The Red Bikini (10 page)

“I’m so sorry,” Ray-Lynn whispered.

Giselle nodded and threw one more glance back at Roy, who was the one who should be apologizing, but he stood in the doorway, expressionless.

 • • • 

Fin leaned his head back on the couch with which he was very familiar, and moved the bag of frozen peas to the right.

“That’s turning to mush. Let me get you something else,” Giselle said, leaping off the couch.

“I’m
fine
.” He grabbed her wrist to make her stop getting up—he wished to hell she’d stop—but his peripheral vision was off, and he missed. She flitted away.

“I have a Boo Boo Buddy,” she said. “Let me get it.”

“A what?”

“A Boo Boo Buddy. It’s Coco’s. Just a sec.”

She was gone into the kitchen, and he leaned his head back again, exasperated, the pea bag still over the bridge of his nose. Condensation dripped down the side of his face.

He didn’t want to be here. He just wanted to get home, take a long dose of scotch, and call it a night. Everyone’s fussing had made him uncomfortable, and Giselle’s was embarrassing him to no end. But he thought coming in for five minutes would alleviate some of the guilt he didn’t want her to feel.

He was done now, though.

“Giselle, I’m heading out.” He stood, still holding the peas against his face, but she came flying back into the room.

“Fin Hensen, sit down
right now
.”

He bit back a smile at her command, amused that it might be her sternest voice. Damn, she was cute. He watched her hustle into the kitchen through the eye that hadn’t swollen yet. She opened the freezer and fussed with something in the dark. He settled back down.

“This isn’t a big deal,” he mumbled. “I’ve had boards fly back and hit me a hundred times.”

“Just . . . hush.”

He sat quietly and surveyed the living room. He was intimately familiar with this room. He’d been here on several occasions with Lia and their friends, especially in the early days when he’d lived across the patio. He’d sat on this couch a multitude of times—in fact, he thought he’d even made out with Lia once on this couch, although they’d both been young and drunk and stupid at the time. After that—a clear lapse of judgment on both of their parts—she’d started dating an investment banker, and they’d committed to just being friends.

But the room seemed different now with Giselle’s presence. He moved a bowl of fresh flowers on the coffee table to see the stack of oversized books underneath—
Stellaluna
was the first one, with
The Kissing Hand
underneath. He tilted his head to read the other spines:
Chica-Chica-Boom-Boom
,
The Velveteen Rabbit
, and
Disney Princesses
. He smiled. Must be where Coco got all her prince talk. A small bowl of grapes sat next to Coco’s big stack of books. He took one.

“Sit back for me.” Giselle came back to the couch with some kind of terry-cloth thing in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“Just sit back.”

For some reason, he did as he was told. He leaned back into the couch and let Giselle sit near his hip. She brushed his hair off his forehead and rested her terry-cloth thing on the bridge of his nose. He had to admit, it felt good. He closed both eyes and let his head sink farther into the cushions.

“What is this?” he murmured when a wave of euphoria washed over him. Relaxation prickled around his hairline.

“The Boo Boo Buddy was out of use, so this is our backup,” she said. “See? It’s a bear.”

He lifted his head and peered through one eye at a terry-cloth ring with a blue bear-head shape on the end.

“You bring backup ice holders everywhere you travel?”

“Of course.”

Fin leaned his head back again, hoping she’d put it in the exact same spot. He waited for the calm to return through his chest, feeling Giselle’s fingers brush against his eyebrows. She stroked there about twenty times, then pressed tenderly at the top of his cheekbone. His nose felt like it was cut across the top, stinging like a bitch and three times its size, but he focused on Giselle’s touch. He’d never felt so relaxed. This was better than scotch.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into my mess of a life,” she whispered. “Roy, and Ray-Lynn, and now . . .” He flinched when she touched the side of his nose. “Oh, Fin, you’re going to have a shiner in the morning.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” She stroked his eyebrow. “What are your coworkers going to say at your event tomorrow?”

He had thought of that during the drive home. Fox was going to kill him. He had made it clear that Fin was supposed to arrive tomorrow night looking as “stable” as possible, preferably with someone who could pass as a fiancée. The press was going to be there, Fox had said, and this date needed to be someone Fin could be photographed with. Fin was sure his boss didn’t mean to arrive with a black eye from the fake fiancée’s ex.

