It Comes In Waves (14 page)

N
ot since she'd come down with mono in sixth grade and been quarantined inside her home for a week had Claire felt so abhorrent. After Lizzie's escape—what else could she call it?—Claire had slunk back up to her room, peeled off her shoes, and raided the minibar with vengeful speed. After they'd cast her as the lead in
The Old Woman and the Sea
, the least the network could do was buy her a twelve-dollar tin of cashews, a five-dollar bag of peanut M&Ms, and three tiny bottles of Kahlúa, which did nothing but make her sleepy and collapse on the bed. Three hours later, she'd barely moved. A few times the rhythm of the surf blew in through the opened balcony door and lulled her into short sleeps, just long enough to leave her feeling disoriented when she woke. Now it was almost five and the fact that she'd been without a decent meal all day was finally causing her stomach to sound the alarm. She rose drowsily, considering her possibilities for food, but the thought of leaving the safety of her room made all prospects unappetizing.

Where could she go? Her flight didn't leave until noon the next day.

It was hard to believe—this town she'd once called home, this town she'd planned to live out her whole life in—and she couldn't think of a single place to go within its borders.

She dragged herself to the sliders and stared out at the swath of blue sky beyond her balcony. Maybe she didn't need a destination so much as a direction.

Shoving her feet into her sandals, she grabbed her phone, her room key, and a twenty-dollar bill. Bare bones for bared bones, she thought as she opened the door and shut it behind her.

What did it matter where she went?

•   •   •

S
he started walking down the one road that had never led her wrong: the road she took in, the road she took out. It seemed that during all of her life in Folly, Ashley Avenue had been her compass. She scanned the houses as she passed, wanting to lose herself in the study, but her mind continued to flash with thoughts of Lizzie. Claire touched the pocket of her denim skirt where she'd stashed her phone, wanting to check it, wanting to send another text.

She was almost to Eighth Street when she sensed a car slowing beside her to match her pace. She glanced over and recognized the driver of the navy blue truck at once.

“Hitchhikers usually hold out their thumb,” Gus Gallagher called through the open passenger window.

“I'm not hitchhiking,” Claire said, turning her gaze back to the road and hastening her march.

“You are now. Get in. I'll give you a lift.”

She rolled her lips together, her eyes still fixed firmly ahead. “I'd rather walk.”

He leaned over. “Look, if you don't get in, I'll just keep following you at five miles an hour and pretty soon the traffic will build up behind me and there'll be horns and flipped birds and who knows what else.”

“I'm actually feeling very sorry for myself right now,” she informed him, “so unless you've got some pity to add to my pile, I'm not interested.”

“I've got something better than pity.” He held up a six-pack. “Beer.”

“I don't need a beer.”

“No, I'd say you need about
five
.”

She stopped. The truck lurched to a stop too.

Gus reached over and opened the door. “Come on,” he said. “Get in.”

Claire felt all her resolve puddle. Why not? The day was already an unmitigated disaster. With her luck if she kept walking she'd be run over by a golf cart or pooped on by a pelican.

It was only when she climbed inside that she saw the dog in the backseat, a black Lab with hopeful brown eyes and a pink cast wrapped halfway up her right front leg.

“Let me guess,” she said.
“Margot.”

Gus pulled them back onto the road; a grin teasing his mouth.

“You liked me thinking you were a scoundrel, didn't you?” Claire asked.

“Who says I'm not?” He turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Margot, am I a scoundrel?”

The Lab rose and wobbled to the edge of the seat to nuzzle his whiskered jaw. Gus reached back to knead the dog's ears until she was content and retreated, curling up on the seat.

“What's this pity party in honor of anyway?” Gus asked, reaching down for the beer can that had been teetering in a cup holder between them.

Claire sighed. “It's a long list.”

“So start at the top.”

“My daughter.”

“Let me guess, you don't like her boyfriend.”

Claire turned, startled. “How did you know that?”

“You had that I-could-kill-him look on your face just now. I used to see that all the time.”

“Wonderful. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He yanked a beer free from the six-pack, then snapped the tab with one hand, hard enough to make the can hiss loudly, and held it out to her. “Drink.”

She downed a long sip, the cold, spicy beer prickling her throat, so refreshing that she gasped after she'd swallowed.

God, he was right. She did need a drink.

“She also says I suffocate her.”

“Do you?” Gus asked.

Claire frowned at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“Easy. It was just a question. So, where is she now?”

“Back in Colorado with her father. She's angry with me because she thinks I got her boyfriend expelled from school—which I
didn't
.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Of course I did. But it doesn't matter, because she doesn't believe me. She begged her father to buy her a plane ticket so she could leave a day early.” Claire looked over at him. “Should I keep going?”

He grinned. “On second thought, we might need more beer.”

She turned back to the road to see they'd arrived at the Washout. Gus steered them into the shoulder behind a short line of parked cars, the earlier chaos of the filming crew and their trailers and trucks now gone, the beach quiet again.

He killed the engine and sat back, lifting his arm to rest on the top of the seat, his hand dangling, his fingers nearly brushing her shoulder. Margot sat up and scanned the back window.

Claire sipped her beer and stared out at the water. “I'm sure you already heard about my big film debut today,” she said. “I felt like one of those ancient widows they wheel out of the nursing home for five minutes to cut a ribbon. I was waiting for one of them to hand me a walker.”

“I never would have pushed to get you down here if I'd have known they were planning something so damn dumb. You have to believe that.”

“Wait . . .
you
pushed for me?”

“The producers asked if I knew of any female surfers from the area and I gave them your name.”

She stared at him. “Why me?”

Gus smiled. “Because I'd never seen anyone own a heat the way you did the day I saw you out here.”

