Bombora (25 page)

I drum my fingers against my leg angrily. “If you’re saying I should walk away from Nate right now,” I tell her petulantly, “I’ll damn well do it. I’ll go back on the bloody Paxil and go back to being an emotionless zombie.”

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” answers Willa quietly. “But what I’m saying is, if your completion of this program was dependent upon my approval or a pass/fail grade based on your progress—you wouldn’t get it.”

Utterly finished with this conversation, despite the fact that our hour isn’t up, I get to my feet and walk purposefully to the entrance of the gazebo. All of a sudden I want nothing more than to be back in the sea and losing myself in the biggest wave I can find. Not losing myself literally—still no latent fantasies of suicide—but anything to keep myself from wasting another fucking thought on this subject.

“Good thing I’ve only got another few days here,” I snap, and Willa, predictably, frowns. “After that, I’m not your problem anymore.”

I
LET
myself into Hugh’s house through the back door, which is always—though I’ve told him a million times this isn’t the Midwest—unlocked, just in case I should happen to stop by. It’s getting on in the afternoon, around the time Hugh is usually barricaded inside his study to work on his book.

Although I’ll never understand what compels him to ensconce himself in his office during the nicest time of day, especially when the California days are sweet indeed, I have to admire how methodical and regimented Hugh is as an author, setting himself a specific schedule from which to work. Not the creative type myself, I always saw writing as something spontaneous and undisciplined, to be completed whenever inspiration strikes, not according to set hours of the day. But Hugh insists this is the only way his novels get written, and who am I to argue? We surf in the mornings; then I leave him to his work each afternoon. Which is why, I suppose, he was in such a rush to get Nate and me to spend some time together during his off-limits writing periods. His concern for our respective well-being is touching, but I sometimes wonder how Hugh thinks I or his brother got along without him before. Before we were actually together, I mean.

I can hear two different sets of music emerging from separate locations in the house, each trying to drown the other out: classical music from Hugh’s study, and classic rock from the living room, where Nate is likely reading or taking a nap. Since I already know where I’m not welcome, I wander into the living room and discover, instead, that Nate is busy in the kitchen, where he beckons to me in response to my tentative “Hello?”

Upon entering, I see Nate, shirtless, bent over at the fridge, digging around in the crisper and cradling a pile of vegetables in the crook of his elbow. He glances over his shoulder and flashes me a grin, and I have to wonder at how happy he always is to see me when I’m not quick enough to spoil the mood.

“I made you a cheeseburger,” he says in greeting, and withdraws a head of lettuce before he kicks the fridge door closed with his heel. Sure enough, there are two burgers set out on the kitchen island, fresh off the barbecue. Faint smokiness still lingers in the air, and I notice Nate has even gone to the trouble of toasting the buns on the grill. A stickler for detail, Nate is, when it comes to food.

“How did you even know I’d stop by?” I wonder. I have the good grace to feel abashed that my first response is suspicion, rather than a smile or even thanks for this show of thoughtfulness; especially when I catch the hurt twist to his mouth, but it seems too late to backpedal now. I’m trying to break him of the habit of expecting displays of friendliness from me when I’ve never given him cause to do so. At least, not since he arrived in California.

“I hate to break it to you, Phel, but there’s not a whole lot of inconsistency to your routine,” he points out gruffly, then sets down the lettuce, tomatoes, and onion on the cutting board to be chopped up for burger dressings. “You stop by most days around this time, so I figured we could expect you. Maybe you’re a bit earlier today than normal. There a reason for that? Hugh won’t be coming up for air for a while yet.”

“I finished my session with Willa early,” I answer, trying to hide my annoyance that Nate fancies himself such an expert on how I spend my time. Luckily, Callie wanders inside through the dog flap to greet me, giving me an excuse to divert my knee-jerk sense of snippiness. I was raised to be polite enough not to start an argument in payment for free food just because I’ve had a bad morning. Not even with Nate. “I came to collect my surfboard, since I thought I’d get a bit more time in at the beach today.”

Ripping off leaves of lettuce to rinse beneath the tap, Nate nods. “Fair enough. The surf report for this afternoon ain’t anything spectacular, but I was thinking of hitting the waves for a while myself.” He lets that hang there a moment, and with nothing else to do, I go to the sink to wash my hands. I begin to help slice up the tomatoes and onions. Nate watches me without comment before going back to his own task. Then he says, “Do you want company?”

