Page 31 of The Surfer

11

COVE

Screw my dad.

Screw Sandy.

And, most of all, screw Ripley Sailor. The girl who’s given me hell.

The American girl has caused me too much trouble than she’s worth. Take this morning, it was an absolute disgrace, coming into my room like that. Like, who does she think she is?

Some geeky American girl who thinks she can control me?

Although I have to admit I felt pretty goddamn attracted to her when she pulled her little stunt this morning, it’s strange but true. When she confidently and sassily pulled off my bedsheets and stormed off in her adorable pouty way, I did feel a ping of desire deep in my body.

Damn it. She’s getting to me.

I liked the way she did that, and she did look hella cute with my bedsheets trailing after her perky little holier-than-thou ass. Her body isn’t bad, in fact, it’s pretty hot if she didn’t hide it behind those layers of cheap clothes she likes to wear.

No girl has ever stood up to me like the way Ripley has, usually, girls just fawn over my Adonis-like body and throw themselves at my feet. Most girls prefer to suck my massive cock than even dare to tell me no. No girl until this Ripley Sailor has fought back at me whilst not giving a damn what I think. Tearing my bedsheets off like that instantly makes her ten times bolder and assertive than most girls I’ve ever come across, and, damn, I like assertive girls.

Ah, stop it, Cove.

I’ve gotta remember she’s nothing but a spy my family has hired to keep a close eye on me, and the absolute last thing I need to be doing is actually falling for the enemy. The goddamn last thing I need to do is to actually fall for Ripley fucking Sailor.

But my heart’s pretty torn over this strange girl who’s just come into my life. I have to come to terms with the fact that Ripley Sailor is pretty attractive and yet she’s my sworn enemy. I can’t let my emotions, or my dick, force me into actually caring for the girl.

And that’s why I’ve ended up this evening back at Tide. The nightclub is my safe haven, my harbor. In the safety of the neon lights and overpriced alcohol, I find my solitude away from my restrictive family and their cute American spies. Tide is my real home.

I sit in my usual spot, the VIP booth. I’m roped off from the rest of the nightclub but I’m not alone, surrounding me are half a dozen girls circling like vultures for my attention and by my side is my weed dealer offering me puffs from a thick joint he’s just rolled.

This is my usual position, and this is where I felt right at home, not in my sister’s house with that American girl tormenting me, no matter how cute or attractive I found her.

She’ll have your balls, Cove if you’re not careful. Don’t fancy the enemy.

“Dude, try this one,” says my weed dealer - some guy named Kev - as he reaches across the booth and offers me a new joint. I reach over the massive tits, barely hemmed in by her dress, of the gushing girl sitting next to me and take the offered joint between my fingers. The girl’s hands are all over me, but I ignore her. She isn’t interesting to me at all, which is very unusual especially with her inflated body. The kind of body I usually go for. Instead, my mind is stuck on that Ripley Sailor and the pretty way she smiled at me when she cockily ripped those bedsheets off my bed this morning.

No way do I actually like this intruding American girl. She’s not my type at all.

I’m very confused, and Kev’s powerful new joint isn’t going to help.

“Excuse me,” I call out to a passing waitress, one I’ve met in the club a few times before. I can’t remember if I’ve slept with her or not yet. She turns and smiled in my direction. Okay, I clearly haven’t slept with her. If I had I wouldn’t have gotten a smile from her, instead, I would’ve most likely have gotten a slap to the face. “Your best bottle of vodka and enough shot glasses for the table as soon as possible.”

“Certainly, sir,” the waitress purrs at me, and I quickly made a mental note to talk to her in the next few days. She’s now high on my target list. I bet she’ll be in my bed before the week is out.

See, Cove? You can forget about the American girl if you just try hard enough.

I don’t need to think about Ripley fucking Sailor when I have plenty of girls racing to be under my bedsheets.

“Tell us a surfing story,” the girl with the massive tits next to me asks, one of her hands busily rubbing my solid abs. I laugh and don’t say anything. Her friend next to her reaches over and joins her friend in playing with my exposed muscular torso.

Yeah, I definitely don’t need no Ripley Sailor in my life when I have all the pussy I want.

Screw Dad. Screw Sandy. And screw Ripley Sailor.

It only takes a moment for the waitress to return with a giant vodka bottle, carrying it in on a tray surrounded by lit sparklers. It’s a big display that causes the rest of the club to turn their necks and stare. The vodka and sparklers are the centerpieces but really, I’m the attraction to these clubgoers. The Finn who fucked up his surfing career and is now the town’s rich loser asshole.

That’s me.