
Bernie dropped his camera and caught it by the strap before it hit the pier. "All the more reason to run it," he yelled at his father's back, to his deaf ears.
Wind blew the trash from sidewalk cafés into the doorways of the Huntington Beach Tribune, the surfboard store, the designer brewery, and the ice cream shop. Cups, baggies, napkins, and wrappers danced and twirled down Main Street, across Pacific Coast Highway, onto the pier and wide, sandy beach. "The wind," Bernie wrote in his column last week, "is like a near-sighted janitor. It polishes and cleans most everything it touches but leaves a mess on the ground." Today it sent sheets of white foam against the royal blue sky. In the distance, Catalina Island looked swollen, as if pumped with helium.
Bernie finished off his film with a shot of the pier pilings. He could almost feel the pull of the surf in his legs. Later, he told himself. He'd catch a few waves after he'd thought up a fresh lead to go with these pictures. Even locals get tired of surfing shots.
Today was his thirty-first birthday. The desert winds usually came to his birthday parties, chapping his lips, confusing his desires, and squeezing the moisture from his body. If he were loaded, he'd add "wringing out his soul" to that thought, but he didn't get loaded any more.
He sprinted across the highway and headed up the alley that paralleled Main Street. Three blocks up were the offices of his father's newspaper, three blocks he'd run all his life usually wearing a wet suit and carrying his surfboard. Now he jogged the three blocks wearing a plaid sports shirt and khaki pants and carrying a camera.
Suddenly remembering the dog, he turned left abruptly. He'd promised his British neighbor, Alethia Rogers, that he'd pick up her dog at the vet's. He cut through another alley and came out facing the house where Woebegone had spent the night recovering from minor surgery. Glad to help Alethia any way he could, Bernie often ran small errands for her. Without pay, she managed the shelter for battered women that his father and downtown cronies called an "eyesore" in public and a "cathouse" to each other.
"Hey, Bern," the vet's assistant sang out, "you come for Woebegone?"
"You bet. How is he?"
She headed toward the back. "You'll see for yourself in a minute."
A door burst open and Woebegone, a big blond mutt, part Yellow Lab and part Golden Retriever, with a hint of Cocker Spaniel, rushed through. He greeted Bernie with wet kisses and a wagging tail. No mere abscess would subdue that dog.
Bernie attached the leash to his collar. "Come, Woebegone, let's trot over to the shelter. Your mistress awaits."
Taking a dog route through the alleys to Walnut Street involved several sniffing stops. In the second alley, Bernie heard a woman scream. He ran toward the sound, pulling Woebegone behind him. When he rounded a corner into a parking lot, he saw a woman running wildly from an apartment building toward a dumpster. A short, stocky man chased her. The man caught up with her and grabbed her arm just as Alethia Rogers appeared from behind the apartments. She tried to block the man with her sturdy body.
"No, don't, Alethia!" Bernie hollered, sprinting toward her.
The man swung Alethia against a wooden fence. Then he threw the woman to the ground and kicked her.
Bernie felt a poker of white heat surge through him. He let go of Woebegone's leash and pummeled the guy in the chest with both fists, shoving him away from the women.
"Get the fuck outta my business," the man snarled, fists cocked.
Heart racing, Bernie stepped back and aimed his camera at the man's bulbous nose. "Keep kicking her, Man, and I'll publish these on the front page of the Tribune." He began clicking the shutter on his empty camera.
Woebegone's deep bark added menacing sounds. Alethia reached for his leash as the man lunged for Bernie's camera. Bernie sidestepped and tripped him. The man fell on one knee. Woebegone charged him and the man took off at a limping run, disappearing into the apartment complex.
The woman buried her face in both arms. Her cotton granny dress was stained and torn at the waist. One dusty brown loafer stood against the fence.
Bernie's adrenaline rush slowly subsided. He turned to Alethia. "You okay?"
"Yes." Woebegone was licking Alethia's hand. She smiled. "Marvelous timing, Bernie. Thank God you appeared when you did. Bloody bastard." She kneeled beside the woman. "Come, let us help you. We won't hurt you."
The woman removed one arm from her face and took Alethia's hand.
"Jesus," Bernie whispered. One of her eyes was swollen shut and her lower lip was split open. A trickle of blood ran down her chin. "Can you move?"