“It’s not a private beach,” I answer, voice neutral. We don’t have to talk to each other out in the water anyway. I remind myself there's no harm in going down together. “I doubt it’ll be very crowded on a Wednesday. No competing for waves.”

“Gee, thanks,” snorts Nate. “If it offends you that badly to be seen in public with me, you could just say so.”

With a shake of his head, he leaves us to finish our tasks in silence, handing me a plate to fill half with sliced tomato and half with onion once I’m done. His own pile of washed and shredded lettuce goes on a separate plate before he returns to the fridge for a jar of mayonnaise, along with the ketchup, relish, and mustard he likes on his own burger. He sets them down on the counter with a bit more force than is necessary, a hard twist to his mouth as he refuses to meet my gaze. It brings me straight back to the morning’s conversation with Willa, and I just—I refuse to be drawn back into it.

Ignoring Nate’s arched eyebrow, I wipe my hands off on a dishtowel and go to turn the stereo up, inching the volume nearly to the point that would lure Hugh out of his study to complain about the noise level. He’ll not be bothered for this, though, and so when I return to the kitchen, I’ve no designs on being disturbed. I snatch the bottle of Heinz out of Nate’s hand to press him back up against the kitchen island.

“What the—” he starts, expression one of surprise, but his protests end there as I shove our bodies together and take his mouth in a kiss, my hands going tight around the warm, bare skin of his hips.

“How long ago did Hugh go into his study?” I ask, gauging the limits of our privacy. Nate always seems to require some acknowledgement of the risk involved in our dalliances, but after a year of hiding from his wife and son, I should think anything less than an Amber Alert would barely register as a blip on the radar. I get tired of him glancing around like we’re about to be interrupted, but old habits die hard, I guess.

Nate worries his lip for a moment, then slides his arms around my waist, palms broad and hot against my back. “Less than an hour ago,” he answers. “He won’t be leaving that room at least until dinner.”

“Fine.” Releasing him first, I then pull my T-shirt over my head and let it fall at my feet, my lips curling at the quick flush that suffuses Nate’s cheeks, his pupils dilating with arousal as his eyes skim over my exposed chest and down to my low-slung board shorts. “Turn around,” I order.

“What? Why?”

Exasperated, I roll my eyes and grip Nate by the shoulders to spin him around myself, giving him a light shove against the counter for good measure.

The hiss of excitement in response to my little displays of aggression—however unnaturally they come—makes it all worthwhile. “Phel, what are you—”

Growling a terse “Shut up,” I sink to my knees behind him and pull his jeans down at the same time. The denim is loose on his hips, enough that a sharp tug puddles them around his ankles, button and zip untouched. A large part of Nate’s California attitude seems to worship at the altar of comfort and relaxation from the typical constraints of everyday life, which apparently includes underwear; his bare ass is exposed to my gaze before I can blink, as easy as wishing.

Nate gasps in surprise, the sound turning to a low groan as I reach out to squeeze a handful of that firm muscle. All I can think is he must be sunning himself naked on the private balcony of his bedroom, because there’s hardly any tan line below the belt. He’s so exquisite I can scarcely believe it some days, and he’s mine to do with as I please. I’ve never wanted a sex slave, but Nate at times makes me understand the appeal.

Right now it pleases me to grip the other cheek in my hand and spread him open, leaning in to bury my face in the warm softness of his crease, my mouth open against the perfect dark pink of his opening. This behavior isn’t contradictory, I think. Willa is wrong. I never desired retribution to the exclusion of all else, and I quickly grew bored satisfying my own needs at Nate’s expense, especially not when he yields so beautifully to the pleasure it’s within my power to give. True to form, Nate curses and jerks above me, a surprised noise dragging from his throat almost the instant he feels my tongue on him, and he pushes instinctively into the kiss. He’s been a glutton for this kind of attention ever since his first rim job, and I lavish it upon him like no time at all has passed, tasting his musk and the clean scent of an all-too-recent shower.