“It’ll be fine,” he lied.

“I’m sure you didn’t intend to sign on for all of this when you made that deal with me,” she said quietly.

“You did say your ex wouldn’t beat the crap out of me.” With his eyes still closed, he tried to smile.

“I did promise that, didn’t I?”

He could hear the smile in her voice.

“Don’t move,” she added, holding the terry cloth steady.

They sat together in the silence of the living room, a small clock ticking from the corner and Giselle’s fingertips lulling him back into euphoria.

He could feel the softness of her hand against his jaw.

He could feel her body shifting slightly in the cushions.

He could feel the heat from her leg against his thigh. . . .

He shifted uncomfortably. “What was he telling you?”

“Be still.”

He let a few more ticks of the clock go by. Her issues with her ex were none of his business. Especially now that her event was over. He didn’t know why he even cared.

But he listened to the clock tick another few seconds, letting his mind recall her voice from behind the door:
Let me out of here. . . .
Anger swept through him, which confused him. Maybe he was just feeling a residual protectiveness because she was Lia’s sister.

“What was he saying when he had you in that room?” he said, trying not to move his face too much.

Giselle paused for a long time, shifting her weight on the cushions. She lifted the terry cloth and peered underneath it, touching the bridge of his nose gently. He kept his eyes closed.

“He doesn’t want me to see you anymore,” she said in almost a whisper.

He raised his head at that.

“Be still,” she whispered.

“He was bullying you behind a closed door because of
me
?” he asked.

“Are you a drug dealer?”

Fin whipped his head up higher. “Is that what he said?”

“Don’t move.” She rested his head back and readjusted her terry-cloth bear. She brushed the hair off his forehead again. “Something along those lines, yes. Maybe he said addict. I don’t remember.”

Fin ground his teeth. “I’m not a drug dealer or an addict, Giselle. My parents dragged me all through that hippie lifestyle growing up. Trust me, it leaves an impression.”

“He said you’ve been losing competitions because you’ve been involved in drugs.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ve had some issues with competing, but it has nothing to do with drugs. Look, I think it might be a good idea if we call the rest of this off. I don’t want to cause more trouble for you and Coco.”

“What? No! Fin, I want to go to your event—I agreed.”

“You don’t have to. We didn’t know all this going in.”

“I don’t want Roy to have control over what I do.”

He paused. He could understand that. But he had to know first: “Are you in any danger?”

She hesitated.

He removed the bear, the ice, and set them on the coffee table. He sat forward so he could stare straight at her. “Giselle?”

“He would never hurt me.”

“Has he in the past?”

“No.”

“Has he ever hurt Coco?”

“No.”

Fin had a hard time seeing through his right eye, but he peered at her face to see whether she was telling the truth. Not that he would know. He wasn’t used to grilling strangers, or even knowing this much about them, and he didn’t necessarily know what truth looked like. But she gazed back at him earnestly. And damn it all, but all he could think of was kissing her. . . .

“You’re going to have a terrible black eye.” Her eyes moved across his face; then she brushed his eyebrow again. The effect was strangely erotic. It caused a warmth deep in his belly—like a belt of whiskey—and he wanted to just sit there forever, and let this beautiful woman touch his battered face, making him feel healed, and whole again. . . .

Abruptly, he pushed up from the couch. He didn’t deserve this. “I’ve got to go.”

She nodded and stood, wringing her hands. She picked up a blanket of Coco’s that had pink and lavender cartoon characters all over it, then bent over and slipped the ice cubes out of the terry-cloth bear.

“Take this home.” She tucked the bear into the pocket of his jacket. “You can use it tonight. It’ll help get that swelling down, and it might not look so bad tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to take Coco’s thing, Giselle. I’ll—”

“Bring it back tomorrow if you like.”

He shrugged and took it. He didn’t want her fussing anymore, or picking up after him, or touching his forehead like that.

He was an asshole, lusting after her all day. He didn’t deserve to have her caring for him.

He grabbed his jacket, headed for the door, and turned toward her once more before heading to the patio stairs.

“Tomorrow at five,” he said curtly.

And she nodded.

He’d need a new game plan.

