LITMIR.BIZ

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than God. Late afternoon sun flashes through the branches. The road twists, knifing back on itself with zero tolerance for stupid mistakes, and the curve up ahead claims lives every year.

      I did my boss.

      No. You cock-blocked her to prove your point. I pick up speed, hurtling through the next bend. I have a problem with arguments. And with power plays. And with feeling out of control. So instead of doing Lola right, I blew up in her mouth and then left her high and dry. It’s funny in a practical-joke-gone-wrong way, but it’s also painfully stupid. I could have done her tonight, but instead I’ve likely not-screwed my way out of discovering who stole from me.

      Fair enough.

      I’m an employee with zero follow-through. I’d fire me.

      I shoot out of the last, tree-lined curve and into the straightaway fronting the ocean. The Pacific stretches away on my right, dotted with oil refineries. Closer to shore, where some truly spectacular waves break, surfers ride their boards. A smallish strip of beach houses and surf shacks cling to the sand between the highway and the water. The break is close—a short paddle, and boom. I’m tempted to stop, but I don’t have my gear and I hate rentals.

      Plus, as Santa Cruz has twenty-nine miles of beaches, I haven’t surfed this particular spot, which makes a good ride less likely. I’m not familiar with how the waves break, or with what lies underneath the ocean’s surface. Predictable is good. Like my well-organized life, my surfing habits are a finely honed balance of discipline and routine. I’ve practiced the same surf breaks for years, polishing my skills, growing better until I’m the absolute best. I won the last two surf competitions I entered, wiping the floor with my competition.

      I keep moving and make it to Santa Cruz without getting pulled over or wrecking my car. There’s no one-size-fits-all label for Santa Cruz. Parts stink like cheap beer (college town), while other parts reek of hemp oil (the outdoorsy types), money (check the real-estate listings and you’ll know what I mean) and suntan oil. There are beaches, cliffs, awesome surf and sixty-five thousand residents shoehorned into less than sixteen square miles of living space alongside surf bums and cruise ship visitors. All types of people pass through, but living here year-round is a different game. Real estate is pricey, building up is necessary and there’s always at least one house under construction in my neighborhood.

      The neighborhood itself is a warren of one-way, twisting streets jammed with cars. Getting a parking permit may require screwing the city council, and I’ve heard two permits necessitates an outright orgy. My house is the queen bee of the block, perched at the very end of a cul-de-sac (score!) and so close to the ocean that spray hits my bedroom windows on a windy day. Three thousand square feet of Spanish mission style, it fronts an amazing stretch of ocean.

      I slam into the house, pissed at everything and the world. Despite the miles between Lola and me, she’s still right here in my head, taunting me. I ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It might be guilt or discomfort. Whatever. It’s unfamiliar and I don’t do feelings. Fuck. I almost never make mistakes.

      Lola’s scent still clings to my fingers, a little fainter each time I bring them to my nose. Usually I hit the shower fast after hookups, but she smells amazing. I expected to be over her now that we’ve played our game, yet I have a bad feeling there’s no forgetting this afternoon. She twists me up inside somehow.

      Giving up on the shower, I head outside. A steep, private staircase leads to the beach, a quarter-mile stretch of sand bookended by some serious rocks. The tide’s been out for hours and the few waves are flat; it’s the worst possible time for surfing, but still a good time for clearing my head.

      I flop on my board, staring at the sky. It’s peaceful, my board rocking gently with each baby wave. After a while, the noise level picks up. Music pounds from Max’s house, a house distinctly resembling a pink cupcake with turrets. Max, Jack and I are neighbors. There wasn’t much on the market when we bought, so three houses in a row required the flexibility of a yogini. Max drew the short straw and had to settle for Casa de Pinkie.

      My board bumps sand—and kneecaps. I open my eyes.

      Max frowns down at me. “Did someone piss in your cornflakes?”

      In no mood to discuss my epic screwup, I flash him the bird. “Did you raid my kitchen again?”

      “Not in the last two weeks. And there was definitely no golden shower action, although I may have stolen a beer.”

      A beer sounds great, but Max is empty-handed, the tease. He also isn’t dressed for surfing. Instead of a wet suit, he wears knee-length black swim trunks, a white T-shirt with a pink bow tie bedazzled at the throat, and a two-thousand-dollar tuxedo jacket that’s slowly absorbing salt spray. Crap. Tonight is the launch party for Max’s newest dating app.

      The party is the love child of his publicist and PR person. Max himself is adamantly antisocial, but he’s been promised loads of D-list celebrities and paparazzi, so it’s party time. Speaking from experience, many guests will regret the open bar when they check their social media in the morning. I promised weeks ago to make an appearance, although I drew the line at participating in a bachelor auction featuring the best of Billionaire Bachelors.

      “Party time,” Max announces.

      I stand up, haul my board out of the water, peel off my wet suit and follow Max to his staircase. Max will loan me a shirt to go with my board shorts, and the party’s likely to be clothing-optional anyhow.

      Because I’m pathetic, I check my phone. After the third time I went swimming with it, I realized that I either had to take up skinny-dipping or take preventative measures. I opted for a waterproof phone condom. There are no messages from Lola.

      Max’s pool contains more women than water and appears to be swimsuit-optional. A bar with blow-up palm trees, pink flamingos and a tiki man with a gigantic dick round out the decor. Music pounds because Max hates silence. He codes to earsplitting music—it’s a miracle he retains any hearing.

      “Classy.” Coming up behind us, Jack slings an arm around our shoulders.

      My phone dings and I look down. Two-for-one pizza offer. Delete.

      The arm around my shoulder digs into my armpit. “You didn’t surf today.”

      I make a show of checking my phone. “I went in to work. I may also have made a tactical mistake.”

      Neither Max nor Jack seem surprised, although it’s Max who correctly interprets tactical mistake and asks the obvious question. “Did you bang her?”

      “Technically? No.”

      Jack shakes his head. “I told you being her intern wouldn’t have a happy ending.”

      “Yeah, well, Lola definitely didn’t get her happy ending,” I overshare.

      “Gonna need a few more words about that.”

      Max snags three longneck beers from a passing waiter while I try to find the words to explain. His pool is now filled with foam and the photographers are going nuts. This might have something to do with the behavior of Max’s VIP guests. It’s raining bikini tops on our private beach.

      I finally settle on a strictly factual account. “I got her consent. We fooled around. I tied her up—which was also consensual—I came and then I left her.”

      “Tied up.” Jack pops the top on his bottle.

      “Yes.”

      “High and dry.”

      I shrug. “I’m certain she took care of business later, but yes.”

      “You have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jack keeps his voice low, an effort that I appreciate. I don’t need to find today’s episode of stupidity plastered across a gossip website.

      “Depends on whether Lola has a sense of humor or not.”

      Shit.

      I’m in so

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