Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
One thing I have, though, is the waves.
My board.
My friends.
Without them, I’d be an empty wreck.
I hit the waves, and the warm, salty water washes over me as we paddle out. I could surf all day and be completely content. There is no other place I’d rather be. In the water is where I feel most at home. It’s the only time I feel truly free.
We spend two hours surfing and only when lunchtime rolls around do we come back in. I run my fingers through my wet hair as I walk back up to the shack and place my board down. Carson and Sean follow me, both of them doing the same thing.
The girl is still there, sitting under a tree just outside my shack, down on the beach a little. She’s writing now, something in a notebook.
“Go and fuckin’ talk to her,” Carson says. “You balless little prick.”
I punch him in the gut, and he stumbles back with a wheeze.
I shoot him a glare and then walk down and approach the girl sitting under the tree. She looks up when I stop, her eyes scanning over my bare, wet chest. “I was wondering when you’d come and talk to me.”
Her voice is confident, strong, and a little sassy.
“Nothin’ stoppin’ you from gettin’ up and comin’ to speak with me,” I say, crossing my arms.
Her eyes lock onto mine. “I don’t chase men. That’s your job.”
Yep, sassy.
“What’s your name?”
“What do you want it to be?”
I smirk. “I don’t fuckin’ care, really. I’m bein’ polite.”
She grins. “Isla. What’s yours?”
“Bohdi.”
“That’s hot. Are you single, Bohdi?”
“Are you always so forward, Isla?”
She shrugs, her pretty face light. “I’m honest.”
“Well, I’m honest too. And honesty will be me tellin’ you, I’m not boyfriend material, Isla. Hell, I’m not even good friend material.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” she says, her voice strong and fucking sexy.
I grin at her and then turn, walking back to my shack.
“I’ll see you later then, surfer.”
I wave a hand at her.
Her giggle fills the day.
I learn one thing quickly in that moment—Isla is going to be trouble.
I just don’t realize how much.
“GOD DAMMIT, MOM, WAKE up,” I yell, shoving my mom with my hand as she rolls to her side, dried vomit on her pillow. She smells awful and hasn’t been out of this room for two days.
Her workplace called, wondering where she disappeared to and why she hasn’t be in. They’re threatening to fire her, but that does little to stop her drinking or getting out of fucking bed.
“Leave me alone, Bohdi,” she groans, sitting up.
She has black stains on her cheeks from her mascara and dried vomit. Her hair is a mess, and she looks horrible. Once, before my dad left her, she was a beautiful woman. She was radiant and she smiled all the time. Now, she’s a shell of herself. He was the love of her life, or so she claims, and because of that she let herself drown instead of fighting to get back up and move on with her life.
I shouldn’t see that as weak, it’s not, but the problem is I find it hard to look at her as the woman I remember, when she’s lying on the bed, drinking herself stupid each night.
“Your boss is calling, you’re going to lose your job if you don’t go in. We need you to work, Mom. If you don’t, we can’t eat.”
She stares at me with those bloodshot eyes. “Can’t you get a second job? I hate that job, my boss is horrible.”
“Probably because you are always having nights off. You have to work to keep a job. You need to clean yourself up.”
She flops down onto her back. “When did you become so serious, Bohdi? Chill out. It’ll be fine.”
“It won’t be fine,” I growl, clenching my fists to fight the frustration. “We need to keep a roof over our heads. Step up and be a parent.”
“Go find your father and tell him to be a parent.”
I grind my teeth. “I have to go to work. You need to get up, Mom. You need to go to work tonight. Shower and sort yourself out.”
She laughs bitterly, rolls, and grabs a half empty bottle of whiskey from the bedside table. I reach over and snatch it from her hands, tossing it against the wall where it shatters and the strong, bitter smell of whiskey fills the room. Mom jerks upright, her face scrunched in shock. “What is wrong with you?” she screeches. “Are you losing your mind?”
“Get up.”
“I’m sick, Bohdi. I have a headache.”
“Because you haven’t had water for fuckin’ days. Get up, Mom. We need you to get up.”
She shakes her head, scowling at me. “You’re so pushy. Sometimes I wish I had a daughter. A daughter would be more like me and less like him.”