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Well, maybe not quite on her own.
Carrying Petals back to her cage, Andy set her on the swing inside it. “You’ve had your freedom,” she whispered as she carefully closed the little arched door.
“Now it’s my turn.”
Chapter two
“Getup,fucker!”
Luke frowned at the obnoxious wake-up call. One that was immediately chased with a familiar drumming against his bedroom door — some bastardized version of theTerminatorbeat that could only mean his best friend Kyle had let himself into Luke’s place.
Kyle Taylor-Vaughn was a morning person.
Lucas MacCallum was not.
Cracking a lid, Luke winced at the assault on his retina. Light streamed in through the screen door leading out to his balcony. From what he could tell — with one eye pressed into a pillow and the other locked in a squint — the sky outside his third-floor condo was awash in a fiery gradation of orange and pink. His gaze lingered on the vibrant mix of natural color before sliding to a noticeably more unnatural hue dripping from his balcony railing.
The straps of a neon-yellow bikini top dangled in the breeze. Below it, a matching scrap of Lycra clung to the ground like a busted water balloon. And maybe five feet from that, his boardshorts and a handful of tied-off condoms were tossed near the foot of a chaise lounger partially concealed by a large potted ficus.
If all that wasn’t evident enough he’d recently gotten laid, the sudden shock of a cold palm settling on his bare ass sure as hell was.
Luke had no idea who was touching him. Not because he’d gone on some brain-fogging bender at Kyle’s club last night — he wasn’t a heavy drinker — but because he’d just been yanked from a deep state of unconsciousness. One his defective brain had probably only entered into a few hours ago.
The defect in Luke’s brain was the memory of the giant bag of dicks who’d sired him.
If he could blip said memory out of his head,Men In Black–style, he’d do so in a heartbeat.
Because Luke was tired of the frequent bouts of insomnia. Tired of the fact that nearly twenty years after his mom had sent his dad to an early grave, the ghost of the man still haunted his dreams—
“Dude!Dawn patrol.Get your ass up!”
Jesus. Luke was also tired of the incessant pounding on his door.
Very few things in the world could drag Luke willingly from his bed when he was still so confused by the disruption of his REM cycle that he couldn’t remember who he’d banged the night before.
A throaty chuckle against his back triggered some recall.
Raven hair. Long as sin. Shiny as the little black dress she’d worn to the club over her bikini.
What was her name? Sharon? Shane?
“For fuck’s sake, bro! The swells are, like, ten feet out there right now. Get your dick out of Shay’s mouth, grab your board, and let’s do this!”
Shay. That was it. Shay Martinez. One of Kyle’s actor friends.
Not that Kyle was an actor. Oh, he’d done some modeling work during college, but his real claim to fame was that he was the premier young entrepreneur of the city, having opened two of San Diego’s most popular businesses: the Sand Spot and the Sin Spot.
Luke and his other best friend Dylan worked at the Sand Spot making custom surfboards for the shop. Technically, Kyle was their boss, but fuck him if Luke and Dylan would ever acknowledge it. They’d known Kyle way too long for that.
And dude-bro could just fuck right off with his bullshit right now.
Ten-foot swells?
Sure.
Maybe in winter. Or maybe a little further up the coast at Black’s Beach.
But it was the beginning of June, and their little section of sea coming off Crystal Pier didn’t see that kind of action. His boy was yanking his chain. Hard.
