Page 2 of Hooked on Trouble

The poor guy has nothing more than a string of licorice between his legs. Although unattractive, his nudity sends my mind to a place it often goes, the place I try to ignore. To the beast of a man I woke up naked with in Aspen. It may have been over a year ago, but that’s not the kind of thing one forgets. Goddamn Nico.

I ignore the unwelcome thought and focus on Mr. Dick Smalls. “If that’s a two, I assume your ranking system ranges from one to a hundred.”

Shay shakes her head while a silent Lily blushes. “Nope. That bad boy is a two. As in the pencil. Hopefully he’s more of an H pencil. If that thing is a B, he’s screwed.”

“More like not screwed,” I say, wishing we’d invented this classification in high school. If we’d lined up our hard H pencils and soft B pencils, naming each after a boy in our class, Mrs. Water’s gray hair would have caught fire. Thank God for that art class, though. With the amount of pot I smoked and rules I broke, I’d never have befriended Lily and Shay without it.

Lily’s so embarrassed she looks sunburned, her white-blond hair blowing across her heated cheeks. “You guys are horrible.”

“What’s wrong with a little peen humor?” Shay asks.

Lily ducks as though she can hide on the open beach. “Don’t use that word.”

“Peen?” I holler, drawing annoyed glances our way.

Cringing, Lily covers her face with both hands.

Shay kisses her cheek. “You’re adorable. And I’m still in shock we’re all living in Vancouver. I’ve been thinking about us starting that event business. I have a tight deadline at work, but when that’s done, we should have our first board meeting.”

I nod but don’t answer. I love the idea of working with the girls, and we could rock an event business. Lily’s attention to detail makes her a natural planner, Shay’s interior design skills could transform any space, and I could finally put my photography to use, documenting the events for clients. But a start-up business needs cash, and there’s no way I’m returning to teaching art. Although it had its moments, dealing with a roomful of thirteen-year-olds is up there with getting my ribs tattooed.

My remaining choices are: Live on Wreck Beach with Dick Smalls, or find a new job.

To distract myself, I gesture toward a naked man walking out of the ocean. “Exhibit B: the Hoodie.”

Shay coughs out a laugh. “Nice one.”

Lily tilts her head and studies the specimen, playing along with our immature game. “I don’t get it.”

“The Hoodie,” I repeat. “The man’s foreskin is still intact, covering the coveted head.”

“Oh my God.” Lily studies the sand.

As I’m about to make fun of Lily’s perpetual shyness, Shay stops in her tracks. “Goldilocks at twelve o’clock.”

It’s my turn to frown in confusion. “You lost me on that one.”

She tries to gesture toward the Asian man with her eyes, but her attempt at subtlety makes her look like she’s having a stroke. “Goldilocks—not too big, not too small…you know, just right. I’d bet that man knows how to please a woman.” She pinches my side. “You should talk to him.”

“To the naked man? On the beach? That sounds about as fun as the time you forced our hot waiter to set me up with his friend. I’m still paying off the restaurant bill that jerk stiffed me with.”

Continuing on our mission, we traipse through the sand, the wind in our hair, the sun on our faces. I don’t glance back at the cute guy Shay spotted; our definition of Goldilocks differs. My “just right” isn’t average. It’s thick and long and hard. It’s Thor’s hammer big. It’s attached to a tower of tattooed muscle, one I vowed never to acknowledge again. Tequila may have blurred my night with Nico, but I know we didn’t have sex. With what he’s packing between his thighs, there’s no question I would have been sore afterward. What was crystal clear, though, were the secrets I shared with him before the shots flowed, and the fact that he ditched me afterward.

Goddamn Nico.

I’ve avoided crossing his path since moving here, but he’s best friends with Sawyer and Kolton. So unless I stop hanging out with Lily and Shay, I’m bound to suffer his presence eventually. Good thing I have a doctorate in grudges.

Lily grips my upper arm, concern beaming from her gray eyes. “There are a couple of women ahead, and one has black hair like yours. Do you have a picture of Rose? We could help you search if we know what she looks like.”

My fingers twitch as I scan the beach. I’d kill to have my camera here, to study the area through my lens—a barrier between me and my past, providing the semblance of safety. If I find Rose, I’ll have to apologize for what I did as a kid. Find the words to explain my actions, even though there’s no reversing the consequences. If it weren’t for me, she may never have left.

Pulse surging, I follow Lily’s gaze, but the woman in question has a wide nose and thin lips. Although I haven’t seen Rose in seventeen years, those features don’t match the girl I remember. Still, Lily has a point: I could use help. The only clue I have that Rose moved to Vancouver is a tip from an old friend of hers who spends her days cashing welfare checks to play the lottery. Not exactly promising.

I reach for my purse and pull it around to my front, but the second I dip my hand inside, I freeze. “Shit. No. No, no, no.” I shove my hand deeper, then pull it out and stick my nose in the small opening, hoping to hell this is one of those bottomless Mary Poppins jobs.

“Why are you making out with your purse?” Shay asks.

I drop it and slump back. “Because my wallet isn’t inside. I had it when I gave you change for the meter, so how the hell did I lose it between then and—” My jaw drops as realization sinks in. “Fucking asshole.” I whip my head around and squint down the beach, but the rowdy group and the guy playing Frisbee are long gone. “That guy who bumped into me. That asshole stole my wallet.”