Wrecked: A Bad Boy Outlaw Romance (with bonus novel!) Read online

  Deacon doesn’t even flinch. There’s probably a robot under that skin rather than a man. It would certainly explain a lot.

  Robots don’t surf like that. They don’t touch themselves like that.

  Wound cleaned, I wrap a bandage around his arm and secure it in place with a butterfly clip. “Done.”

  He stands. “What do I owe you, doc?”

  I think on it. “Dinner should suffice.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DEACON

  We watch Little Bluff from the safety of the beach post-surf. Lux has been improving in leaps and bounds, not a single wipeout today.

  The weather’s getting somber again, a low cloud sweeping in from the west.

  These quiet moments with her are becoming the highlight of my day. I’m falling back into old habits, flirting like I’m back at college. It’s fucking embarrassing.

  You know you can’t.

  Fuck it. So what if we hook up? What’s the worst that could happen?

  You know full well. You want her blood on your hands too?

  I push sand together between my legs. Even sitting beside her is too much to take, all super fucking sexy with her wet hair and fuck-me eyes. “We didn’t exactly fit the surfer stereotype back home.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “No? You didn’t live in a Kombi and sell dream catchers?”

  “We lived in a fucking mansion in the Hills. I’m talking twenty rooms or more, full-time staff, a really cute Latina maid I had the hots for.”

  “And what, you slummed it down by the beach for kicks?”

  In a way, she’s right. “My parents wanted us to have a public education, so they sent us to some shithole by the ocean. Everyone there surfed. I didn’t care none of the other kids had two dimes to rub together. They were in the water day-in, day-out having fun, just living. It sucked me right in, all of us. Soon we were barely spending any time at home, always down by the beach, sleeping on the sand or in the back of a friend’s car, camping out on sofas. Good times.”

  She brings her hair together in her hands, squeezing the water out over the sand. “What did your parents do?”

  “Dad was a partner at a big law firm, about as far away from a surfer as you can get. He didn’t even know how to swim. They were together when their plane went down. I just hope they were gone before they hit the water.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

  “But you have your brothers.”

  I shake my head. “As you’ve witnessed, they drive me fucking insane, but they’re good guys at heart. Don’t let all the bravado and ink fool you. They’re pussycats, really.”

  “And you? Are you a pussycat?”

  The way she pronounces ‘pussy’ has my cock diamond hard. Wetsuits weren’t made with giant erections in mind. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  She lies back, hands behind her head, her breasts flattening out. “What’s the one thing you miss about the States?”

  I laugh. “Not the crowded line-ups, that’s for sure. But I do miss Pink’s hot dogs. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they don’t really do hot dogs around here. I’m talking bacon, nacho cheese—the full heart attack.”

  She turns her head sideways, eyes dropping and bobbing back up. “You’ve got a body like that and you’re thinking about scoffing down hot dogs?”

  “Work hard, play hard.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Don’t you mean, play hard, play hard? Because I haven’t exactly seen much work going on.”

  I flick sand at her. She yelps, shielding her face. “Like you can talk, Hollywood.”

  “Hey, I’ve been working real hard at the pub. Those beers aren’t going to pour themselves, are they?”

  “I went in one day and found one of the locals lying on the bar, his head under the tap. Sure took ‘self-service’ to a new level.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what I saw at college.”

  I pick up a handful of sand, let it run through my fingers. “Come on. What was it? Two girls getting together, some ‘free experimentation’? Ooh la la.”

  She reaches over and punches me playfully in the shoulder. “You’re a real asshole, you know.”

  I shrug. “You’re falling for it. Admit it.”

  She looks to the ocean. “Maybe a little, but don’t think it, us, is going to happen, mister.”

  I raise my hands. “No, ma’am.”

  She nods at the tat on my arm peeking out from under the sleeve of my wetsuit. “Strange tattoo, that one. You a Black Flag fan or something?”

