Then I see his board, a quick rush of relief replaced by nerves. He is out farther, a few hundred yards behind the main peak, at a spot called Truck Drivers. My heart sinks, a heavy weight of doom pulling it down, dragging it to the bottom until it sits somewhere in my stomach, heavy as lead, my breaths coming short and fast.
“Whoa, Paul’s taking Truck Drivers?”
I don’t turn at the voice, knowing its source. Rayne. A dreadlocked Barbie who rarely lifted her head off her boyfriend’s c**k or the bong he placed before her. “Yeah.”
“He is crazy, girl.”
He is crazy. Truck Drivers is a take-off spot for waves, named by some tourist that had probably died shortly after naming it. It’s for daredevils, or anyone stupid enough to want to risk their life for a wave. And the wave that was coming? It was beautiful. Terrifyingly so.
“Uh-oh.” Rayne says softly. I don’t know whether to slap her or bury my face in her massive chest and avoid the entire thing.
But I can’t move. I’m glued to the scene, glued to his form, as he leans forward, lying flat and low on the board, and begins paddling, the wave growing larger and more deadly as it grows.
The ocean is a beast. A beast that doesn’t care if it chews you up or swallows you whole. A beast you cannot beat, you can only dance with it until the time comes when it kills you. It will never lose, and with moves like this, Paul is living on borrowed time. I watch him paddle and wonder if this is the moment when he will die.
The wall of water stands, straight up, sunlight glinting off it in a way that hurts my eyes. I stand, my eyes locked on the one small break in its awesome silhouette, the dip that is my heart, the man I love standing to his feet and disappearing into its churn as it breaks, bending down on itself, Paul’s body gone, nothing but white energy before me.
He is right now in one of two places. In the channel, hidden by the wave of water, or he’s fallen, crushed underwater by the wave.
A breaking wave can push a surfer down twenty to fifty feet, sending them into a washing-machine style spin that tumbles and breaks them apart. When they finally stop spinning, when their chest is breaking apart and fighting against the urge to inhale, they have to regain equilibrium and figure out which way is up. Some surfers swim the wrong way, traveling ten feet before their bursting lungs and their sense of direction alerts them to the deadly mistake. Lack of air is not the only danger. Water pressure at that depth will rupture an eardrum as easily as crushing a fly. Even worse is not having any depth. If the ocean floor, or a reef is present, the wave will grind you against it like a mortar to a stone. Paul needs to get to the surface before the next wave hits. The next wave will be a new downward force, a second round in the spin cycle. A second round that compounds the danger, one that his lungs will probably not survive.
Red. Breaking. Far left, shooting out of the front of the curl, Paul’s board dipping down and ahead of the break, swinging up, and then down again, his body stepping forward on the nose, arms loose and confident, his movement graceful and relaxed.
I gasp. For him, it was nothing. For me, I just died a small death. I blink back tears and sink to the sand.
“Chocka,” Rayne drawls, brushing off her arms and stepping away.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
Paul left this afternoon, headed to San Diego, where a tropical storm has created a current he wants to chase. He kissed me quickly, throwing some clothes in a bag and promising to be back tomorrow afternoon, unless the weather changes. I am used to it, his excitement over perfect conditions, the unending quest for the perfect wave. A conquer that no one will see, a personal victory only for himself. I watch him leave before dialing Stewart. He doesn’t answer, and my texts go unanswered. I mill around the house for a bit, then grab my keys and head into town.
I valet my car and take the elevator up, inserting my key and pressing the button for his suite. Chances are, at eight PM, he’ll still be at work. But I can wait, change into comfortable clothes and grab something from the fridge.
Entering the suite, I hear his voice, move down the hall to his office, and step in.
He is on the phone, his face tired, small lines outlining his handsome features. He looks up, surprised, a smile stretching over his face and he turns in his chair, away from his desk, tapping his thigh, and pulls me into his chest when I sit. I stay there for a while, his hand on my back, rubbing as he listens, stopping when he speaks, his other hand scribbling figures on a pad of paper. I can hear the voice in his ear, the phone stuck in the crook of his shoulder, a fast-paced dialogue about product placement, market awareness, and sales trends.
I bore quickly, sliding off his lap, into the opening between his legs, my hand running over his belt, my eyes moving up to catch his. He watches me wordlessly, his eyes urging me to continue, the push of bone under my wrist letting me know that he is ready.
He is always ready. His c**k seems engineered to spring into action at a moment’s notice. It is one of the things I love about him. I unbuckle his pants and stand, pulling my sundress over my head slowly, letting him see every inch of what he will soon get.
STEWART
She is beautiful. I knew that from the moment I first saw her, through snow flurries, a grin on her face like she captured the world and just threw it back. But I didn’t know how beautiful she was until I knew her. Until I saw into her soul and became lost in her goodness. The final step of my capture came when she lost her clothes. Bared her body, that body that I see in my dreams, jack off to in the morning, and worship in her presence. And now, with her pulling every inch of that yellow sundress up and off of her curves... I am lost. I am lost and she has found me. I hang up the phone mid-sentence and unplug the cord from its back.
I roll my chair forward, running my hands along the back of legs, traveling up the curves of her ass, gripping the skin there as I lean forward and kiss her skin, tasting the hint of salt that tells me she has been in the ocean. I slide my fingers under the cloth of her underwear, simple pink boyshorts that I tug down, over the tan curves of her hips, faint strips of paleness showing me her tan lines. Then it hits the floor, and she is bare before me. I start to stand, but she pushes me down, pins me to the chair as she kneels back down, a playful smile on her face, a gleam of fire in her eyes. I love her eyes. Love how I can instantly tell if she is mad, excited, or in love. Whatever the emotion, whatever her temperature that day, there is always sex in those eyes. It floats off her skin, gleams in her eyes, and is in every move of her delicious body. This woman cannot exist without sex. It is her food, her body-sustaining air. I discovered that early, knew it from the moment of our second date. She cannot contain it, does not even try. She embraces it, owns it, loves it. She does not f**k out of insecurity or to get something or someone. She f**ks because she loves it, and loves through it. It is her gift to the world and I am lucky enough to be a part of that world.