T
he next morning, Giselle woke to the sound of the gulls and ran her hand across the pillow next to her, finally remembering that Coco was with Lovey.

She sighed.

The morning sunshine cast golden streaks across the ceiling, which she watched move slowly while she ran last night’s events through her head. She skipped some of the more painful ones with Fin, like the way he’d dashed off at the end. She hadn’t known what she’d said, or what she’d done, but he’d bolted as if she’d just admitted out loud how much her heart was pounding as she’d touched his face. Or how much her body began tingling when her fingertips hovered over his lips. She’d almost leaned in to kiss him right there, in fact—even just a brief kiss to his bruised eyebrow—but she’d refrained.

She groaned. She was pathetic. He probably fled because this divorced mom was getting all swept away again. It was probably like having one of his groupies turn up at his doorstep. Only this time, instead of a hot, young, long-haired girl, he was being gawked at by a woman nearly ten years his senior, who sat him in the middle of a Dora the Explorer blanket and began cooing at him over the top of a Boo Boo Buddy. . . .

She flung her arm over her face and let another wave of embarrassment wash over her.

But then she allowed herself to run through some of the less painful memories: like the sound of his moan when she’d tended to his wound; or the feel of his strong hands cupping hers during the church service; or the velvet brush of his lips in the parking lot. . . .

She ran through the conversation they’d had at the fish place, too. She couldn’t believe his parents had left him while they pursued their dreams. Giselle rolled over and wondered how they could have done such a thing. And she wondered whether Fin really wasn’t hurt about that, of if that was all a cover he ran.

But she told herself not to care. She couldn’t get too attached to him. She was going to go to his event tonight and that would be that. The poor guy probably realized he was already in way too deep—Lia’s crazy sister, indeed. And with an insane ex, to boot. She’d do the part she’d promised—undergo her traditional role—and they’d release each other from these roles neither probably wanted to play.

She launched out of bed and dialed Lia’s number. As usual, the phone went to voice mail. “Call me” was all she told her sister. Discussing whether Fin was a drug thug or not, and admitting she’d roped him into attending Roy’s father’s funeral, and mentioning she couldn’t stop obsessing about his lips now, would all have to wait for a live voice. Shame heated her cheeks when she thought of what Lia was going to say about all of this.

As the gulls cawed through the window, and the steel drums of Bob Marley traveled through the air from Rabbit’s place, her heart fell into a softer rhythm. By the time Giselle pulled her hair into a simple ponytail instead of her usual chignon, she found she was anticipating the day. She’d see whether she could catch Rabbit and the gang. Without Coco, she felt listless, but these new friends and the photography gave her something to look forward to.

Plus, the more she thought about it, the more she was excited to see Fin tonight. Despite her potential for embarrassing herself, she deserved a little giddiness, didn’t she? She’d handle it as a treat, like the fruit roll-ups—something you usually denied yourself, but you could have a little of on vacation.

The gulls continued squawking through the ’50s-style frosted window in the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. She heated up a quick mug of tea, threw on a sweatshirt, and took her mug, along with her camera, to the beach.

It was time to focus.

 • • • 

Giselle took about twenty pictures of Rabbit and the boys surfing.

The light wasn’t very good—the morning sky fell gray and overcast, which edited out the gold tones of the sun—but she knew, from experience, it was hard to predict when a magical shot would show up. Overcast days often gave the best blues and greens.

Rabbit emerged from the water, panting, his board tucked under the armpit of his spring suit. He’d told her that was what the short wet suits were called, and she’d filed it away with “bottom turn” and “cutback” for possible use in her brochure.

He threw the board into the sand and sat on top. “Where’s the grommet?”

“She’s with her grandmother for a couple of days.”

He ran his hand over his forehead, still breathing heavily, and pushed sheets of excess water back into his curls. “How’d it go yesterday with Fin?”

“It was fine.” Her voice sounded clipped. She was already trying to rearrange the ending in her mind. She wished he hadn’t left so abruptly. She wished she hadn’t caused him to.

“He was fine? He treated you nice?”

“Of course.”

He nodded and studied the ocean.

Giselle watched, too, for a couple of seconds, but then she couldn’t help but ask the lingering question: “Did you think he wouldn’t?”