"Yeah, I think so."
Gently, he took her other hand and helped Alethia pull her to her feet. "We've got to get you to a doctor."
"No! No. I don't have insurance." She started to cry.
Alethia said, "It's okay. We'll take you to the women's shelter. It's nearby, on Walnut."
"What's it cost?"
Bernie replied, "Nothing. City owns it and it's staffed by volunteers like Alethia here." Fucking son of a bitch, kicking her when she's down. Bernie held the woman's arm while she stepped into her other shoe.
Alethia glanced at her watch. "I left the women and kids at the clinic on Beach Boulevard. They're getting flu shots," she said to Bernie. "I came back to do some banking when I heard the screams. We should call the police. Will you? And take her to the shelter? And Woebegone, too? I'll be back in a jiff."
"Sure," Bernie answered. With one hand under the woman's elbow and the other on the leash, Bernie steered them up the alley and down Walnut Street to a dark brown house with a wide front porch.
The woman winced as she climbed the porch steps. Woebegone settled down for a nap on the welcome mat. Bernie dropped the leash and tried the door. "It's locked. We'll just wait here." He gestured toward two plastic chairs on the porch behind a lattice covered with purple bougainvillea. "Let's kick back for a while," he said, immediately regretting his choice of words.
She eased into a chair well hidden by the vine. Her lip had stopped bleeding. "There used to be an abortion clinic around here, I think."
"Still is, around back. It's a health clinic, instead, where you can get advice. It's open only one day a week now."
"Oh." She fidgeted in the chair. "You don't need to wait here with me."
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Three reasons. First, I want to make sure you stay until Alethia gets back. And, second, I've been working my tail off getting the city to fund and maintain this place-"
"You? You seem awfully young. Why do you care?"
Bernie smiled at her. "I just turned thirty-one today, so I'm old."
"Okay, old man." She tried to manage a smile, but winced instead.
"And three, I told Alethia I'd call the police."
"No cops. Please."
"Okay. Don't blame you." Alethia had told him how frightened these women were beneath their bruises. Bernie watched her out of the corner of his eye. Slumped in the chair, she looked like hell. If Alethia hadn't worked with battered women in the slums of London for three years, he would insist the woman see a doctor. Somehow he trusted Alethia more than most doctors when it came to battered women. Emergency Room doctors had to be specially trained to just recognize domestic violence.
He thought about her question. Why did he care? He knew too well a man's helpless rage. When his own wife came home at four in the morning, he'd certainly felt it. And again, when she'd slapped Tommy's face for saying "no" to her. Poor little tyke had just learned how to talk. That time he wanted to slap her, knock out her teeth. God knows where he'd found the self-control to hold back. Or why that asshole today lost it, chasing his woman into the alley after he'd already beaten her.
Alethia pulled up in her old Dodge van full of women and children. She sent them around to the side door and headed toward the porch. She moved with the solid grace of a big woman although she was only slightly overweight and medium height. Her breasts were large. She looked as if she could carry the world on her chest. Wispy blonde hair fell into her eyes. "We're back," she said. And to Woebegone who was licking her hand, she commanded, "Sit." She approached the woman. "Don't be afraid, dear. I won't hurt you. Just let me take a look at you." Gently, she examined the woman's face. "Too dark here. Come on in, where I can get a proper look." She unlocked the front door.
The minute Alethia took over, she transformed from Bernie's plump, sandy-haired neighbor with a British accent into the quintessential, no-nonsense nurse, although she was actually a secretary. The wife of an aerospace engineer, mother of a geek-aged boy, and mistress of their big old mutt, Alethia also kept the neighborhood and city in order. Bernie imagined that she could do the same for the country.
As Bernie stepped down from the porch, Alethia stopped short. "Did you call the police?"
"No. She didn't want me to and I didn't have the heart-"
"I understand." She moved over to the top step and whispered in his ear, "We need another push from the press. We've only got ten beds. This fooking town needs fifty."
Bernie controlled his urge to smile at Alethia's accent. "Will you have to turn her away?" Bernie asked softly, looking toward the woman slumped against the door jamb.
