Page 1 of On The Beach

CHAPTER 1

bottom's up

MICK

"Babe, you gotta go," I told the naked woman sprawled out on my sofa, the one I'd just fucked fifteen minutes ago. Great body and no tan lines, but enough was enough. She should've put her bikini back on by now and gotten the hell out.

"Let's go to bed." She stretched like she hadn't heard a word I'd said.

"I don't have one."

She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

I glanced around my two-room beach hut. One room was a bathroom. "Does it look like there's a bedroom here?"

"Where do you sleep?"

I pointed outside to the hammock hanging between two coconut trees right in front of my hut, swaying in the breeze.

"You sleep there?" She sounded horrified.

"Yep. Time to move, babe."

She sat up and glared at me. "So it's just fuck and forget?"

"Yeah, pretty much." I ran a hand over my chest, already knowing she was the clingy type. I should've picked up on thatearlier, but I'd been a little preoccupied with other things at the time—mainly my dick down her throat.

"Do you know who I am?" she demanded.

There was a reason I called them allbabe. It kept everything simple. No awkward moments when they realized I hadn't bothered to remember their name.

"Doesn't matter. You should head out."

"I walked for Victoria's Secret, asshole." She stood up angrily, jerking her white string bikini back on. It looked good on her, but I was uninterested in seconds. Too much emotional baggage usually followed.

"Then you know how to walk outta here," I grinned.

"Fuck you, Mick Bottom."

She remembered my name? Yep, she was a stage five clinger. "You already did," I reminded her.

She stormed out of the hut, and I didn't bother to watch her leave. Instead, I found a beer and settled into my hammock.

What could I say?Life was a beach.

I moved to Reef Harbor three years ago when I turned thirty-three and had no intention of ever leaving.

Life was good here.

I spent my days on the water, taking tourists on day trips on analmostfunctional boat so they could see the live corals and incredible sights while I made sure none of those assholes dropped a plastic candy wrapper, plastic straw, glass, plastic bottle, or any other fucking debris into the beatific waters. My philosophy was simple:Ifyou wanna pollute, go back to your fucking big city.

At Reef Harbor, the waters were clean, the fishing incredible, the drinks cheap, the women gorgeous, and life…blissful.

It wasn'tmuch, but it was a way to pass the time, allowing me to do what I loved best with my evenings—hang out with my good buddy Franco, who ran the Reef Harbor radionetwork (it wasn't a network, just one easy-FM band) at The Coral Cove, the tiki bar everyone went to. It was owned by theverysexy RiRi, who let me into her bed when she wanted to be bad because I wasverygood with my hands. She also owned Reef Escape, the charter boat business that I worked for.

According to the tourist brochure RiRi put together and distributed around the island's hotels and B&Bs, "The Coral Cove is Reef Harbor's favorite beachside hotspot known for its lively parties and pulsating music—the ultimate hub for dancing, mingling, and enjoying signature tropical cocktails while feeling the sand beneath your toes."

Five minutes in the place, and anyone would know that wasobviouslynot true. The Cove was where the Reef Harbor losers (which was 90% of the island population) hung out to drink cheap watered-down cocktails (you need to down at least three to get a buzz).

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