Rabbit shrugged. “I don’t know much about what Fin does and doesn’t do when he’s alone with the femmes.”

That sounded ominous. But she let him catch his breath. They quietly wriggled their feet in the sand and watched the crashing waves, seagulls squawking overhead.

“They’re rippin’ it out there.” Rabbit smiled.

He leaned back on one elbow and pointed out the “soul arch”—where Kino stood on the very tip of the board and leaned way back, pelvis thrust forward, one arm back over his head for balance. It was a lovely shape for the human body. Jensen did a few moves, too, like a “cheater five,” which Rabbit explained was five toes over the nose of the board, versus both feet in the “hang ten.”

Giselle nodded, working up the nerve to venture another question: “So is Fin a little notorious around here?”

The bright noon sun glistened over the water droplets across Rabbit’s face as he shot her a sideways glance. “Listen, Giselle, I don’t want to get in the middle of any of this. If you want my help with something, that’s cool. But otherwise just leave me out.”

“But is he safe?”

“Safe?”

“My ex said something about drugs.”

“Drugs? Nah. That’s not even close to true.”

“My ex said he started competing badly because of drugs.”

“Fin’s had a gnarly time; I’ll give you that. But it’s not because of drugs.”

“What’s it because of?”

He watched the surf, or maybe Corky, for a while, and didn’t answer right away. Then he pushed up and brushed the sand off his palms. “I think you should ask Fin all this, to be honest. He’ll tell you. If you’re interested in him, you should hear it from him.”

“I’m not . . .
interested
in him, Rabbit,” she sputtered.

“Whatever you say.” He smirked and turned his attention to the waves again. It felt like he was giving her permission. Permission to act like an idiot.

“Does it seem like I am?”

“I’m just saying most femmes are.”

“So by ‘most femmes are,’ you’re saying he dates a lot? My ex said he’s always bringing different girls around, and has a bad reputation.”

“Your ex seems to have a lot to say about Fin.”

“Yeah . . . I guess so.”

Rabbit shook his head, but then, reluctantly, shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t call him a player. For the most part he’s a loner. He goes out with different Betties, but he doesn’t let anyone get to know him. He’s going to turn out to be that mysterious old man who lives on a hill, you know? The one who’ll have birds and iguanas, and he’ll scare little kids away.”

She laughed. She could relate. Maybe she could introduce her cats to his iguanas.

“Well, he can’t be that much of a loner—he had that big party the other night.”

“That was a
sponsor
party.” Rabbit spit out the phrase, as if he were disgusted with sponsor parties, whatever they were. “Those are totally gnarmin’. Those people think they’re his friends, but I doubt he’d call ’em friends. Most use him. He’s got a lot of cash. Nice digs. Nice surf out his front door. They come for the handouts. And the sponsors come because he makes them tons of dough.”

Giselle winced. The idea of people just using Fin’s house and things seemed so overwhelmingly sad—like when he said his parents were in Bali, or that they left him with that other family when he was a child.

“Lia’s nice to him, though,” Rabbit said. “Fin likes her. And I think he trusts me. I mean, he
could
if he wanted to. He’s a brosef to me—I feel loyal to him. But I think he sees me as too young. Kinda like you do.” He winked at Giselle. “But me and Kino and the crew—we don’t weigh him down with a bunch of wants and needs.”

Giselle ran her hands through the sand. That sounded about right.

“And he definitely likes you.” He smiled at her sideways.

Giselle ignored the fact that her heart leaped like a junior high schooler. “Please. I’m too old for him, Rabbit.”

His eyebrow arched. “That’s bogus. How old are you?”

“Guess.”

Criminy, she was going junior high all the way. But she was playing with fire here. He could say forty, and then how would she feel?

“You’ve got one of those faces that’s hard to tell.” He let his eyes rivet down her body playfully. “You’ve got young-looking feet, though. Let me see your hands.”

She brushed the sand off, then held them out, flipped them back and forth.

“What’s with the wedding ring?”

“Oh, I—” She felt herself blushing. “I just wear it sometimes. When I’m out with Coco, usually.”

“All right. Well . . .” He shifted his attention back to her hands, stroking his soul patch, having fun with this now. “Twenty-nine? Thirty?”