"No, she's too badly hurt. I'll see if I can find a safe place for one of the others. San Clemente just opened a shelter." She put her hand on Bernie's arm and looked up into his eyes. "Any chance you can get more funding? The need is overwhelming."
"Don't know. I don't have a hell of a lot of power in this burg."
"You should run for city council."
"Actually, I've been toying with the idea."
Alethia clapped her hands together. "Really? Go for it, Bernie. We need a friendly face on the council. And thanks for picking up Woebegone."
"Anytime. He's the best behaved dog in our neighborhood. Despite the ogre, I'll do an editorial on the need for beds." He headed down the path with Alethia's suggestion still on his mind. Why did he care enough to run for city council when he'd rather go to France? Alethia had told him that she spent her childhood nursing her mother after her stepfather's beatings. Bernie could understand Alethia's commitment. But his own? His father, who had never hit his mother, nevertheless loomed large in his mind's eye, so large that Bernie didn't see Dr. Greensberg approaching.
"Hello there, Bern. Did you bring us another patient or another bed?"
"Alan!" Bernie shook the psychiatrist's hand, half expecting the man to read his mind or at least see the larger-than-life image of his father hovering over Bernie's left shoulder. "I forgot this was your afternoon here. It's a good thing, too, because Alethia and I just happened on another case. Woman beat up pretty bad. Able to walk, though. I came across Alethia trying to stop the guy from beating his wife in the alley where he'd cornered her. I scared the bastard off with my camera."
Alan's face reddened. A bear of a man, his whole body shook with suppressed laughter. "Did you threaten to shoot him with that camera?"
"As a matter of fact, I did," Bernie replied. "I said I'd publish the pictures I was taking on the front page and he ran off. He didn't know I was out of film." He paused. "You know, I think I know who that guy is. He's old man Maccabee's son, the banker. You know, the president of First Federal. Hell. No wonder my threat worked. Of course, Woebegone helped by barking and growling."
Although Alan smiled, he looked formidable, tall, portly, yet refined. Dressed in a brown silk suit that matched his thinning brown hair, white shirt, paisley tie and spit-polished dress shoes, he looked out of place on the weed cluttered bricks that formed the walkway. A long scar ran from his high forehead through the outer edge of his eyebrow and down his left cheek to the base of his square jaw. It gave him a noble air, as if he'd survived some duel of honor.
Alan's smile faded, replaced by a frown. He shook his head. "We can barely make a dent in the problem."
"Amazing. Old man Maccabee's kid. What would make a guy like that kick his woman? I don't get it."
Alan punched Bernie's shoulder. "Too complex to discuss now. I'd better get in there to check on my patients and the new one. Good to see you again. It's been a while. How's that little apple of your eye?"
"Tommy? He's fine. How'd you know-"
"I've seen you with him on the pier. It radiates. How old is he now?"
"Almost four."
"That all? He's tall for his age. Takes after you and your father." He headed up the steps to the porch. "By the way, I just saw Tommy with your mother over at Emily's Café."
"Oh? Was Judy with them?"
"Your wife? I don't think so, but I'm not sure I'd recognize her."
"I'd better get going, too." Bernie moved to the street. "See you later, Alan." Apprehensive, he took off at a trot. Judy was jealous of Bernie's mother, and with good reason, he thought. He was surprised Judy let Tommy go out to lunch with his grandmother. By the time he got to Emily's, though, they were gone. He bought a hot dog and ate it en route to the Trib.
"Goddamn I miss the smell of ink and the clicking of typewriters," Thomas Perkins declared from his pulpit at one end of the press room. He stood on a raised dais that supported a large teak desk and a black leather swivel chair. Behind it on the wall, hung a framed picture of Ronald Reagan shaking hands with the old man himself.
"I know what you mean," Bernie replied. "Computer sounds are generic. No personality." He looked up from his computer monitor and resisted the urge to close the file on the women's shelter before his father came over and saw what he was writing. Of course, he'd see it eventually. But, if Bernie timed it right, he wouldn't be around to hear the old man's roar.
"Your mother came by with Tommy earlier." He shook his head. A shock of white hair fell across his forehead. "Yvette's so smitten with that kid I'm beginning to get jealous. And she brought that damn seal painting of yours to hang here. In this office!" He pointed to a large frame covered with a faded plaid tablecloth. It leaned against the wall under the window.
