Killer Summer Lynda Curnyn (most important books of all time txt) 📖

I looked at her. “So why not give him a chance?”

“I suppose,” she said, her gaze moving to the trail of white foam the ferry left in its wake.

I smiled at her pensive expression. That was Zoe. Even a roll in the hay required major consideration. I wouldn’t be surprised if she started to keep a video diary, if only to help her keep track of her ever-changing mind. But that’s what I loved about her, too, despite all the craziness she caused herself-—and me—sometimes.

“I’m glad you were able to come out on this ferry with me,” I said now. “Do you realize this is the first ferry ride we’ve shared all summer?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Sage. I know I haven’t exactly been fun lately.”

I waved a hand dismissively.“No worries, Zoe.” Then I smiled. “After all the summer has only just begun.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Nick

What am I running here? A psych ward?

“You’re where?“ I asked. Though my reception was usually good out on the back deck of the house, I could have sworn Les just said he was in Milwaukee. As in Milwaukee fucking Wisconsin.

“Milwaukee, Nick. At my parents’ house.”

Jesus Christ. He did say Milwaukee. I sat up in the lounger, nearly upending my glass of beer. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“My mother thought it was a good idea. After what happened.”

His mother thought it was a good idea? His mother? This is what I get for trying to give a kid a break. Fucking baby.

“I just got to get my head together, you know?”

I was about ready to tear his head off. “For how long?”

“Just for a couple of months.”

“A couple of months? Les, we’ve got to get into the studio—”

“Dude, don’t you think I know that? I’ll try to come back sooner if I can.”

“But you guys are playing next week at Plaid,” I said, naming the club I had booked him in.

“The gig will have to wait, Nick. I can’t perform now.”

“Look, Les, I can’t work on this kind of schedule. We’re gonna have to rethink this contract.”

“Dude, the deal’s already signed. You can’t just do that.”

“I can do whatever I want!” I said, even though I wasn’t too sure of that. 1 needed to check with my lawyer. That is, my dad.

“But we already cashed the advance check.”

Shit. Could I make him cough the money back up? Since I didn’t know, I said, “Are you gonna at least be able to write the rest of the songs while you’re there?”

“I’ll do my best, dude.”

He’d do his best. I’d already seen his best, and I wasn’t very fucking impressed. I leaned back in the lounger again, glancing back at the sliding door when I heard it open. Francesca. She was the last person I needed right now. Even she was stressing me out. “Look, Les, I have to go,” I said, “but could you call me in a few days? I’m gonna need a progress report.” And I wasn’t talking about his mental health, either. I needed those songs written.

“I’ll call you next week, dude.”

“Do that,” I said, clicking the phone shut and suppressing an urge to pitch it out into the dune grass that surrounded the deck.

“Sounds like someone could use some stress relief,” Francesca said, stepping into my line of vision. She was wearing a pink bikini so bright my eyeballs started to ache at the sight of her.

“Yeah,” I said wearily, tossing my cell phone on to the small table beside my lounger as Francesca sat down on the end. She reached for the drawstring on my suit.

“Francesca—”

She looked at me curiously, her fingers poised over the string.

“Your father’s right inside.”

She smiled, her hand moving over my shaft—already hard, despite my wishes—until her fingers grasped me through the material.

Damn, that felt good. But it always did. And I might have even gone for it, if not for the fact that I was tired, damn tired. Not of Francesca. But of having sex within earshot of Tom. I’d hopped into the shower earlier, hoping to cool off, except that Francesca had hopped in with me, with Tom right in the next room. Next there was the kitchen-counter encounter, which took place about two minutes before Tom returned from the market. Her indiscretion knew no bounds. Last Sunday she’d even given me a hand job right beneath the umbrella on the beach. I practically came, too, just as Tom was reeling in a motherfucker of a fish.

Not that he noticed. He never did. Which seemed to incite Francesca to ever more dangerous acts. Like right now, I thought, glancing over my shoulder at the sliding glass doors as she yanked down my suit and put her hot little mouth on me.

Oh, man, I just died and went to heaven.

Then I remembered Tom and realized I could actually die right now. And I wasn’t so sure about making it to heaven.

“Francesca, stop,” I said, sitting back and yanking up my suit, though it was painful, let me tell you. Painful. But I couldn’t go on this way. We couldn’t go on this way. It was too fucking weird. Not to mention stressful.

And I had enough on my mind at the moment.

Francesca looked up at me and I could swear I saw something that looked an awful lot like hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said, reaching out a hand to touch her silky brown hair.

She sat up, turning her back to me. A bit childish, yeah, but sometimes—like when I had her hot and wet beneath me—I forgot how young she really was, you know?

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I began. “I just think maybe we should try something different.” Bad choice of words. I wasn’t sure what different might consist of for Francesca. Doing it on a float as we rode through Kismet? “What I mean is, I think maybe it should be more special.”

She turned her head, her eyes