Page 74 of The Bridges I've Burned

He was just a good guy.

So, the fact that he kept flirting with her was all for my benefit. Ever since I’d stumbled into Creed’s begging for a job fourteen years ago, Hendrix had been occupying the roles of best friend and brother, and he took the roles seriously. He was constantly trying to meddle in my life.

And right now, his meddling mission was to make me as miserable as possible.

It was working.

My feet hit the cool, wet sand as I waded into the water, dodging a loud group of girls sailing in on boogie boards. I’d spent so many years on the other side of the country that I’d forgotten how warm the Atlantic could be in the summer.

Growing up, I’d always assumed the beaches in California were nicer than ours.

According to The Beach Boys, everyone wanted to be there, right?

But the first time I’d gone to Malibu, I’d found out very quickly that the Pacific was cold.

Like ball-shriveling cold.

Turned out, those wetsuits I’d always seen Dylan wearing in my Mom’s 90210 reruns weren’t just some weird ’90s fashion trend.

When the water got to my waist, I dived under, wetting my hair and the rest of my body. I resurfaced and looked back at the beach.

“I love your tattoos.”

I turned to see the group of girls I’d noticed on the shore. The waves on this beach were shit, and all three of them were now using their boogie boards as floaties.

Jesus, are they stalking me?

They kicked a little closer, which caused me to drift further back.

“Thanks,” I answered, trying to mentally calculate their age. College maybe?

Too young—that was for sure.

“Are you an artist?” one of them asked.

She was the same one who had spoken before and seemed to be the ringleader. Her sun-bleached hair, tanned skin, and flawless body meant that she probably never had to try too hard for male attention and therefore expected I wouldn’t be any different.

“My sister’s boyfriend is a tattoo artist, and he’s covered like that, too.”

“Nope,” I answered, finding this conversation tedious. Mostly because I’d had it already.

I’d lost count of the number of people who had commented on my tattoos over the years with no actual interest in them. In reality, it was just a vapid attempt for attention or an excuse to force their opinion on me.

Neither of which I wanted or asked for.

“So, are you from here?” the blonde asked.

“Yeah, we could really use a tour guide,” another added.

Now, they were all getting bold. Great.

I grabbed the back of my neck in frustration and caught something in my peripheral vision.

Not just something. Someone.

“Sorry, girls.” I made sure to emphasize that last word. “My wife looks lonely. Gotta run.”

Arrow straight to the heart. Their faces fell as if I’d physically wounded them. I swam off, feeling triumphant.

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