  I lift my arm up to my face and stare at the black box covering up her name. “Just couldn’t bear to look at what was underneath anymore.”

  She stands and brushes herself off, thankfully doesn’t persist about the tatt. “How about we swing by the supermarket? You still owe me a dinner, but what if I make hot dogs? They won’t be Pink’s, but they’ll be a start.”

  There’s surely an excellent line here about slipping my sausage between her buns, but I hold my tongue. If you want this one, my friend, B game isn’t going to cut in. You’re going to have to pull out all the stops.

  I look at the tat again. Maybe it is time to move on.

  *

  I always thought Bo and Razor could be competitive eaters in another life. I almost laughed aloud when Lux brought out their plates, a single hot dog on each. They inhaled them, plates raised for more.

  “Six or seven each should do,” I tell her. “They’re growing lads, after all.”

  Lux turns and heads back towards the kitchen. “Ooooh-kay.”

  I pick up my hot dog and take a bite. Lux is right. It’s no Pink’s, but it’s great all the same, really reminds me of home, of everything we gave up.

  Between mouthfuls, jaw working like a pit-bull, Bo manages to get out a sentence. “Hollywood learning anything out there besides what a giant cock you are?”

  I look to the kitchen where Lux is busy preparing more dogs, not even the flickering lightbulb unflattering. “She is. She’s a quick learner.”

  Bo takes a breath, hunting for his beer. “They say we might get a big swell through with this supposed low, biggest in years, maybe a decade”

  I act nonchalant. “And?”

  “Will she be up for it?”

  I keep watching her. “Seems like she’s up for anything.”

  Bo laughs. “I fucking bet. You tapping that yet?”

  I look back to him, lowering my voice. “The only thing I’ll be tapping is your skull if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

  Razor shakes his head. “This girl really means something to you, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s just another girl,” I lie.

  Bo starts sniffing the air, looking at Razor. “You smell that, bro?”

  Razor gets in on the act. “Fuck me. Smells like bullshit, real nice and ripe-like.”

  I throw a stack of napkins at them as they burst into laughter. “Fuck you and fuck you.”

  Lux enters with dogs stacked high. “Did I miss something?”

  I glare daggers at the boys.

  Bo smiles. “Deacs was just giving us the low-down on your little surfing lessons.”

  She sits, a single hot dog in front of her. “And?”

  Razor leans back with a dog-who-got-the-bone smug. “He says you’re almost ready to hang with the cool kids.”

  Lux looks to me. “Is that so?”

  “If I didn’t know better,” Razor continues, “I’d think you’re a lesson away from him showing you his special move”.

  She hasn’t caught on. “His special move?”

  Razor can barely contain himself. “A little backdoor trick he’s perfected over the years, a secret way to get nice and deep in the barrel.”

  She nods at me. “Sounds intriguing. I love spending time in the green room.”

  “Don’t you mean the ‘pink room’?” Bo adds while I give him the ‘you’re fucking dead’ look.


  They’re sniggering and cracking up, Lux somehow still clueless.

  “Don’t listen to these two goat-boaters,” I tell her. “They’re posers of the highest order.”

  “Posers,” Bo scoffs. “I’m out there more than any of you fools.”

  “And why the fuck is that?” I ask.

  He smiles, looking at Lux. “Because surfing is like sex, man. When it’s good, it’s really good. And when it’s bad… it’s still pretty good.”

  “I mean, fuck, I’ll take a surfboard over a girl any day of the week,” adds Razor.

  “Really?” says Lux.

  Razor starts to count his fingers. “Compared to a girl, surfboards last longer, they don’t get pregnant, they don’t care about how many other boards you have or how many you’ve ridden. They don’t care if you’re out late or if you’ve taken a shower. They don’t mind if you look at other boards or treat them bad, but best of all, you can ride a surfboard any time of the month.”

  The two of them explode at this, Lux shaking her head at me but smiling all the same. I want to see that smile over and over and over again. I want to see it when I finally have her in my arms, when she’s pinned under me and begging for more, screaming my name as I fill her.