“You saw me?” Claire blinked at him as he took a swig of beer. “When?”

“It was the Folly Classic. Nineteen eighty-eight, maybe 'eighty-nine. You couldn't have been more than nineteen.” Gus looked out at the surf. “My friend Dale and I came through on an East Coast tour and we just stood there with our mouths hanging open. I'd been all over the world and I'd never seen a girl carve that hard.” He dragged his gaze back to hers, his eyes flashing with admiration. “You were
fierce
.”

Fierce. A flush of appreciation rippled under Claire's skin.

She faced forward and rolled her shoulders back, the pleasure of his compliment quickly fading.

“It's my own fault.” She took a testy sip and swallowed hard. “I never should have said yes to Adam Williams in the first place. I only did it for my daughter. I thought maybe if she saw me here, if she knew a little about who I was back then, maybe it would bring us closer.” She looked over at him. “You have kids?”

“Nope.” Gus drained his beer and shoved the empty can into the cup holder.

“Did you want them?”

“Sure I did. I wanted lots of things. But then I got a lot of them too, so I can't complain.”

Claire turned back to the view. A pair of surfers waited beyond the white water, sitting on their boards. “You were right,” she said. “About surfing being so different now. I had no idea.”

“This is nothing. When I left California, the stunts were crazy. In the old days, we were happy to launch with one turn. These new guys do full-rotation flips, they land aerials.”

“So I saw.”

“And it's not just the moves either,” Gus said. “It's everything. Used to be if you wanted to know where the best breaks were, when to catch the best swells, you had to watch the forecast or ask your buddies. Now they've got
apps
for it. One click and you can see what the swells are like at Pipeline or Jaws. You want to see how big the barrels are at Mavericks? Hell, don't even bother going; just scroll through YouTube and watch a damn video.”

“Listen to you. . . .” Claire smirked. “You sound like a grumpy old man, you know that?”

“In this business, that's exactly what I am. But it's okay. I see the kids around today and I wouldn't want to deal with all the crap they have to deal with. All the gadgets of modern love. Online dating. Texting. No, thanks. I prefer having sex with someone in bed with me, not on the other end of a phone or a computer screen.” He grinned at her. “Not everything is better with technology.”

Claire gave him a small smile in return. “I'm not going to sleep with you, you know.”

He laughed, a hot, rough sound, making a dent in his beard, a sexy dimple that she told herself was only sexy because she was growing drunk. It was the same with his eyes. It was the beer she'd nearly drained that was turning them a stainless steel and making them go right through her; only the beer. He still needed a haircut. And a shave.

She shifted her gaze to a safer spot, to the waves, seeing the breaks the way she used to see them, the shifting patterns of the swells, the ones that promised height, the ones that would never grow.

“So, why
did
you leave California?” she asked him.

“It got too crazy,” he said. “Too crowded. The promoters became kings. It was all about getting the contracts, getting the sponsors. It stopped being fun.”

“So you decided if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?”

“No, I still want to beat 'em,” he said. “I just want to do it on my own terms. The only thing you'll see Fins sponsoring is the chance for some kid to see the sport the way it used to be.”

“Or maybe you wanted to be a big fish in a small pond?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

Claire looked back at the water and sighed. “After today I don't think there's a pond small enough to make me feel like a big fish again.” And just like that, her buzz started to slip away, bringing life back into sharp focus, and all the disappointments she'd hoped to run from when she marched out of the hotel earlier.

She set her can in the cup holder.

“I should go,” she said. “I have an early flight.”

“Seems a shame to waste your last night in Folly packing,” Gus said. “I can think of a much better way for two people to spend a beautiful evening.”

Claire turned to meet his gray eyes and felt her skin warm. This time she let him hold her gaze, and her thoughts began to soften again.

Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the night; who knew and what difference did it make? A wild and furious rush of recklessness tore through her at the thought of being wanted by this man. The day—the whole trip!—had been a total disaster. If Gus Gallagher wanted to take her back to his house, carry her up a flight of stairs Rhett Butler–style, and make crazy love to her, why not?

Claire let her head fall against the seat. “I'm game if you are.”

His hand was already on the gearshift to steer them back onto the road.

•   •   •

A
quarter mile past the Washout, Gus pulled them into a beach house, all glass and metal. Open decking ran around the perimeter. Margot hopped up the steps and scoured the length, disappearing through a dog door before Gus ushered Claire inside.

“I should warn you—the maid quit.”

She laughed, but the minute she stepped inside, she stopped laughing.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing her to a brown sectional. At least Claire thought it was brown, what little of it she could see under the piles of wet suits. “Shit. Sorry,” he muttered, sweeping it clean and moving the piles to the floor.

Claire bit back a smile and sat down, watching as he raced around the room, relocating more piles on his way to the kitchen. “I keep meaning to get someone in here to clean up, but I'm afraid they'd report me and Margot to the health department. I'm thinking I'd probably be better off just renting a backhoe and a Dumpster. Get you a beer?”

“Sure.”

He returned with a pair of bottles, handing her one and knocking the necks in toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she repeated.

“Give me a minute to get everything together and I'll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

She frowned as he disappeared down a set of stairs. Get everything together? Did he mean to light candles, turn on music?

A bang, and then a series of crashes came from below. Margot bolted upright from her slumber and gave Claire a quizzical look. A few moments later Gus bounded up the steps, wearing a smile, and beckoned her to join him. Halfway down the stairs, Claire slowed. Understanding washed over her, seeing his intentions—and a pair of boards leaned against the wall.

He'd never meant to seduce her. This wasn't about sex. It was about surfing.

Embarrassment swerved quickly to indignation. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly as she watched him attach leashes to both boards. “I already told you I can't.”