"Why'd she do that?" Bernie hurried over to it. With a flush of embarrassment, he lifted the cloth and looked at the painting's focus, a full grown female seal. He used to photograph the seals in a secluded cove on Catalina Island. When he and his buddies came across this one, dead, on Huntington State Beach, he took several shots of it and spent his junior year in high school working on the painting. Since college, he'd forgotten it. Now, recalling how long he'd concentrated on that seal, he remembered feeling a strong personal connection with seals, dolphins, dogs and animals in general and wondered about his own animal ancestry.
"Never could understand why you painted a dead seal in the first place," his father barked, staring at the picture. "And those stick-figure surfers, paying final respects, for God's sake. They don't have any faces. They look like skinny little fags in black."
"They're abstractions, Dad. You know, abstract art."
"Certainly I do. But the seal looks real, and real dead."
"That was the idea, remember? I wanted to contrast the abstract with the concrete." Bernie studied the opaque eyes of the seal and wondered if he could ever paint that well again. He backed away, and then sat at his keyboard to resume writing. What would Judy say when she saw it here?
"It must be good, I suppose," his father said, still staring at the picture. "Still, I don't know why your mother wants to hang it in here. Huntington Beach has the biggest and cleanest beaches in the world, and it's our job to foster that image, not one of storm debris and dead seals."
"I'll take it home, if you'd like."
"That won't be necessary. Besides, Judy would have to live with it if you did that."
Bernie concentrated on his article.
After a few minutes, Thomas Perkins stepped down from his dais and marched toward Bernie. He was the type who never strolled. Bernie's muscles tightened. He couldn't convince his body that there was nothing to be afraid of, that there never had been. Deliberately, he left the text about the women's shelter on screen and, waiting for the roar, wished he could just pack up Tommy and go to France. Only there, and toe-dancing his board through the waves, did his body relax.
His father smiled down at him. "Happy birthday, Bernard." He handed Bernie a small package wrapped in newspaper. "I've been telling myself I'd give this to you one day, and that day is here."
"Thank you," Bernie said, glancing from his father's face to the package in his hand. Wary still, Bernie opened it. Inside was a worn brown felt case. Bernie felt a jolt of pleasure to his solar plexus. "Your father's Silver Star?"
"Open it."
Bernie lifted the lid, releasing a musty odor. There, on purple velvet, lay the ancient, polished Silver Star proclaiming the honor of Perkins men, though innuendoes over the years about his grandmother tarnished it some. Still, Bernie used to covet this star. Now, he wasn't sure. "I don't know what to say."
His father grinned. On that angular face the grin was more like a straight line. "I know you never had a chance to go to war," he said with a hint of sympathy, "yet you've grown into a fine young man, despite surfing."
"Thanks, Dad." Bernie stood and gave his father an awkward hug. The old man cleared his throat and turned away just as Tommy rushed in, a burst of light in a chocolate-stained jersey. Judy followed. She was wearing cut-off jeans and an old Grateful Dead T-shirt. Her dark hair, pulled back severely in a pony tail, flattened her almond-shaped face. Bernie preferred a softer look.
Tommy flew into Bernie's arms shouting, "Happy birthday, Daddy." His blond hair splayed out from his forehead in sticky clumps. Bernie stood him beside the desk and held Tommy's hand over the keyboard. "Want to type your name?"
Judy gave Bernie and then his father a quick kiss. "Hi, Papa Perkins. You're looking mighty handsome today." She turned to Bernie and said, "Your mother's been plying Tommy with ice cream again." On the other side of Bernie's desk from Tommy, she leaned over to read the copy on the monitor. Then, whispering in Bernie's ear, she added, "Your mother spoiled him again today. I don't want her hanging around Tommy." Straightening, she smiled.
Bernie seethed. He took three deep breaths then picked up Tommy and tossed him in the air, relishing the boy's squeals of delight. "Look, Tommy. See what your grandfather gave me for my birthday?" He put the boy down and opened the case.
"Ooh, neat," Tommy said. "Smells funny. What is it?"
"It's a medal for bravery. Your great-grandfather earned this in World War I."
Judy said. "I'll be damned. He finally gave you that. Wow! Hey, Pop, come read his latest pitch here."
