I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s starting at me more intensely than anyone has ever looked at me in my entire life.
He looks completely out of place too here on the beach in a full suit complete with a tie and everything. He’s got to be swelteringly hot. I’ve got next to nothing on—just enough to cover my lady parts—and I’m hot.
But sweet baby Jesus can he fill out a suit. His shoulders are full, and I can tell he’s packing some muscles under that shirt and jacket. He looks like one of those supermodels you see on magazine covers that all the women drool over.
His hair is dark and styled in a way that suggests careless perfection like he doesn’t have to try too hard to make it fall that way.
And his eyes are a verdant green, but the sun shining on them reminds me of what I imagine a forest to look like with the sun shining down on it through the trees.
The guy reeks of money and power and influence, and I don’t have a clue what he’s doing out here. He looks like he belongs in a perfectly air conditioned penthouse suite with central heat and air and not the cheap window unit air conditioners that the apartment I live in with my mom has.
He towers over me as he holds out the volleyball that Stephanie and Maria hit too hard, waiting for me to take it. I notice that his huge hand palms darn near half of the ball.
I feel my cheeks color, realizing that I’ve come to a stop in front of him and am just standing there stupidly staring back at him. Luckily, I can blame any redness on my face on the summer heat, so he shouldn’t be able to distinguish my blush from a sunburn.
“Thanks,” I tell him as brightly as I can, flashing him a smile as I pluck the ball from his hands.
He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak but then snaps it shut when his phone begins ringing.
He pulls it out of his pocket and answers it with a curt, “Talk to me,” before turning his back on me, effectively dismissing me.
I don’t know why I’m disappointed and feeling a little hurt and pissed. I don’t know the guy at all. He could be a serial killer for all I know, and I mean, if anyone would be a psychopath, it’d be someone who wore full suits on the beach in the Florida sunshine, right?
But, my god, if he’s a serial killer, there are worse ways for a girl to die.
I mentally check myself. What the hell is wrong with me? So the guy’s hot. There are tons of hot guys on the beach.
It’s just the way he was staring at me all intense-like that has me all aflutter.
I turn and begin walking back to where my friends are waiting for me. I hazard a glance over my shoulder and am surprised to find dark-suit-guy’s eyes trained on me as he talks with his phone up to his ear.
I quickly turn back around, feeling the sting of more than the noonday sun on my cheeks.
I feel his gaze burning into my back the whole way back to the volleyball net, but I refuse to turn around again.
When I get back to my friends, I serve the ball again and then chance a quick glance over to where I left him to find him gone.
Poof. Completely disappeared. Like I just imagined the whole thing.
* * *
Summer
I bounce through the door of the apartment like I do every afternoon after spending time on the beach with my friends.
I know Mom’s home from her cleaning job by now. She works as a maid at one of the ritzy condos within walking distance of our apartment. She doesn’t make much, but it’s enough to keep a roof over our heads and put a bit of food on the table. I work there part-time too. I wanted to get a full-time position when I turned eighteen so I could help Mom pay the bills, but they didn’t have any openings for anything but part-time, so I took what I could get.
I’m expecting Mom to scold me for dragging sand into the apartment again, but I find her sitting on our raggedly old couch with her face in her hands and shoulders shaking, crying.
My good mood fades, and my steps falter. I can count on one finger all the times I’ve seen my mom cry.
It was once. When my dad ran off and left us when I was six years old.
Mom’s not a crier unless something major happens. So I know if she’s sobbing like this, something definitely major has happened.
“Mom?” my voice sounds small and weak, as I’m bracing myself for the worst. “What’s wrong?” We don’t have any relatives who could have died. It’s just me and Mom alone in this world, so I know it’s nothing like that.
She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes and shakes her head before she begins crying in even more earnest when she sees me.