“Older,” she admitted. “But I’ll take thirty.”

“Well, you’re not too old for Fin. He’s an old soul, anyway.”

Giselle nodded. Something about that rang true.

“What about that woman at the party?” Giselle blurted. Despite her schoolgirl attraction, she almost wanted Rabbit to tell her Fin had a girlfriend, or an ex, or
something
. She didn’t want him to be alone in the world. It just seemed unbearably sad. She held her breath for Rabbit’s answer, though. She wasn’t sure which way she wanted it to go.

“Which woman?”

“The one in the yellow bikini—I think he said her name was Veronica.”

“Oh, Veronica. Well, I’m sure he sleeps with her, but they’re not an item or anything.”

Giselle’s breath caught. She didn’t expect that comment to knock her in the gut the way it did, but there it was. And there was her answer, too: He may find his connections through casual sex and empty relationships. She had to remind herself that Fin wasn’t of the world she was from—a world of suburban dads who committed themselves to families and drove their five-year-olds in SUVs to soccer camp. Who wore slacks to backyard parties, and stood around with expensive wines, and talked about getting new decks built and the stock market. Although, of course, that world was not perfect, as Giselle had once dreamed it would be. It was filled with insidiousness, like doctor dads who screwed around with their nurses and pharma reps. The idyllic life she’d always wanted for her daughter was coming with plenty of holes in it—plenty of ugliness and falseness. But it was the only life she’d ever trained herself to want.

And Fin’s was a world she simply couldn’t comprehend. One in which she didn’t know the rules. His world seemed filled with young, available, stunningly beautiful women, there for the taking, standing around on ocean-view patios with champagne glasses, but it seemed to have no boundaries or emotions. He probably slept around, which was a lifestyle she would never understand or be able to participate in. She would never be able to separate sex from romantic feelings like some people could do—people, probably, like Veronica. Giselle had only ever slept with two men: her husband, and one man before him she’d thought she was in love with. She couldn’t imagine having sex with a man and not getting tangled in emotion. She’d always be the worst kind of clingy.

“Hey, want breakfast?” Rabbit slapped her knee with his knuckles.

“Oh—no, I don’t think so. I was going to . . . um, just take care of some things in the apartment.” What she really meant was “Google Fin” and “call Lia,” but she didn’t want to sound like a bigger goofball than she already did. “And maybe get some sun.”

“In that?” Rabbit smirked at her long-sleeved shirt and pants.

“I have a bathing suit.”

“Thought you were going to stay covered up the whole time here.” Rabbit bit back a smile. “Don’t forget sunblock.” He unraveled his legs and scanned the horizon for his friends.

She followed him to a standing position and gathered her towel and camera.

“Hey, Giselle?” Rabbit called. He threw his beach towel over his shoulder and used one edge to wipe the salt water out of his hairline. “He’s a good guy. And he’s safe to hang out with. He just . . . Well, don’t expect to get too close.”

She started to protest that she wasn’t interested in getting “close,” but somehow she lost the momentum, and wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted anyway.

She simply nodded. “Thanks, Rabbit.”

 • • • 

Once home, Giselle scrambled for her laptop with an energy she pretended was for the new brochure, but—without opening a single brochure photo file—she managed to find herself a half hour into perusing a Fin Hensen wiki.

Next to a photo of him in the surf was a caption that he’d been pro since he was seventeen, sponsored by two major surf-wear companies right after high school. It said his father was a famous surfer, once world champ, and had also ridden for Mahina. There was a separate link to him.

Giselle opened it, hoping for a photo of Fin’s father, but there was only a grainy thing from the ’70s, shot from far away.

Fin’s own wiki listed all the years he’d been on the World Tour—first qualifying when he was nineteen, then surfing it every year since, usually ranking in the top 5 percent. His “home base” was listed as Sandy Cove, but it said he was there for only about nineteen weeks a year. His earnings from contests and sponsorships were listed at $1.2 million. But then, according to the write-up, on a break during last year’s tour, he’d been surfing with close friend Jennifer Andre when she was involved in a surfing accident and died. A link to Jennifer Andre’s page showed a beautiful young Hawaiian woman in a bikini, leaning against a hibiscus-strewn surfboard.