The old man came closer and put his arm around Judy. "What's it for this time?"
"Women's shelter on Walnut. A front for the abortion clinic. According to Bernie, they need more beds."
"Beds, eh? For that cathouse?" his father said. "At least he's not asking to raise city taxes for a dog park."
"Next he'll be telling the city council to allot more money to the fire department. He's always worried about our house burning down." Judy laughed. "Better yet, he'll run for city council and eventually become mayor . . . my God, what's that painting under the window?"
Straight-faced, the old man said, "Looks like a dead seal to me. Where should it hang?"
"In the john," she answered, moving closer to the painting. "Is it one of Bernie's?"
"Yup. One he did in high school. Won a few blue ribbons, too, not that you can live on ribbons very long."
Judy laughed. "Well, when he's mayor of the town he can hand them out."
Bernie was used to them talking about him as if he weren't there. He played with Tommy and ignored them. Or, he tried to. He felt his father's eyes on him. Judy and her big mouth!
"He really wants to run for city council?" His father said. "That's ridiculous." Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.
"Just another dream of his," Judy said, "like growing ducks in France."
Raising ducks, not growing them. Bernie began doodling baby ducks.
Judy reached her hand toward Tommy. "C'mon, Tommy. Let's go buy your father a birthday cake. What kind d'you want, Hon?" she asked Bernie.
"Surprise me," Bernie replied, wondering if she'd buy an angel food cake at the supermarket and sprinkle it with powdered sugar.
Judy stood on her tiptoes and kissed his father again. "Bye, Pop." She turned to Bernie and asked, "When are you coming home?"
"Around six. I'm going to catch a few waves after work."
"I'll ride my bike, Dad. You ride the ocean." Tommy waved at him and said, "While, crocodile."
After they left, Bernie's father moved to the window and watched Judy and Tommy walking down the street. "Nice body on that girl. You keeping her satisfied?"
"What do you think?" Defiance edged Bernie's voice. The truth was, he didn't feel like it. Approaching Judy for sex was like reaching out to a porcupine. He remembered how it used to be before she told him she was pregnant and that they should get married. Then how disappointed he'd felt when he found out she wasn't pregnant. It took two whole years to conceive Tommy.
"Well, you may look like a fag in that wetsuit of yours, but I guess you're a man."
"Yeah, Dad." He punched his father's arm. "You don't need to worry."
"Then don't make a fool of yourself by getting into politics. The game's too dirty for the likes of you."
He saw the girl standing on one leg and rotating the other in a slow circle, bare toes pointed like a ballerina's. Tall, slender, and inviting in her gauzy beige skirt and ribbed tank top, she watched him come out of the ocean. Her black hair, parted in the middle, hung straight to her shoulders. With pale blue eyes fixed on him, she stood in his path as he trudged across the sand. When he reached her, she said, "You're good."
"Thanks." He stopped, tugged at his shoulder zipper. With one hand he peeled off his wetsuit.
Her eyes followed his every move. "What's your name?" she asked.
"Bernie. What's yours?"
"Bernie? What a dippy name. Doesn't suit you at all. I think I'll call you . . . Landon."
"Suit yourself." He knocked the sand off his board and tucked it under his arm.
"They call me Chloe. My car's in the parking lot. Got a stash in the glove box. Care to join me?"
"Sorry. I'm married."
She tossed back her head and let loose a few musical peals of laughter. "I'm not asking you to fuck me or nothing."
Bernie glanced at the sun. It was just about to sink behind Catalina Island. The crowd of gulls aimed their beaks out to sea, waiting for that final drop. Judy was home, most likely sprinkling a cake, thawing out hot dogs, and talking to her mother on the phone. She wouldn't miss him. What the hell, it was still early and it wouldn't hurt to relax for a change. He grinned. "Today's my birthday. Let's go fire one up."
"Hey, party time!"
Chloe had parked at the farthest corner of the lot, a good two blocks away from the pier where she'd been watching Bernie surf. "Where you from, Landon?" she asked.
"Right here. Good old Huntington Beach, CA."
"No shit, you live here? I never met anyone here from here."
"Now, you have. I grew up here."
"No wonder you can shoot the pier like that. I bet you know all them pilings."
