Page 93 of Shade
The guest house isn’t as extravagant as the main house, but it’s way fucking nicer than my apartment. Deep rich colors with an open concept. A kitchen, living room, bedroom, all completely furnished. I snap a picture of the king-size bed and then the soaking tub in the bathroom that is as big as my bedroom is back home.
I send the picture to Tom.
Me: Be jealous!
He sends me one back as I’m going through my bags, looking for something else to wear and a fresh pair of panties that aren’t sweaty.
Tom: Me and your dog are keepin’ your bed warm.
And then a picture of him lying on my bed with a damn dog comes through. Nothing disgusts me more than dog hair.
Me: Tom!!! I don’t have a dog!
Tom: You do now!
That mother-F-U-cock!
Can I really blame him though? Not only is it a cute dog, but I did give him only a ten-minute warning about moving in after he asked me to be his “like” girlfriend.
Willa has me meet her outside near the pool where she’s sitting with another guy, her phone in hand.
I change my dress and put on a pair of shorts, a flowy white tank top, grab the phone and head out to meet her.
Have you seen the cover to The Eagles albumHotel California? You know, the one with the palm trees and the castle in the background just as the sun’s setting?
Picture that and it’s what I walk out to. Absolutely beautiful.
Outside there’s a restaurant-style kitchen, only outdoors, a bar, four televisions, a pool and hot tub with large rocks, boulders, palm trees and that flowy grass that resembles weeds.
About thirty people are outside, some in the pool, some in the hot tub and most sitting around the bar watching the televisions. It’s literally like a local hangout of hotness.
I know one thing. In California, everyone is so much prettier, skinnier, cooler. . . it’s frustrating. In Seattle, the city and every party you go to, we have dreads and hippies. Here, they’re half-dressed, long beachy curls and not hyperactive frizzy curls and sweaty tits.
As I walk outside, I hear Tiller first, when I make my way by the hot tub where he’s talking to someone, and he chuckles when a guy suggests a girl to him. “I don’t care if she can suck a softball through a straw. I’d rather take a cheese grater to my tongue.”
His friend laughs. “She’s notthatdirty. . . .”
With no amount of amusement, Tiller begins to walk away, water dripping from his shorts and his feet slapping against the stone surrounding. “Yeah, right.” Then he stops and points at him. “Brad. . . Chlamydia couldn’t even get rid of her.”
You’re laughing, aren’t you? I have to admit, he’s funny. A psychologist would have a field day with Tiller overanalyzing everything he does and says, guarantee it. What do I think?
I think he’s pretty fucking normal considering the lifestyle these guys have.
I sit at the table with Willa and who she tells me is Ricky. You remember Ricky, right? Their uncle.
Take a look at him for a moment. He’s your typical California surfer guy with the shaggy blonde hair, bright-blue eyes and guess what? No shirt. Seems to be the usual appearance here and I sort of feel out of place for wearing one, or at the very least, not wearing a bikini like every other woman prancing around the pool.
Back to Ricky for a moment. He’s talking to me. “So, you’re Scarlet? Willa’s told me a lot about you.”
We shake hands, and I’m surprised to see Ricky doesn’t have tattoos like the boys do. Not a single one. “Nice to meet you.”
A few others I don’t know approach the table. They introduce themselves, but their names slip my mind the moment they’re spoken, and they walk away.
Thankfully, Willa goes into work mode with her phone in hand while Ricky retreats into the house. “I’ve added some appointments to your calendar. I’m going to continue handling all the PR shit and you handle them.”
Sounds easy enough, right?
You couldn’t be more wrong. Just wait.