  It’s going to happen, I tell myself. It’s going to happen.

  Lux heads off to bed early, Razor following shortly after.

  Bo finds me on the veranda. “I heard back from you-know-who.”

  “And?”

  Bo leans in close. “He had a friend over here run the plates. The car’s stolen.”

  It’s no surprise, but it doesn’t explain anything either. I’d almost forgotten about the guy, haven’t seen him around for days. I even left her alone in the house the other day.

  Fucking stupid, man. Really fucking stupid.

  The fact the car’s stolen is not a good sign. I could go to Deputy Dipshit, but I can’t see how that would help. Too many questions about how we found out the car’s hot in the first place.

  “What are we going to do, bro?” asks Bo, impatient as always.

  I look him dead in the eye. “Nothing. We wait.”

  Bo punches the weatherboard next to my head. “I’m sick of fucking waiting.”

  “Bo—”

  But he ignores me, walking back into the house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LUX

  The sun’s in full swing above, the skies so crystal clear and blue even the smallest cloud looks completely abstract.

  I dip the paintbrush into the can, painting the doorway a bright blue. ‘Angora’ if I recall. Deacon let me pick it.

  “This is kind of relaxing,” I call out, Deacon’s on a ladder beside me doing the roof of the veranda with a roller, his bare chest so close I could reach out and touch it. It’s hot, he’s sweaty, the accordion crunch of his abs not going unnoticed.

  “Good,” he says, “there’s a whole house to go”.

  I cut in the corner of the doorframe with the side of the brush. “You’ve never told me what you guys do for a living, how you manage to afford all this.”

  “The house? It’s big, but it wasn’t as expensive as you think.”

  “But none of you work, right?”

  “We worked enough in the States, made good money. If the money runs out, we’ll find work again. It’s no big deal.”

  He’s hiding something. They all are. That’s what worries me. “You can trust me, you know.”

  “I do.”

  “They why not tell me the truth?”

  He steps off the ladder. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “So you are a criminal?”

  He nods to himself, placing the roller down. “Perhaps. Does that bother you?”

  It’s a solid question. There were plenty of bad boys around growing up. California really breeds them, but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten so close to one. Not like this. “I don’t know. Should it?”

  “We’re not axe murderers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I keep painting. “Good. I like my head attached to my shoulders very much, thank you.”

  “That was dark.”

  “Maybe I better lighten things up then.” I turn and flick the paintbrush in his direction, specks of blue falling over his chest.

  He looks down, then up. “Oh, really? That’s how you want to play it?”

  He picks up a tin of paint from the floor, holding it in his hands, slowing approaching me.

  I stand up against the wall. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” He pretends to throw the paint and I flinch.

  I hold out my brush like a sword. “Come any closer and I’ll…”

  He holds the tin with two hands. “You’ll what?”

  “Go Picasso on you.”

  He shrugs, letting down the tin. “Guess I shouldn’t then.” He turns and I think he’s done before he snaps back around the throws the tin forward, a torrent of white paint covering me around the torso and splashing all over my shoes, tee and pants, the rest of it is just dripping off the wall behind me. I drop the brush and hold my arms out. “You did not just do that.”

  He places the empty tin down. “Wow, you look like a really, really cute snowman. I mean, snowgirl would be the preferred term but—”

  I lunge forward and pick up the tin, tipping what’s left in it over his head. He stands there, eyes open while the paint drips off his eyebrows and chin, puddling on the plastic we laid out earlier.

  He wipes paint from his forehead. “You, madam, just declared war.”

  He tackles me and pins me to the floor, rolling us over in the paint and tickling me in the ribs.

  I ball up, laughing, trying to get out from under him, but he’s way too strong.

  “Stop,” I plead, barely able to draw breath I’m laughing so hard.