The response is symphonic, Nate nearly collapsing forward onto the island with his back arched in a bow, arms tensed, low cries and moans building in crescendo as I lave and tease and press into him with my tongue. The flesh is still loose and open from last night, when I fucked him with four fingers before riding us both to completion. I reach between his legs for his erection, already wet for me, and point his length toward the floor as I stroke and work him closer to orgasm. A grin splits my face when his hips jerk, trying to fuck my hand and my mouth simultaneously like they don’t know in which direction to thrust. Nate’s so near the brink already. I can feel his muscles shuddering around my tongue in spasms, flutterings as gentle as a kiss, and his prick swells in my hand. Almost there. I try not to think about how desperately I still want to please him sometimes.

Impatient for more, I let go and maneuver Nate back around so I can capture his cock between my lips, allowing his hands, for once, to grip my hair and direct the pace, hard and fast just the way he likes. I take him as deep as my throat will allow, pressing in toward the base and swallowing around the head so he can feel every suck and constriction, every swirl of my tongue against the underside of his shaft. The tug of my hand at his heavy balls is what does it, constant pressure until he stiffens and comes with a shout, spending hard and slippery down my throat. I close my eyes to accept it, but I can picture the very expression on his face: eyes rolled back, red lips slack and gorgeous as he croons my name and his release.

I pull away and sit back on my heels to watch him recover, wiping absently at my mouth while Nate slumps against the island and opens his eyes to barely more than slits staring down at me. “Phel—” he begins, but I cut him off by rising to my feet and giving him a swift kiss. Willa can say what she wants; I might make it very clear to Nate what the terms of our arrangement are, may be at times harsh when my anger is scarcely able to contain itself, but after that first day, I don’t think I’ve ever been malicious or cruel. Just because I’m confident Nate wouldn’t walk away from me, even at my most punishing, doesn’t mean I’m compelled to be a total dick to him. Not all the time. Not even if I still think he deserves it.

“I’m going surfing,” I tell him, and stoop to snatch my T-shirt up off the floor. “Come if you want, I don’t care.”

M
UCH
to my chagrin, surfing proves something of a wasted endeavor, and not the cathartic release I’ve craved since my disastrous session with Willa. The waves are meek and unfulfilling, acceptable but not great—decent enough for someone like Nate, who is still getting back into the sport, but not nearly enough for someone looking for a challenge or to blow off some steam. I can sense the frustration of the other more seasoned surfers in the water, and in unspoken conference, a few of us paddle out to the Suckouts on the other side of the reef, hoping for better sport there. I know Hugh would kill me if he knew, because this is a dangerous stretch of water he’s yet to let me attempt. But the thought of the challenge alone makes up my mind.

No one says anything to me at first, but I watch the other surfers for signs of the local vibe. As much as Hugh explained to me about the caliber of surfer out here in Cardiff, I’ve seen for myself the elitism in some of the experienced athletes who ride these waves. The locals guard this spot jealously, displaying keen hostility toward fumbling shortboarders who waste the waves out here—a longboarder would get laughed out of the Suckouts as soon as look at it—but to my relief, my presence goes unremarked upon, four of us paddling out in relative silence except for the odd greeting or comment on the weather.

I quickly see the Suckouts is a waiting game—at first there’s nothing, no sign of the famed tubes that crest out over these low tides, but after maybe twenty minutes of watching, one of the other surfers sends up the alert, nodding in the direction of a swell just beginning to take shape. Pack-like, we advance upon the wave, me bringing up the rear so as not to get in the way. I’m a little nervous about making the drop, to be honest, knowing I might as well go home if I blow it. Hugh’s warnings about notoriously low water levels ring in my ears as we get into position along the wave’s trajectory. This, he said, was a bombora.

The sound of the wave advancing is almost as powerful as the feeling of it, four of us paddling furiously to stay ahead of the whitewater as it begins to break. Then I’m pushing myself up and being thrown down one of the sharpest drops I’ve ever experienced, a thick, grinding tube of water that shoves me along at breakneck speed. I hear the whoops and hollers of the other surfers as they hurtle down the length of the barrel, prismatic water encircling us from all sides like multifaceted blue glass. It’s incredible, a perfect wave that pushes all my troubles so firmly to the back of my mind that I actually laugh out loud, dragging my hand through the water on the inside of the tube for balance as much as the sensation of it.