Where can I go?
And then an idea hits me. I know just the place.
After packing my stuff into a small suitcase, I grab a new piece of paper and write a note to my parents to let them know I had to get away. I need time to myself to move forward. I let them know not to worry, but I don’t tell them where I’m going. If I do, they’ll send someone to check on me, and right now I just need some time to heal. To figure out a way to move forward.
Since my car is relatively new—given to me by my parents a few years ago for my sixteenth birthday—I decide to make the drive. It’s four hours to our beach house in Venice, California, but it will do me some good. The best kind of thinking happens in the car, with the windows rolled down and the music blasting. I stop once for a coffee and again at the grocery store to pick up some groceries, since the place will be empty.
My parents bought the beach house years ago, since they travel to LA often for UFC competitions, as well as to visit my aunt and uncle. Both my parents are retired UFC fighters and own a UFC training facility they took over from my grandpa called Cooper’s Fight Club. Since we rarely come here, I’ve never been here with Ian.
I arrive close to nine o’clock at night. It’s the first time I’ll be here alone, but it’s in a good neighborhood, on the water, and has an alarm system, so I know I’m safe. I park in the driveway and gather my stuff. As I’m walking to the front door, with my luggage in one hand and the bags of groceries in the other, my cell phone rings. I’m sure it’s my parents. They’re probably now seeing the note I left and wondering where I am. Balancing the bags and luggage, I insert the key into the door and twist it open. With my foot, I kick the door open, preparing to shut the alarm off. Only it doesn’t go off.
Hmm… That’s weird.
I step into the house and notice a light is on. My heart beats erratically in my chest. Is someone here? I haven’t heard my parents mention renting the place out. But then again, I haven’t really been paying attention. I’m about to step back outside and call my parents, when a massive shadow makes an appearance. I step backward, preparing to run, when the figure grows larger. A huge muscled man appears and, without thinking, I let out a cringe-worthy shriek. My bags fall from my hands, and my luggage tips over. I twirl around to flee, but the door has closed on its own and I run directly into it, my forehead smashing into the hard wood.
My brain goes fuzzy, stars lighting up behind my lids. I stumble back slightly, my head throbbing in pain. A strong hand grips my wrist, and it’s then I remember… there’s someone here.
“Let go of me!” I scream, yanking my hand away and preparing, again, to flee.
“Whoa, calm down,” the masculine voice says.
Figuring it’s best to know what the face of my attacker looks like, I swivel around, only to come face-to-face with Ryan Cruz.
“Ryan? What are you doing here?” I ask, confused as to why he’s here, in my family’s beach house. The last I heard he was in the military and stationed overseas.
“I’m on vacation,” he says, his voice as strong as his grip, which is still holding on to my wrist.
“Here?” As I pull my wrist away, this time successfully releasing myself from his grasp, I take a moment to take him in. He’s a good foot taller than my five-foot-two self, dressed in only a pair of camouflage sweatpants, which are hanging low on his hips. Without a shirt on, his entire body is on display. From his hard pecs that are covered in various tattoos, to his chiseled abs, all the way to the well-defined V that disappears into the front of his pants, the man screams sex and—
What the hell am I thinking? I shouldn’t be thinking of him like that. For one, he’s a friend of my family’s, and two, Ian…My heart clenches behind my rib cage. He’s dead and I’m ogling another man.
“Yes, here,” he says, ripping me from my thoughts. He crosses his arms over his chest and I make it a point not to look at how ripped his forearms are. Only it’s a huge mistake because when my gaze ascends up to his face, his mesmerizing blue eyes draw me in—like the color of the ocean on a beautiful, cloudless day.
Unable to look at him a second longer, I drop my eyes to the ground. They take in his bare feet. My God, his feet are huge. I wonder if it’s true what they say… big feet means… Oh my Lord! I close my eyes. Nothing about Ryan is safe to look at. Not even his damn feet! Feet should be ugly, not a turn-on.