  He keeps tickling, working his way up under my arms, leaning over me, dripping and wet. “Had enough yet?”

  “Never,” I laugh out, squirming and wriggling beneath him, the paint sloppy and cold soaking through the back of my shirt.

  I try to tickle him back, but it seems he’s immune.

  Through it all I feel the bulge in his crotch pressing against my chest, the heft and size of it.

  He stops and we both pause breathing hard. We look at each other and he begins to lean down, our faces drawing closer and closer.

  Oh god. We’re going to kiss.

  “What. The. Fuck?!”

  We both look sideways to see Razor and Bo, each carrying a handle of a large ice box.

  Deacon gets off me, standing and pointing. “Last time I checked we already had plenty of ice.”

  Razor’s beaming. “And last time I checked, you put paint on the walls, not each other, kinky as it may be and all that. But you know, whatever turns you on. I’m fond of schoolgirls myself, short skirts, glasses, knee socks…”

  Deacon crosses his arms. “Wait, wait, you’re not telling me you actually caught something today, are you?”

  The boys place down the ice box and open the lid, Razor’s smile saying it all. “Rock lobster, my friends, as much as you can eat.”

  *

  I lean back in the deck chair staring up at the night sky, embers from the fire soaring up in spirals. “I’ve never seen so many stars.”

  Deacon looks up from his deck chair beside me, beer in hand. “I don’t doubt it given the light pollution in California these days.”

  “You fuckers want any more lobster?” calls Razor from the grill.

  I hold my belly. “I’m completely full.”

  “More for me.”

  Deacon looks across to me. “You do much barbequing back home?”

  Holding my food baby like this I almost look I’m pregnant for real. With Deacon’s baby. Would it be so bad? It would be hellacute. “Dad did all the cooking. We had a Weber out back that saw a bit of use, though I can’t say we ever had grilled lobster like this.”

  “As we’ve discovered,” continues Deacon,
“Australians love their BBQs. Any excuse to throw something ‘on the barbie’ and they’re there. I respect that, respect the dedication.”

  “You don’t miss home?”

  “Do you?”

  Enough deflection, buddy. “I asked first.”

  Something cracks in the fire at our feet, the side of Deacon’s face amber in the firelight. “Sure. I miss Girl Scout cookies and coffee to go, thanksgiving and turkey pants.”

  “What the hell are turkey pants?”

  “You know. Giant, oversized trousers with a slack waist you wear when eating turkey so you can stuff in as much as possible.”

  We both laugh. I’m amazed at how easy it is to be around him now, how much he has softened since we first encountered each other at Shipstern. I still haven’t forgotten the way his lips pressed against mine, literally breathing life back into my body. I’m starting to think I could benefit from something else of his being pressed into my body—deep, hard, sinking right to my sopping core.

  Calm down, Lux. You need two to play that game.

  I pick up my beer from the grass and take a swig.

  Bo and Razor stand up. “We’re heading down to the bottlo. Want anything?”

  “The ‘bottlo’? I repeat, confused.

  “Bottle shop, liquor store,” Razor corrects. “Fucking Australians, man. They shorten everything out here, always adding ‘o’s and shit. It’s fucking catchy.”

  “Like Vegemite?” I query.

  “Nectar of the gods,” smiles Razor.

  “I thought that was Judie Myers’s pussy juice back in middle school,” laughs Bo, pushing his brother over.

  Deacon throws a bottle at them from his chair. “Hey, there are ladies here.”

  Bo pretends he’s looking around aimlessly. “Really? Can’t say I see any, not given the way everyone here surfs.”

  Razor nods, looking at me. “I still think you’re packing a pair of billiard balls between those sweet legs of yours. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re wrong. I’d show you, but somehow I don’t think you’ve ever seen a vagina.”

  That gets them. They all explode with hysterics, Bo bent over slapping Razor’s back. “Only your fucking mother’s, bro.”

  Deacon shakes his head. “She was your mother too.”

  Bo looks up confused.