"Yep, and every barnacle on 'em."
The sun dropped behind Catalina as they reached her green Volkswagen Rabbit. It was parked next to a huge dumpster that hid it from the street. Lace curtains decorated the side windows and a miniature ceramic dog hung from the rear view mirror. A black and gray German Shepherd, curled in the back seat, lifted his head and growled at Bernie.
"Quiet, Bruiser. It's only me and Landon."
The dog settled down. Chloe eased into the driver's seat, opened the passenger door and invited Bernie in. The strap of her tank top slipped off one shoulder. Her nipples pushed against the flimsy cotton.
Bernie laid his board and wet suit on the pavement and climbed in, keeping an eye on Bruiser. When he closed the door, the glove compartment banged open by itself. In it was a well-rolled joint. She pulled it out, lit it, inhaled, and handed it to Bernie. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. His father's scowling face appeared on the windshield like the ghost of Christmases to come, scowling at him, ogling her. He blinked the image away and took a hit.
Chloe smiled and slowly pulled her undershirt over her head. Her tan breasts burst out at him like Van Gogh sunflowers. "Give me a scratch, will you, Landon? I got so hot watching your muscles flexing and your brown curls flying in the wind, I spilled a cup of sand all over me." She took his hand and ran it over her right breast.
Bernie felt the fire. Slowly, because he wanted to be polite, he removed his hand. "What were you doing, drinking sand?" Bruiser growled softly and flicked his ears.
"No, making a birthday cake in the shoreline just for you."
Grinning, Bernie leaned back against the seat. Where do these chicks keep coming from? He inhaled again and held it. Giggling, he said, "I haven't had any of this shit in years." He passed her the doobie.
"This stuff's nothing," Chloe said on the intake, "compared to what you can buy legally. The guy who raised me took every prescription drug known to man but came unglued about a little pot." She handed him the joint.
He held it between his fingernails in front of his mouth and sucked in ocean air along with the hemp. He felt her hand on his dick, slowly caressing it through the nylon of his swimsuit. She pulled at the draw string and untied it. With another what-the-hell-why-not, he struggled to pull the damp suit over his boner. Finally, with her help, he shoved the suit down to his thighs. His dick stood at attention ready to earn that Silver Star.
Still caressing him, she leaned over and enveloped his penis with her mouth, running her wet tongue over it. Then she lifted her head and quickly, deftly slipped a condom on him. He had moved beyond caution five minutes ago and was grateful she hadn't. Hot breath came out her open mouth in short gasps. She climbed over the gear shift, and straddled him. Her sunflower breasts, smelling of sea and sand, filled his face. She inhaled his dick into her slippery pussy as effortlessly as she'd inhaled the joint now smoldering in the ashtray.
Bruiser snored.
Chloe began a slow teasing motion up, down and around. Soon the Volkswagen found a rhythm of its own and seemed to be rocking them. Bernie leaned back and let the rhythm take over, thrusting him up and down in her wet sea just like the pumping oil derricks that peppered the city.
She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as she came, moaning with pleasure. It was a deep guttural sound that triggered his own pump. Man, she was fast! Briefly, he wondered when the Rabbit would stop pumping him. Eventually it slowed.
"Wow, Chloe," was all he could say. After she lifted herself off him and fell into the driver's seat, he peeled off the condom and dropped it on the floor. "D'you mind the litter?"
"Naw."
He pulled up his swimsuit. How the hell did this happen? "You're amazing."
She shrugged. "So-you like my little birthday present? You're not bad yourself. I really dig that lower lip of yours." She fingered his lip. He wanted to tell her his lips came from his French heritage, but guilt slipped in, holding him back from intimate conversation and the temptation to befriend her.
Smiling, he stepped out of the car, picked up his board and wetsuit, saluted her, and headed toward the pier. He glanced back and saw Bruiser looking at him out of the rear window. It gave him the willies.
When he faced forward, he saw Judy standing on the tarmac thirty feet away, hands on her hips. He stopped, then moved toward her. His feet were pure lead.
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Evelyn Cole, 1748 Deer Canyon Road, Arroyo Grande, CA, 93420
805-473-0230
Copyright © 2004 Evelyn Cole, All Rights Reserved
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